Chapter 10 1895-1896 Journey Leaflets

Gide lost his mother on May 31, 1895, married his cousin Madeleine on October 7, and began their honeymoon trip in mid-October.The two went to Montpellier first, then to Neuchâtel and St. Moritz in Switzerland.They left St. Moritz on 5 December, via Milan, and arrived in Florence on 14 December. Visit the Pitti Palace and walk through the corridors that connect to the Orpheus Palace; the Palatine Gallery is stunning.The head of the young man on the left side of Giorgione's "The Concert" is made of a wonderful substance.The shades dissolve and merge into a new and strange color, unique in every part of the frame—and fused together so completely that they cannot be separated or added to; The sideburns are removed and slightly closer to the hair, without catching the slightest gap, like molten enamel spread on the canvas while it is still liquid.

There is no other way of thinking about this painting; uniqueness is the quality of a masterpiece; it is believed to be inferior to any other form of beauty. San Miniato, the hilly boulevard, the weather is perfect.Just because in the evening, the fog rises, the sky is sometimes covered with thin clouds, and sometimes it is almost blue and clear.The whole city melts in a bath of gold; the roofs are the color of plums; the cathedral with its bell tower, the tower of the Palazzo Vecchio, rises high; the hills seem to circumvent;The Arno River has a graceful posture and is revealed at the entrance and exit of the city.The sun was setting, and its soft, hazy radiance drowned out what we saw from the marble platform of the cemetery.The cemetery is surrounded by funerary cypresses, almost black, very solemn, just right for Florence.

rain.I wrote to Atman and some irrelevant people.Italian lessons.There is nothing more fun than learning. Last night, this young Englishman sat down at the communal table and wrote a few pages in his diary, a thick volume that was almost exhausted, and he seemed eager to talk to me.We were able to exchange a few words thanks to Madeleine's translation. Read Boethius' account of Orpheus' fable in Danner's works, etc. We have a cold and stay indoors these days.If it's raining or foggy outside, go out for a few steps at most.read.Learn Italian.I bought Carl Lynch's book.Mr. Bertini comes to see me every day.I read some Italian history in Zeller's tome.I conceived a "Prometheus Unbound" in the way of Voltaire's novel.A period of distress after a relaxed and painful period of will.

From San Miniato, along the beautiful hills on the banks of the Arno, up to the hills opposite the milk factory.I became more and more aware of the gentle, earthy lines and tones of green and gray of these mountains. I like to stand by the Arno River and watch the waves of the river flowing down from the embankment for a long time: The embankment is tilted to stop the river, and as a result, the river water accumulates on one side, hits the wall of the dam in a ring shape, and goes down along the wall. In this way, the flowing water It becomes a turbine by itself, fixing the shape of a wave.This fixed shape, traversed by the fluid in an instant, is simply wonderful to look at.At sea, on the other hand, the drop stands still, or at least returns to its original place, and only the shape of a wave swims.

A bridge arch protruded to form a balcony on the river, and I leaned on it to watch.There is a little gate next to the underside of the bridge arch, which I think is a water ladder for boats--as the gate is opened or closed, the water level can rise and fall. The river water is always yellow and turbid, but there is no bubble or foam on the water surface; the river flows through the dam at a very fast speed, and rushes down the almost vertical dam wall smoothly and without hindrance, forming a completely regular water curtain.It's a slip. The water level of the Arno River has dropped a lot, and this morning there were mud and sand diggers again. They dug shovel by shovel from the river bed and low-lying banks and filled the flat-bottomed boats.

In the dead of night the night before yesterday, a violent storm came suddenly: the wind with hail, the lightning terrible, the thunder deafening—everything—even the pre-Christmas bells, which started near dawn, but were completely submerged in the In the midst of the raging storm, the voice of the angel did not appear until early morning. When I woke up, I thought I could see a clear blue sky, but there were only dark clouds—the sky looked sad, as if the flood was about to flood. Yesterday I dreamed of flying up (I had already done it once), flying too high, never coming down again, and seeing the earth below from a distance, I already felt different—terrified—couldn’t recognize where I left—dizzy.When I woke up, I was so panicked that I was really sick.

However, this is by no means a nightmare.Over the past ten years, I have thought about it many times.This sickness, in Montpellier, in Ramalou, almost every night. Went for a walk around the dairy yesterday; the sun was exceptionally hot and the spring humidity was annoying.Looks like the grass is about to sprout.Walking along the Arno River, you will meet tall and lush reeds, which are sandwiched between the river and the road; on the other side of the river, there are pruned bushes, and tall oak trees stand upright from time to time; the big green oak trees are trimmed straight, The foliage is lush and spreads out, hanging down to the sidewalk.

This morning, visit Fiore Santa Maria Museum, National Museum.Especially watched my favorite Donatello.His exhibition, originals and reproductions alike, evokes an unearthly struggle, a triumph against ancient tradition... with an astonishing predilection for the human body and an uncanny understanding of the child's figure.This little Cupid, with one foot on a snake, the other foot is half-raised—two short legs, which are bulky and deformed because of the trousers, but they are not tightly wrapped and fall off, becoming a decoration There is only a belt left on the stomach, and the lower body is half exposed; the movements of the two small arms raised are clumsy and wonderful.

The gorgeous nude of his David; the taste of flesh; the disappearance of muscle between bones and whole poses;Watch it again as a study. Read the newspaper in the reading room this morning.On the way back and forth, in front of the dam of the Arno River, I inevitably stopped to watch the waves changing when the current was the fastest or the slowest.The water level has been lowered and workers can dig sand again. After lunch, visit the Academy of Art and focus on the works of Fra Giovanni.We happened to see Diego Martelli's lectures published, and we knew about Angelico's life. Dreadful period: A slack of will, a half-dizzy state of mind.

Saw Roberto Gatchi this morning, and he told me about his desire for an international magazine, about his collection of poetry, and another, and about his novels. He longed for Coppet to write him a preface.This man is very smart. When he talked about Cope, he obviously didn't know the situation.If he was in Paris, he would definitely join the queue of "Mercury Magazine"... Asked about other Frenchmen he knew, he cited Daudet, Coppet, Bourget, Zola. Lunch at the Donnai, then visit the Medici Chapel and the Palazzo Orpheus, and write these lines in front of Botticelli's Birth of Venus.Focused on the works of Angelico; the painters of the Academy aroused my greater interest; Lorenzo de Credi - the background of his "Venus" is black.

I watched Raphael's works on the porch; in his paintings, the shadows are often simply darkened by the bright parts; The outline needs to be.Therefore, to achieve perfection, there must be an imperceptible progression from bright to not so bright to dark.This is fundamentally different from the perfection pursued by painters who are good at using color—whether it is the Venetian or the Spanish school, the Dutch or the English school, they are always more deliberate, making more difficult and controversial explorations.Giorgione is often even more so than Titian, and the colors he uses for each transition seem to be peculiar, though the quality is always the same, blending immediately with adjacent colours. It is extremely difficult for me to think of writing in front of a painting; then look for some comments, some people think, limit your admiration instead of studying, so as to ensure this excitement, and learn less, but I don't see it that way; therefore, all I can do, whether unconsciously or deliberately, with a painting is to observe beauty. .The tour guide is really intolerable, his explanation ruins the painting.Emotionless.I don't quite understand why the Spanish chapel is so praised.Everything in the chapel was novel, but there was nothing admirable about it.The difficulty was overcome entirely at the expense of beauty. The altar on the right side of the choir, with its long frescoes of artificiality, is already full of embellishments, but it is very exquisite, and it comes from the hands of Filipino Lippi.On the left altar, a dragon and a resurrection scene are painted (the story of the Gospel of St. John).The image of the young man fainted by the breath of the evil dragon is very cute.The figures around him are also beautiful - the black king... and the group of women in the resurrection scene is also very beautiful.These frescoes, however, pale in comparison to Ghirlandaio's masterpieces adorning the central altar. After lunch, that young man, Roberto Gatchi, came to see me and we went out together.He talked to me very well about the novel he was about to write.To write a series that celebrates crime.The first will justify (or, at least narrate), the incest; the second the murder; the third the theft.Only the incest was conceived; it was the modern Amnon and Tamar incest--these stories in the Bible, which he didn't know, so I read him.In particular, he will describe the gradual loathing, and the hate that comes with possession, which will form an important part of the book... Go out to shave again, walk to the square of the new Santa Maria Church, and meet a strange queue.It was already dark, and it was quiet. There were no crowds of onlookers. The queue consisted of men, all dressed in white robes, holding torches in their hands and carrying a stretcher on their shoulders.This kind of scene is probably seen frequently in Florence, and even in the whole of Italy, because no one came to stop when he saw it. After dinner, I will go to the Hippodrome again with Roberto Gatchi, to meet D'Annunzio again.D'Annunzio arrived at about ten o'clock, and an hour later we left the arena with Orvieto, who had introduced me to his friend.We went to Café Gian Brinos together; D'Annunzio ate vanilla ice cream in cartons.He sat next to me, and his conversation was easy and elegant, and I got the impression that he didn't think much about himself as a person.He was short in stature, and from a distance, his appearance would look ordinary or familiar, and he could not see the appearance of literary temperament and genius at all.His mustache was tapered and blond, and his voice was clear, a little cold, but soft and almost tender.His gaze was also a little cold, maybe a little cruel, but it might be an appearance, and it was his lewd eyes that gave this impression.He only wore a melon sliced ​​cap on his head. He asked about the French, mentioned Maucleur, Rainier, Paul Adam—I said to him, laughing: "You've seen it all!" "You've seen it all," he replied cheerfully, "I think it is necessary to read them all." Then he added: "We read them all, in the renewed hope that at last we will find a masterpiece that we all long for." He did not like Maeterlinck very much, thinking that his language Too easy.He also disliked Ibsen, saying "he lacks beauty". "What can I do, I'm Latin." He said apologetically. He is contemplating a modern drama, but keeping the classical form and following the "three unities"... This summer, he sailed along the coast of Greece on a yacht with Herrele, "reading Sophie under the collapsed gate of Mycenae." The Plays of Forcleus" . . . ...Because of my surprise, I don't know whether it is his literary erudition that allows him to create so perfectly and continuously, or whether he still has time to read a lot when he writes. "Oh!" said he, "I have my own way of reading fast and reading everything. I work like hell, twelve hours a day, ninety months of the year. Stop. I've written about twenty copies." He said this in a slow voice, without any suspicion of bragging.The party was thus effortlessly prolonged. After lunch, we went back to the National Museum.Donatello's wonderful David!Bronze statue of a child!Gorgeous nudes; oriental grace; the shadows of hats on the eyes, the eyes that have just sprouted are lost rather than materialized.A smile on the lips; a very tender face. The small body is very delicate, with a somewhat fragile and unnatural beauty;——the hardness of copper;——the refined leg armor, which only confines the calf, while the upper thigh is covered with armor, which makes it look more immature. This shameless attire is also very strange, the two small arms are tense, either holding stones or sand.I wish I could let this image unfold before me at will.I watched for a long time—trying to comprehend, remembering these beautiful lines, this breath-sunken fold of the belly just below the ribs, and even this skinny muscle that connects the upper chest to the right shoulder,—and remembering that the upper thigh is a little Intermittent pleats, and the unusual flattening of the waist from the sacrum... What is there to say about this bust of Nicola Dauzzano?When I watched it, I thought it was even more beautiful than the "Statue of David".There was more life in him now than there was then, and his lips were worth all his words.These two pieces are the most beautiful - followed by the Cupid and the "Fool" of the bell tower, unfortunately only busts are visible from below.Verrocchio's statue of David is also excellent. St. Mark's Priory, I really want to wish you full of roses. ... Returning along the Arno River—the setting sun; the water is submerged in the golden sand; far away, the figure of the fisherman is looming; the smoke rising from the roof, at the beginning is blue-gray, and it turns yellow when it meets the setting sun.This splendor lasted for a long time, including the roofs near San Miniato, and the white walls of the almond-coloured villas; the surrounding cypresses appeared still darker.The falling water of the Arno River, like peeling shiny scales, is a very light green, and the lower part is mixed with orange. The fisherman in the distance returns to the boat with his fishing basket in his arms... These extended days are so beautiful... How many times have I been my mother when Madeleine is in the next room. This morning, I took a walk around the milk factory, feeling relaxed and happy... Do you want to tell the story of the bouquet of flowers?don't want.To whom?Not tell me: I can recall it all.Poor little roses there, I keep watching them--poor little roses--buy a poor man's.Clumsy and rude, I failed at first to understand the goodness of this deliberate act of courtesy.I thought Madeleine was too soft-hearted to resist the repeated begging of a poor man to buy it.It just so happened that last night, I brought her back a little rose. This story is so strange that I was disturbed by it and even became ill.If one day Madeleine leaves me, I will become a tramp. In the evening, drive to Fiesol. In the evening, meet D'Annunzio at Giacosa's house. She never tires of seeing her, and I rejoice in the constant need of my support for her weakened body; her tenderness is sweet to me; I protect her carefully; Really want to shed tears because of love.She was amazed by many sights, but when faced with great beauty, she often said few words. Visit the Convent of San Marco.Lunch at Donay's.photography.Take a tour by car. Lunch with D'Annunzio and Brada's son, Count ×××.I left with him and went to see Roberto Gatchi.Take a small tour of the hills and tree-lined roads.Go back to Petey to pick up M, etc. Last year, I did not understand Angelico accurately, thinking that I found only a purely pious and moral beauty in his works, thinking that his painting was only a method of prayer, and tried to be effective.The story of Savonarola, which occupies my mind at the moment, seems to me to be the story of the "iconacism", which reflects all the most terrible aspects of that movement. Produce a work of art.Admittedly, some of Angelico's work is beautiful.Of course, his paintings make the lines subordinate to the image too much, and the image is a way to express the soul, and the soul is a kind of praise to God,—and the color is just an appendage, a filler of the shape—but , he colors each space delicately and beautifully. Fortunately, he thinks that the joy expressed by innocent color matching is not too worldly. Someone talked to D'Annunzio about health care.He told me that he didn't suffer from insomnia, at least he didn't suffer from insomnia.Horseback riding and fencing can prevent insomnia.Tomorrow he is going to Vinci Village, the hometown of Da Vinci; he said it was a pilgrimage, and suggested that I accompany him there.If I hadn't been too bad at riding, I would very much like to go with him.Speaking of sarcasm, he made it quite clear to me that he would not tolerate sarcasm being used against things, and that it is of the utmost importance that one can see things only out of love... He drank nothing but water at the table, which was a rule among the workers;—yet he said he drank ten or twelve cups of tea a day.He was in his riding clothes this morning, apologizing for having come to the table like this; he was gorgeous and dashing, and his boldness was lovely. Em is a little tired.The weather was bad and gray.I went out in the evening and followed a few people who aroused my curiosity.In my later "Valentin Knox" I have to deal at length with this peculiarity of the stalker. Play a little game at night. Em was extremely unwell, unable to participate, and lay down early after dinner.I didn't stay with her and felt bad all night, worrying about waking her up and exacerbating her migraine every time someone opened the door or yelled.It was nearly midnight, and I couldn't help but feel a little sad. I felt that these kinds of behaviors were not serious enough, and I shouldn't stay with Em.I wished I could get out of the circle and the delay in getting back to her was a situation I've never had.Amidst the laughter, I also thought of the night that Paul and I spent so peacefully and solemnly in Biskra two years ago.I can't help but wonder how I have such a firm will that will never cause personal worries, and whether that will is really so firm.I would rather not dance and row like this at this exciting approach we so much look forward to, but want to pray together, worship, or just wait solemnly.Hate sloppy behavior--I always have.During this time, Em was alone, what was he thinking? Tonight, we leave Florence.I should have talked more.The frescoes of Ghirlandaio in Santa Maria Novella, Masaccio in Santa Maria Novella, Filipino Lippi's frescoes, Angelico's in the Convent of San Marco, and Palazzo Riccardo's Benozzo Gozzoli's extraordinary works have left me with the most vivid memory. There is always one thing or another that is too busy, and there is no immediate talk about these works.Now I remember quite clearly that I can talk about it at any time in the future—besides, during this period of time, there are many disturbances from all parties, so it is better to be alone in the future and think about it on and off. I went to the Alinari studio and picked as many photos of these murals as possible.Of the fresco photographs of Benozzo Gozzoli alone, I think there are twenty-four of them.I can watch it with ease. A few wonderful evenings, golden and pinkish gray... The Arno River leaves the city, and its banks are wide and bright.Poplar groves on the left bank; reed clumps on the right bank, dark gardens in the dairy district.The leaves of the poplar trees have all fallen, and the entire golden sky shines through, as if the light has passed through a sieve.Pieces of sandy beaches extend from the shore to the middle of the river.The fishermen and dredgers, bare-legged, returned to the flat-bottomed boats, entered the water again, dug river mud and sand from the shore, and filled the boats.On the hill opposite the milk factory area, among the dark cypress trees, there is a building that looks like a church. What else is there to remember?I have a strong desire to wander, wishing to experience all things in nature immediately, more personally, and more physically, just like bathing in it, like feeling the pleasant contact of sea water while bathing. The East, the desert, and the heat, and the emptiness, and the shadows of the palm gardens, and the white fat garments—it was such a haunting dream, my senses were so wild, my nerves were so irritated, that every night I found it difficult to sleep. I'm going to write the beginning of a poem expressing this lust, this burning desire to let nature permeate, rape, occupy me, express the kind of love that Pasiphae has for bulls. A rather interesting research article could be written on Benozzo Gozzoli.Danner's chapter in "History of English Literature" on Chaucer and the Pagan Revival can be used for reference.The frescoes in the Pisa cemetery are not as good as the frescoes in the Ricardo Palace-not counting the first three ("The Harvest of the Grapes", "The Curse of Ham" and "The Tower of Babel"), and the one above the door of the small altar. Wonderful gardens, where the birds are like flowers, and the angels walk, with wings like peacocks, and peacocks are like lace bushes. As for Filipino Lippi and Benozzo Gozzoli, I would like to know their lives.I read Donatello's biography, but Menz's is terrible. Why are there no women in his works?Wonderful David expressed an uneasy admiration for the boy's small body. Italian Renaissance!The triumph of the senses, through such uncompromising piety, is beyond comprehension of the double being named after Christ, and the pagan chatter and insults of the senses terrify me.Filipino Lippi, with his delicate face, always so young and smiling involuntarily, in the mural painted by himself in the Church of Santa Maria, he is not like others, looking at the martyrdom around him. people, but turned to look at me.I hope to understand your thinking further.He, the youngest artist on whom all the great artists expected so much, was entrusted with the extraordinary task of following the path of Masaccio.They left before their careers were finished, but you became their entire future.I think you look up to them despite your smile, and feel that you would not have been able to produce such a beautiful work without their enormous efforts. And yet, was your painting in the cathedral, where you put an urchin's head on the angel who slipped under the pulpit of St. Bell, out of some concern, or out of some irony?The devotion of the wonderfully painted saint, his tenderness, the grateful gesture of his hands, is unimaginable.Christian art is by no means superior, and a painter who is more skilled in his use of colour, would have made something more pagan.Wonderful Madonna, consumptive and lymphoid, with a sallow complexion and a sickly neck, but no expression of pain on her face, as if she had long ago endured all her ordeals.This is indeed the Holy Mother herself coming to meet the saints.It is impossible to imagine that there is a body in this dress, but it is not out of shape in the slightest. There was no surprise on the Saint's face—he was just thanking Our Lady for visiting. There was also something indescribable in it, like the embrace of Saint-Louis and Friar Gilles in the monastery near Peruze. Which part of the fresco in the Church of Santa Maria in Carmina, the one showing the resurrection of the prince, was made by Filippino?The church that was destroyed by the fire, and what other works by him?What are the works of old masters? The fresco is admirable, and the faults of its perspective do not matter. The child's nude form is perfect, and this radiant white skin, in all the clothed images of this church, does not, and never has, the suspicion of paganism. Such a sense of gratitude, from the gaze of the child, to the hand of the saint who brought him back to life, the center of the picture is actually an imagined point between the two of them.All the images of this mural can be listed among the most beautiful I have ever seen. I wish I could see that big fresco by Angelico in the Convent of San Marco again. From Pisa to Rome, traveling all the way at night, seeing nothing.The night was pitch black.As the car approached Civitavecchia, I heard the sound of the waves of the sea.Thinking of Byron and Schiller, the thought haunts me. Em translated for me several letters Schiller sent from Pisa.Last night I read to her the wonderful passage of Prometheus, Act II, Scene II, the second chorus of the elves. Oscar Wilde is the only modern poet who does not interest me as a poet.In France, according to Gautier and Flaubert, an absurd theory was invented: the work must be separated from the person, as if the work were stuck to the person.As if the whole life of man is not the backbone of his work, not his first work, it is foolish to use his work to justify Wilde's life; but he does not know that his life is more important than his work. I said, "I put talent in my life, I put talent only in my work, and that's the great tragedy of my life." In the time of Byron and Schiller, when everything seemed to be revealed, I think it was a pleasure to describe the Pisa cemetery, when not everyone went to it, and Pisa was not everywhere.What interests me now is not the cathedral and the Leaning Tower, but the weather there, from Pisa to the sea, and over the vast plain, there is only a vast and melancholy rain scene. This evening, I visited the incomparably huge St. Peter's Church.I couldn't help seeing Rome through Stendhal's eyes.I discovered my secret to being bored in Rome: Rome didn't interest me. In Rome, I mainly saw the Palatine Hill, the thermal springs of Caracalla, the Chapel of Sixtus - but there is no doubt that I don't like Rome at all. Next to (on the right) the Diana of Ephesus in the Capitoline Hill Museum, there is a wonderful little bronze statue of The Relief.I think I love it more than any ancient art—even the Niobid in the Kunsthalle, or the Sleeping Beast in Munich. (Later, the excellent Mercury the Fisherman I saw in Naples.) The copper itself is very smooth, like jasper, almost black, giving the form a more decisive and lasting will; so graceful, but without any softness.This small body that has not yet reached puberty is surprisingly delicate, but it is not regrettable at all. The body does not need to be too childish or too plump. On the night of the full moon, despite the mist, the night is still very clear, and the floating island of Capri can be seen faintly, higher than the sea level that people think.The ridge of ancient Vesuvius seemed to be scarred with burns, and we longed to get a closer look at what fiery holes, or fiery rocks, glowing red and crackling from afar, made us the night before. Thought a village was on fire. Every scene beckons to its music, music that is as cheerful as the scene, full of crisp laughter, produced without difficult conception. I was surprised that from here I could hear this very peculiar oriental song, which begins with a particularly sharp tone and descends strangely to the tonic, through only two parallel sentences, and the two phrases have a clear rhythm, as if between the tones. Spinning convulsively, then resting in a kind of choking. The island of Capri mysteriously floats on transparent water.I love sea caves.Formosa's caves are half submerged in water!Morga's caves are colorful!I don't like the Celestial Hole at all, though: the reflections are an icy color, not sky blue at all, but indigo, as if imagined by a god who doesn't know much about colors.I come out in a hurry.There is also a cave on the other side of the island, which is not very famous, but it is very exquisite; the cave is small, the passage is narrow, and there are three entrances, so that the light can be refracted in, and only the green light penetrates in, which is enough to reflect the scenery in the cave. water, phosphorescence is formed.Everything submerged in the water has a pale green flame attached to it; hands submerged in the water are also dyed green, like Pierre-Louis' water strider. This land is so sentimental that two beautiful American girls spoke of it with tears of nostalgia and longing: two girls whom I had met in Florence, and to whom I had introduced D'Annunzio.Some people come to live for a week and never leave. A friend of Mrs. Magonickle's, married in Capri, never cared about his native land again.The girls of Capri are especially easy to marry and become wives.American men flocked, as did German men.I, on the other hand, find Capri, with its admirable rocks, unbearable, or nearly so; I still like to see Capri, Naples, floating like a mirage at sea. However, I'd rather be on that island than in Florence and meet those two gorgeous American girls, one reading Marlowe, the other Omar Khayyam's quatrains—and When D'Annunzio came to visit, they also served us with grapes from the island - sun-dried and stored in rum-soaked grape leaves; the packets were cigar-colored and the wrappers were dry , very inconspicuous, but it preserves the sugar and moisture of the grapes. There is a road up the hill from the town of Lakawa.All the way above, there is a network of tree branches, which invites reverie, and the light elms and slender poplars hang in the wonderful air, adorning these grape sheds, what a bright spring scene.The grove we passed through was already full of purple crocuses. Benedictine monastery, half-hidden among the rocks.We visited the reading room, and then descended to the monastery; the monastery was set among high rocks, and although the afternoon sun was clear and the sun was shining directly, it looked bleak.The moss on the walls is wet and dripping water all the year round.Everything here seems to have rotted and shrunk, white and green.The crypt below is much more spacious, and can only get air and light from an open transom window in the monastery.The hazy light enveloped the asymmetrical pillars very softly, and the crypt was dead silent.The friar who showed me carried a lamp, and the light illuminated piles of skulls and dead bones; some of the bones were cast a fuzzy white. Going forward, I saw a row of six sarcophagi between two rows of thick columns, one next to the other, all uncovered, full of skeletons. A little further on is a rather fine fresco by one of Giotto's pupils. Someone will say: "The enemy is the outside." It's hard to do just by endangering yourself. Depart Taormina and travel to Catania.Stunning wilderness, showing charred loam and lava, where there is no cultivation, the asphodel grows out of tenderness among the volcanic cinders. "An obsessive madness that drives me toward everything that is called bad." Syracuse Look at summer in Syracuse.The papyrus of the Ziane River, connected from both banks, weaves gold and silver vaults above the cruise ships, so the sailor who took us on the tour said.When the flat-bottomed boat touched the shore, it broke the grass in the shallow water and brought up the grass roots, making a rustling sound.The sky was extremely low, dragging the dark clouds all the way to the earth.The boat went upstream slowly. Papyrus grew around the spring, planted by the Arabs in old days; and I imagined that the shores of the Great Lakes of Africa were very different from here.The source is at the bottom of a deep pool.The water is quite deep and takes on an unusual blue color here.Big sky blue fish swim in the water.I really want to throw a ring down... I think of the swimming pools in Gafsa: In those swimming pools of hot springs, there are big blind fish that can brush the swimmers, said to commemorate the great Tannet, overlooking the bottom of the pool, and The blue snake can be seen crawling on the stone slab. Stone prisons, closed gardens, caves, orchards of dungeons, trickles of Venus' fountains, ivy.This abandoned quarry is where the captives were imprisoned.The air is thick and humid, filled with the rich aroma of orange blossoms.We ate half-ripe lemons; after the overpowering sourness of the first bite had worn off, the mouth was left with an unbelievable freshness.The place is full of lasciviousness, murder, and the most shameless passions; these underground gardens that the Arabian stories tell us, Aladdin went to find the fruit, that is, to find gems; The wife goes to the wounded nigger at night and uses her charm to keep him from dying. Greek-style theater, watch it at night when the moon rises.Shangfang is the path leading from the tomb to the field of asphodels.I have never seen such a quiet place. Malta ... In the evening, we visited the garden of the Governor's Mansion. My favorite thing in the garden was a large water basin: it was close to the ground, surrounded by heather, full of water, almost to the edge, It's like a big mirror, hanging flat where no one sees. I imagine a garden where the paths seem to hang in mid-air would be wonderful--narrow pontoons, as high as the leaves.This garden is in the middle of the orangery, with a flagstone-paved flower path slightly raised from the ground, and low fences are installed on both sides.You can already smell the scent of orange blossoms.我们在满满的承水盘旁边，拣了一张长椅坐下，念了丹纳论述格林的那一章。 天光还大亮，但却没有了影子的时候，谈论夏天暮晚异乎寻常的陶醉。在马耳他突然有所感悟。“纳塔纳埃尔，我教会你热情奔放。” 三年前的秋季，我们到达突尼斯，感觉十分美妙。尽管被横穿市区的大街严重地毁了容，这还是一座传统而美丽的城市，统一而和谐，白色房舍在晚上灯火荧然，仿佛雪白的灯笼。 一离开法国码头，就再也见不到一棵树了，只能到市场里找点阴凉。这种大市场有拱顶，或者钉了板棚，或者张了棚布，只有反射的光透进去，充满一种特殊的气氛，仿佛是地下市场，城中的城市，几乎有突尼斯城三分之一那么大。保尔·洛朗到平台上绘画，从那上面眺望大海，只能看见一条中断的扶梯、被院落隔断的白色平台，而那些院落好似大坑，圈着女人的烦闷。晚间，一切白色物体变成淡紫色，天空则一片茶花色；到了早晨，白色又变成玫瑰色，天空则微微发紫。不过，几场冬雨过后，墙壁就发绿了，覆盖了苔藓，平台边沿儿宛若花篮的周边。 我还是怀恋秋天的突尼斯城，洁白、严肃而古典，令我联想起《浮士德》第二部，夜晚在整齐的街道游荡的海伦，或者“手端着玛瑙灯”，在墓地幽径上踯躅的普绪喀。 宽敞的街道和广场上陆续栽树。突尼斯城会变得更妩媚，然而，这样也最毁损市容了。两年前，马尔街、绵羊广场还是原貌，走在这里而不知身在何处，我认为最遥远的东方、最居中心的非洲，也没有更加令人惊诧的奇特情调了。一种不同的生活方式，而且完全在外面实现，非常充实，古老而传统，是根深蒂固的，在东方和我们的文明之间还没有折衷。须知我们的文明，当它要纠正什么时，尤其显得丑陋。铁皮和锌皮板，逐渐取代苇席，成为大市场的棚顶，还有路灯，光线跳跃式地映照墙壁，而从前则不同，夜色均衡地散布在墙上——绵羊大广场没有人行道，静悄悄的，十分美妙，两年前在温暖的月夜，骆驼和阿拉伯人就来这里睡觉。一座清真寺的门打开了，一群阿拉伯人簇拥着一盏风灯走出来，到街上又站住，唱起一支单调的宗教歌曲。 大市场里修了人行道。在一条最美的路上，支撑棚顶的小柱子的根部都掩埋了。弯弯曲曲的柱子，红绿两色，柱头很大，做工相当精细。棚顶刷了白灰，但是光线不足，即使阳光灿烂的日子，这些市场也总是那么昏暗。市场的入口确是妙构；我绝口不谈清真寺的大门，但是要谈另外这个入口，窄窄的，非常隐蔽，由一棵倾斜的枣树遮护，先就投下一团阴影，接着便是黑暗的小道，再一拐弯，回头就看不见那道小门了。然而上次是秋天，枣树还有叶子，今年春天尚未长出来。开头是鞍具市场；小路再一拐弯，便无限延伸了。 在香水市场，萨林克-阿努安一直坐在齐肘高的地板上，还是一副呆样子，而他的铺子小得像个狗窝，堆满了小瓶子；不过，他今天卖的香水全是假货。上次回到巴黎，我送绐瓦莱里最后两瓶真香水，是我看着萨林克-阿努安用一根吸管，装满苹果香精，又一滴一滴装满珍贵的龙涎香。今天这些瓶子装得半满，是一般货色，他就没有特别仔细地用蜡封住瓶口，缠上白线，卖给我也不那么贵了。 两年前我和洛朗，看他做事那么细致觉得很开心，似乎是要让物有所值。每加一层包装，香水就变得更加珍贵。最后我们拦住他，只因这样下去口袋里的钱就不够了。 还有那家咖啡馆，我怎么也找不见了： 只有高大的苏丹黑人去那里，他们有些人剁了脚趾，表明是奴隶，大部分人袍子上别着一小束白花，是令他们陶醉的芳香的茉莉，而花枝碰到面颊卷回来，宛若浪漫式的发卷，给他们的脸平添一种情意缠绵的神态。 他们特别喜爱花香，有时闻着觉得不过瘾，还揉了花瓣塞进鼻孔里。他们在这家咖啡馆，有一个人唱歌，另一个人讲故事，而觅食的鸽子飞来飞去，还落到他们肩上。 小孩子看着，笑着，模仿卡拉古斯里的亵渎的滑稽表演。困难的智力锻炼，要不断改进，直到做得很自然了…… 法国人不到那儿去，他们也不知道怎么走。这类小店铺不起眼，要从低矮的门钻进去。法国人通常光顾旁边那些惹眼的、只吸引游客的大门面。阿拉伯人知道怎么做有效： 这匹跳舞的纸板马、这匹用木头和布制成的也在跳舞的骆驼，的确不算什么，但是肯定很有趣，完全是赶集杂耍那一套。就在那附近，有一家卡拉古斯店铺；传统而古典，简朴得不能再简朴，还有一种绝妙的演出习俗，而这卡拉古斯就在喧闹的街上，在寻找它的两名警察之间，只因它低下头，就看不见警察了；可是孩子却乐于接受，看得明白，并且发出笑声。 要重新学习龚古尔先生执意扼杀的戏剧艺术，最好还是请教于卡拉古斯和我们古老的木偶戏。 卡拉古斯。长形小厅，白天卖东西，晚上就寻欢作乐，搭起一个小舞台，挂上透明的幕布，作为皮影的背景幕布。靠墙排了两行长凳，与舞台垂直，这些座位是照顾那些有身份的观众。长厅中间全是小孩子，他们坐在地上，相互拥挤。他们嗑大量的盐炒西瓜子，这种食品非常诱人，每天早晨我花两苏钱装满口袋，晚上就掏空了。当然我是给孩子吃了。 这里有趣的是这些壁龛，算是床铺，但极不舒服，跟海燕窝似的，手臂用力才能爬上去，下来就免谈了，除非掉下来，只按夜晚租给爱好斗牛的青年。有好几个夜晚我又来到这里： 几乎总是同样的观众，坐在原来的位置上，看同样的演出，到同样的地方笑起来——跟我一样。 给这些影子配音的演员非常出色。 卡拉古斯。另一家铺子，苏丹人的去处。有苏丹人在的地方，阿拉伯人就不愿意去了。因此，这里全是黑人。不过，这天晚上，我又遇见费道尔·罗森堡。戏还没有开演。（演出的戏不超过一刻钟，幕间休息时间要长得多。）一个黑人打着响板，另一个黑人敲着长方形手鼓；第三个是个大块头儿，在罗森堡面前扭动着身子；他差不多坐到我们脚下，即兴唱着一首单调的哀歌，照我所能理解的，唱的是他非常穷苦，而罗森堡非常富有，黑人总是缺钱花。由于他那样子有点儿凶，阿拉伯人又断言，无论对骆驼、黑人还是沙漠，都不可以长期信赖，我们不久也就变得非常慷慨了。 卡拉古斯。另一家店铺。这里演戏，不过是聚会的由头。一个晚上又一个晚上，在老板友善的目光下，总是那些常客。一个异常俊美的孩子吹着风笛，大家围拢在他四周，是被他吸引来的，全是向他献殷勤的人。一个人敲着怪状的鼓，底面可能是驴皮的一个瓦罐形的手鼓。他呢，吹风笛的孩子，他可是这家咖啡馆的摇钱树。他仿佛对所有人微笑，但又不偏爱任何人。有的人给他背诗，再唱一遍；他回答，还靠近些；但是我认为，一举一动仅限于稍微迎合一下众人，这个店铺并不是伤风败俗的地方，倒是宣扬爱的场所。有时，一个孩子站起来跳舞，有时则双人舞，而舞蹈的动作相当随意。 演的戏几乎总是淫秽的。我想弄清楚卡拉古斯的故事。一定很古老了。据说是从君士坦丁堡传来的，无论在君士坦丁堡和突尼斯，还是其他地方，警察到处都要禁止演出这个故事。 我最常见到的演出是这样： 一个阿拉伯人开一家浴室。法特马和拉皮条的女人去了。淫荡成性的卡拉古斯要求进去。他这种需要最急迫，可是惟独他不受欢迎。所有人，一个一个出场，全是传统人物，有阿拉伯农村人、吸毒者、土耳其人、犹太人、警察。那女人来到门口；每个新来的人都说两句话，她紧紧拥抱他们便放进去，而卡拉古斯就临时在他们身上发泄性欲。他们逐个被强奸，全吃了苦头，无一幸免。最后，那女人也经不住一罐奶的诱惑，也让卡拉古斯占有了；一个婴儿当即就出生了。场面相当精彩。卡拉古斯见到他的业绩，简直乐不可支，觉得小家伙已经表现出天赋来，刚出世就嚷着要一个女人。那些丑角又一个一个从浴池中出来；卡拉古斯揍他们，大局已定。卡拉古斯，就是“超人”。 仅仅在斋月期间演出。一连四十天斋戒，从日出一直到天黑，绝对斋戒： 不吃不喝，不抽烟，不施香水，也不近女色。所有感官白天受惩罚，夜晚则加倍补偿，可以纵情玩乐。当然，也有些阿拉伯人非常虔诚，斋月的夜晚美餐一顿之后，便静思和祈祷；反之，还有些人白天也继续寻欢作乐。但是，这后一种情况，只有在风气被法国人带坏的大城中才常见。一般来说，几乎所有人都非常严格地去做礼拜。 最后这天夜晚，在逃离之前，我还要再看看突尼斯向我展示的极罕见、极奇特的东西。再过多久我也能想起，我长时间跟随这支军乐队： 它正返回本街区，一路演奏凯旋曲，非常响亮，又准确又好听；与此同时，有些地方，轮船上和法国人街区，都放起烟火，将淡紫花牡荆的叶丛，映成一种虚幻的粉红色水印画面。 乐队经过时，没有几个阿拉伯人回头来观看；他们的咖啡馆里，细弱的音乐还持续不断。 我想，许多人还记得，这种军乐队初次开进你们战败城市的日子。我心下真想了解，他们在思想上，对法国人是否始终只怀有仇恨。 我沿着马尔街寻找乐子，可是却念念不忘阿尔法乌依纳广场。那里一家摩尔人咖啡馆相当宽敞，相当漂亮，然而那里的人却不大能容我。法国人向来不光顾。他们被热闹的阿尔法乌依纳广场吸引过去，而其他街区则很宁静。一名年纪很大的黑人跳起舞，滑稽的动作伴着风笛曲和手鼓的节拍。 我沿着幽暗的大街，又回到阿尔法乌依纳广场。人不很多，没有什么特别的热闹。这晚上快结束的时候，我在第一天带他去的那家卡拉古斯店铺，又碰见了罗森堡。他也同样明白，最好常去同一地方，不必认识许多人，而要熟悉一些人。阿拉伯人常见到你，面孔就熟了，不大觉得你是外国人，他们也就恢复了一开始被打扰的常规。 我们傍晚到达，这一天阳光灿烂。阿特曼早晨就到了，白天睡了一觉，提前一小时到车站迎候我们。这一小时他觉得十分漫长。“然而，我是这么想的，”他对我说道，“现在，只有一个钟头了；而从前，那可要等整整一年。” 他穿了三件呢斗篷、一件蓝衬绸衬里淡红花边的白绸无袖衬衣，以及蓝呢外套；棕绳扎紧的白细布大头巾，飘落到下颏儿，拂着面颊。这种头饰改变了他的形貌。去年十六岁时，他还只戴一顶简单的儿童小圆帽；到了十七岁，他就要用复杂的成年男人缠头巾了。 阿特曼的钱全花在这身“装束”上了；为了这次重逢，他打扮得很漂亮。如果不是接站，恐怕面对面我也认不出他来。 暮色缓慢地降临，我们过了山口，望见传奇般的东方在静谧中，向我们显现它那平和的金黄色。行驶到棕榈树下，我们下了车，让阿特曼在路上等着落在后面的行李车。我又听出了所有声响，——流水声和鸟鸣。还像从前那样，一片寂静，而我们的到来，没有引起一点变化。我们乘车在挺远的地方，绕绿洲兜了一圈，回来时太阳西沉了，斋戒的时间已过，我们在一家摩尔咖啡馆门前停下。院子里发情的骆驼，就在我们身边角斗。一名看牲口的人在骆驼后面吆喝。羊群放牧归来，急促的蹄声一如去年，好似一阵单调枯燥的骤雨。 所有灰色土屋都升起一缕蒸汽、一缕蓝烟；而烟气很快笼罩整片绿洲，显得朦胧悠远了。西天一片碧蓝，十分深邃，仿佛还吸足了光。寂静变得令人赞美了。人在这里想象不出任何歌来。我感到我喜爱这个地方，也许胜过喜爱任何别的地方；这里比哪里都更适于沉思默想。 今天嘉奖一名阿拉伯挖井工人。 在有自流井钻探公司之前，阿拉伯人有掘井工人。有时要挖地七十米深，甚至八十米深，才能找到水源。男人要深入地下。 这种艰难的行业，训练青年人去干，但是许多人死在井下。必须穿透三层土和两层水： 第一水层是止水，第二层仅仅是上升水，到了最下一层才是喷泉。喷出来的地下水往往特别清冽，特别丰富，不过也几乎总携带氢氧化钠和氧化镁。这些挖井工人在水下作业，想象不出有多费力。受到嘉奖的这名工人，据说属于最勇敢的。要打一口井，就必须在水层中间建一个通道，不让水灌进去，能在里边继续作业，继续挖掘，要设一个管道，穿过两个水层，将清水引上去，通过死水而不受污染。 当天，我们看见一个汉子用绳子吊着，下到用棕榈树干护壁的方形井中，到六十米深修复一处破损。 那名阿拉伯挖井工得了奖章，到了晚上他就发疯了。 在图古尔特，死水层大多露出地面，根本没法与舍特马的清澈的流水，或者比斯克拉的灌溉渠水相比，而是一条条臭水沟，长满了污秽的杂草。不过，也有一条小河穿过图古尔特，乖乖地分流滋润棕榈树。水底草中有水蛇游动。 绿洲由黄沙包围，昨天刮起沙尘暴，天边仿佛朝我们退过来，宛如拉过来的一床被子；什么也看不见了，就连呼吸都困难。 离城不远，有一座破烂不堪的墓地，逐渐被黄沙侵吞，勉强看得出几个坟头。在荒漠中，死亡的意念，总萦绕我们心头；可是，事情妙就妙在，死亡在这里并不哀伤。在比斯克拉的老堡寨后身，有一座古墓地，正坐落在绿洲的中心，被雨水冲成沟壑，就好像死者直接埋葬在土中，有些地方枯骨裸露，跟石头一样数不胜数。 沙尘暴一直刮到傍晚，在日落时分，我们登上清真寺塔顶。天空一片土灰色，棕榈都黯然失色，整座城市也呈深灰色。从东面刮来的风长驱直入，仿佛先知宣布的神灵诅咒之风。在这种凄凉的景象中，我们望见一队骆驼商旅逐渐走远。 这里的乌莱德族姑娘，比在比斯克拉的那些姑娘跳舞跳得好，她们也更美丽： 我也只是在这里欣赏过她们的舞姿。我们又来到这里，还没有看厌： 这种严肃而徐缓的舞蹈，几乎只舞动胳臂和手腕，看起来十分美妙；这音乐急促而飘逸，又持续不断，让人头晕目眩，几乎精疲力竭，但是回味无穷，离开之后乐声还不停止，有些夜晚仍在我耳畔缭绕，具有大沙漠那种魔力。 昨天夜晚，我本想在商旅驻扎的广场上度过。那里通宵燃着篝火，阿拉伯人低声交谈，还有一些人唱歌；他们唱了个通宵。 阿特曼对我讲述乌利亚的妻子的故事。 据阿拉伯的传说，大卫（阿特曼叫他达乌德）在自己宫殿里追一只金鸽，从一间宫室追到另一间宫室，最后到上面那座平台，从那里能望见拔示巴。 阿特曼讲道：“……犹太人对大卫说，摩西说得对，上帝带给他的首先是犹太人，然后是阿拉伯人，也许还有基督徒。基督徒说基督说得对，上帝接受基督徒，不过也接受了阿拉伯人，甚至犹太人。阿拉伯人对大卫说，穆罕默德说得对，上帝让阿拉伯人上天堂，但是闭门拒收没有皈依的犹太人和基督徒。他听完三人的说法，就赶紧改信伊斯兰教。” 基督徒比他们资历深，他们说，也愿意对我说，一名基督徒，临死如果讲出伊斯兰的信条：“上帝就是上帝，穆罕默德是他的先知”，他就比一个阿拉伯人先进天堂。 他们还说：“卢米人在许多方面都比我们强，不过，他们始终怕死。” 黑人手鼓声把我们吸引过去。黑人音乐。去年我听过多少回！多少回我放下工作，起身去听这音乐！没有音调，惟有节拍；没有音调优美的乐器，惟有长鼓，达姆达姆鼓和响板……Florentes ferulat et grandia lilia quassans，响板拿在他们手中，听来就像一阵急雨。他们三个人，就名副其实地演奏；奇数节拍，切分得十分怪异，撩人肌肉发狂地跳动。他们就是葬礼上的乐师，我在墓地上多次见过，他们给葬礼制造了欢快的宗教气氛，烘托了哭丧女人的悲恸；在凯鲁万的一座清真寺内，我也看见他们激发了阿萨瓦教派神秘的狂热。我还看见他们给棒舞伴奏，在西迪马莱克的一座小清真寺里给宗教舞蹈伴奏。每次总是只有我这一个法国人观赏，不知道游客都去哪里了，想必那些有资格的导游，给他们准备了一个华而不实的非洲，免得这些不速之客打扰喜爱隐秘和清静的阿拉伯人；的确，在一件有趣的事物附近，我从来没有碰见一个旅游者；在绿洲的古老村庄也一样，幸而极少碰见，而我天天去，最后村民都不怕了。然而，饭店住满了游客，他们掉进了导游的江湖中，花大价钱去看特意为他们安排的表演。 去年那场异乎寻常的晚会，也没有一个法国人，我仅仅被鼓声和女人的叫声吸引过去，几乎是偶然参加的。晚会在黑人村子里举行： 由妇女和乐手组成的跳舞队列，沿着主要街道行进，走在前边的是举着火把的男人，以及一群抓住角牵着一只大公羊的嬉笑的孩子。大公羊全身黑色，披着一块红绸，戴满首饰，角上挂着手镯，鼻孔穿一只大银环，脖子上还套着几个项圈。跟在后面的人群中，我认出大个子阿舒尔。他向我解释说，当夜要宰了这只公羊，好给村子降福；宰杀之前带它游街，好让蹲在门口的各家邪鬼钻进它体内消失。 黑人音乐！多少次远离非洲，我恍若听见你哟，整个南方，仿佛在你周围突然重现；还有去罗马那次，凌晨时分，笨重的火车沿格里哥利大街行驶，把我惊醒。我还睡眼惺忪，听到铺石路上沉浊的颠簸声，一时还产生幻觉，继而又久久伤怀。 今天早晨我们听见了，这黑人音乐，但决不是一次平常的舞会。他在一家私宅的内院里演奏，一些男人站在门口，开头要推开我们；幸好有几名阿拉伯人认出我们，便护送我们进去。刚一进去我很惊讶，看见院里聚集了一大批犹太女子，都非常美丽，并且盛装打扮。院里人挤得满满的，只有中央留出一点跳舞的地方。又闷热，又有灰尘，呛得人喘不上气来。上方拱廊射下一大束阳光，那里聚了一群俯看的孩子。 通向露台的楼梯也站满了人，无不聚精会神，我们也随着凝神专注，所见的场面十分骇人。院子中央放了一个盛满水的大铜盆。三名女子已经站起来，是三名阿拉伯女子，她们脱掉上衣，披散头发，在铜盆前跳舞，继而低下头，将头发浸到水中。已经很剧烈的音乐，这时又变本加厉。三个女人浸湿的头发重又披落在身上，舞了一段时间。这是一种原始的、疯狂的舞蹈，全身扭动，没有亲眼目睹的人，是根本想象不出来的。指挥仪式的是一名黑人老妪，她手操一根木棒，围着铜盆蹦蹦跳跳，不时敲敲盆沿儿。我们逐渐明白了，后来也有人告诉我们，那天跳舞的女人（而且那两天，跳舞的女人有时数量很多）既是犹太人又是阿拉伯人，都中了魔。每人交钱才有权跳驱魔舞。手执木棒的黑人老妪是个有名的巫婆，她懂得驱魔术，能让魔鬼离开女人身体，进入新换的水中。不洁净的水就泼到街上。向我们讲述这一切的，是漂亮的犹太女郎古玛尔哈，她讲起来不大情愿，碍于残存的信仰，也有五分惭愧，要承认去年她的身体也中了邪，歇斯底里地发狂，于是参加了跳舞，“希望从而减轻病魔”。不料事后病情反而加重了，她丈夫得知她参加了巫婆的那种驱魔舞会，就一连打了她三天，以便治好她的病。 舞蹈动作越发剧烈，几个女人慌乱而发狂，寻求肌体达到无意识状态，准确点说，达到无感觉状态，直至歇斯底里，肉体完全摆脱精神的控制，就可以实施驱魔法了。在这种狂舞疲惫之后，她们大汗淋漓，奄奄一息，即将得到一种解脱的安宁。 现在，她们跪在铜盆前，手紧紧抓住盆沿儿，身子左右摆动，前俯后仰，动作十分敏捷，好似疯狂的钟摆；她们的头发抽打着盆中水，又抛洒在肩头上，每次一挺腰，就深沉地喊一声，就像砍柴的樵夫那样；继而，她们猛然仰面瘫倒，就好像病痛突发倒下，口吐白沫，双手痉挛。 魔鬼离开她们了。这时，巫婆扶她们躺好，给她们又擦，又搓，又抻，就像治疗歇斯底里发作的人那样，抓住她们的手腕，抬到半空，再按摩她们的脚、膝盖或小腹。 我们听说，那天治疗了六十多人。头一批人身体还在抽搐，别的人已经冲上场了。还有一个驼背小姑娘上去，她身穿黄绿条的无袖长衣，令人难忘；她那头烧焦似的黑发，完全将她罩住。 也有犹太女人跳驱魔舞，她们乱蹦乱跳，就像发足力的陀螺。她们跳几下就立即昏倒了。有的女人坚持时间要长……她们那种疯狂劲头也感染了我们；我们再也受不了，就赶紧逃离了。 “谁发明了音乐？”阿特曼问道。我回答说：“音乐家呗。”他还不满意，一个劲儿追问。我就严肃地回答说是上帝。“不对，”他立刻反驳：“是魔鬼。” 于是，他向我解释说，在阿拉伯人看来，所有乐器都是地狱的东西，只有一种两弦琴例外： 这种琴的名称我没有记住，琴柄很长，音箱是用乌龟壳做的，用一支小弓子拉琴。琴声一响，广场的歌手、诗人、先知和讲故事人就伴唱，有时听来美妙极了，阿特曼说，“天堂的一扇门就仿佛打开了”。 这些歌手、这些诗人引起我的兴趣。他们歌唱什么？牧羊人会停止吹笛子，也唱起来吗？萨代克呢，他会边唱边弹单弦琴吗？阿特曼本人呢，他独自一个或者同埃哈迈德一起，各自骑马去图古尔特，一路上也唱歌吗？有时就是对话，我仔细倾听，可是连一个词也听不懂。我问阿特曼，他却回答：“哪里，那不是说话，完全是诗歌！”这几天，我一再坚持，终于说动他将几首歌抄录并翻译出来。这些歌没有文字记录，由广场的歌手传唱： 他们坐在地上，或者站在咖啡馆门前，唱给围着他们静听的一群阿拉伯人，或者在孤旅路上，唱给自己听。我不知道这些歌，不了解当地的人是否爱听，我本人也不敢说我觉得它们很美，不敢说阿拉伯诗歌，不管古老的还是现代的，这种口头传唱就值得在民俗学中记一笔。也许明年吧，我试着搜集，给这些歌出一本小集子。这里有两首，阿特曼提供给我，我就原样抄下来，只是改了改错别字： I 两年我没有做爱，我说当了修士。 我旅行到北方，在舞会上与巴雅相见。 她戴着梳子和耳环， 还带着匕首和镜子…… 她的头发四面披散， 价值千金，梳得很整齐。 只属于她或者我， 谁也买不起…… 姑娘们要求几文钱； 而我，无能为力（我穷得可怜）， 明天我要卖掉几只羊， 打戒指给那些美人。 II 今天她经过，已经扭过身； 她扎了金腰带，流苏垂到大腿根。 让我难过的是她那条白衣裙。 我狂跑，跑了个通宵， 是我惹得她的狗狂叫。 如果斋月是条汉子， 我就会抚摸他的双膝； 可是斋月来自上帝； 我和你，只能接他的痛苦。