00:04
英語聞き流し10分間名作リスニング、英語テキストとMP3ダウンロード、その他の物語はホームページよりご利用いただけます。
88thpp.com 88thpp.com
This companionship comforted him. His sad presentiments were turned into joyous ones.
Seated on the bow, beside the aged peasant, whowas smoking his pipe, beneath the beautiful starry
heaven, in the midst of a group of singing peasants, he imagined to himself in his own mind ahundred
times his arrival at Buenos Aires. He saw himselfin a certain street, he found the shop, he flew to
his cousin. How is my mother? Come, let us go atonce. Let us go at once. They hurried on together,
they ascended a staircase, a door opened. And herehis mute soliloquy came to an end,
his imagination was swallowed up in a feeling ofinexpressible tenderness,
which made him secretly pull forth the littlemedal that he wore on his neck,
and murmur his prayers as he kissed it. On the 27th day after their departure they arrived.
It was a beautiful, rosy May morning, when thesteamer cast anchor in the immense river of the
Plata, near the shore along which stretches thevast city of Buenos Aires, the capital of the
Argentine Republic. This splendid weather seemedto him to be a good augury. He was beside
himself with joy and impatience. His mother wasonly a few miles from him. In a few hours more he
would have seen her. He was in America, in the newworld, and he had had the daring to come alone.
The whole of that extremely long voyage now seemedto him to have passed in an instant.
It seemed to him that he had flown hither in adream, and that he had that moment waked. And he
was so happy, that he hardly experienced anysurprise or distress when he felt in his pockets
and found only one of the two little heaps intowhich he had divided his little treasure,
in order to be the more sure of not losing thewhole of it. He had been robbed, he had only a
few lira left, but what mattered that to him, whenhe was near his mother? With his bag in his
hand, he descended, in company with many otherItalians, to the tugboat which carried him within
a short distance of the shore, clambered down fromthe tug into a boat which bore the name of
Andrea Doria, was landed on the wharf, saluted hisold Lombard friend, and directed his course,
in long strides, towards the city. On arriving atthe entrance of the first street, he stopped a
man who was passing by, and begged him to show himin what direction he should go in order to
reach the street of Los Artes. He chanced to havestopped an Italian workingman. The latter
surveyed him with curiosity, and inquired if heknew how to read. The lad nodded, yes.
Well, then, said the labourer, pointing to thestreet from which he had just emerged,
keep straight on through there, reading the namesof all the streets on the corners,
you will end by finding the one you want. The boythanked him, and turned into the street which
opened before him. It was a straight and endlessbut narrow street, bordered by low white houses,
which looked like so many little villas, filledwith people, with carriages, with carts which
03:02
made a deafening noise, here and there floatedenormous banners of various hues,
with announcements as to the departure of steamersfor strange cities inscribed upon
them in large letters. At every little distancealong the street, on the right and left,
he perceived two other streets which ran straightaway as far as he could see,
also bordered by low white houses, filled withpeople and vehicles, and bounded at their
extremity by the level line of the measurelessplains of America, like the horizon at sea.
The city seemed infinite to him. It seemed to himthat he might wander for days or weeks,
seeing other streets like these, on one hand andon the other, and that all America must be
covered with them. He looked attentively at thenames of the streets, strange names which
cost him an effort to read. At every fresh street,he felt his heart beat, at the thought
that it was the one he was in search of. He staredat all the women, with the thought that he might
meet his mother. He caught sight of one in frontof him who made his blood leap, he overtook her,
she was a negro. And accelerating his pace, hewalked on and on. On arriving at the cross street,
he read, and stood as though rooted to thesidewalk. It was the street del Los Artes.
He turned into it, and saw the number 117, hiscousin's shop was number 175. He quickened his
pace still more, and almost ran, at number 171 hehad to pause to regain his breath.
And he said to himself, Oh my mother! My mother!It is really true that I shall see you in another
moment. He ran on, he arrived at a little haberdasher's shop. This was it. He stepped up
close to it. He saw a woman with grey hair andspectacles. What do you want, a boy? She asked
him in Spanish. Is not this, said the boy, makingan effort to utter a sound, the shop of Francesco
Morelli? Francesco Morelli is dead, replied thewoman in Italian. The boy felt as though he had
received a blow on his breast. When did he die?Eh? Quite a while ago, replied the woman.
Months ago. His affairs were in a bad state, andhe ran away. They say he went to Bahia Blanca,
very far from here. And he died just after hereached there. The shop is mine. The boy turned
pale. Then he said quickly, Morelli knew mymother, my mother who was at service with Sr.
Meequines. He alone could tell me where she is. Ihave come to America to find my mother.
Morelli sent her our letters. I must find mymother. Poor boy, said the woman, I don't know.
I can ask the boy in the courtyard. He knew theyoung man who did Morelli's errands.
He may be able to tell us something. She went tothe end of the shop and called the lad,
who came instantly. Tell me, asked the shopwoman,do you remember whether Morelli's
young man went occasionally to carry letters to awoman in service, in the house of the son of
the country? To Sr. Meequines, replied the lad,yes, Signora, sometimes he did. At the end of the
street del Los Artes. Ah! Thanks, Signora, criedMarco. Tell me the number, don't you know it?
Send someone with me, come with me instantly, myboy, I have still a few soldi. And he said this
06:04
with so much warmth, that without waiting for thewoman to request him, the boy replied,
come, and at once set out at a rapid pace. Theyproceeded almost at a run, without uttering a
word, to the end of the extremely long street,made their way into the entrance of a little
white house, and halted in front of a handsomeiron gate, through which they could see a small
yard, filled with vases of flowers. Marco gave atug at the bell. A young lady made her appearance.
The Meequines family lives here, does it not? Demanded the lad anxiously.
They did live here, replied the young lady,pronouncing her Italian in Spanish fashion.
Now we, the Zabaios, live here. And where have theMeequines gone?
Asked Marco, his heart palpitating. They have goneto Cordova.
Cordova, exclaimed Marco. Where is Cordova? Andthe person whom they had in their service?
The woman, my mother. Their servant was my mother.Have they taken my mother away, too?
The young lady looked at him and said, I do notknow. Perhaps my father may know,
for he knew them when they went away. Wait amoment. She ran away, and soon returned with
her father, a tall gentleman, with a grey beard.He looked intently for a minute at this
sympathetic type of a little Genoese sailor, withhis golden hair and at his aquiline nose,
and asked him in broken Italian, Is your mother aGenoese? Marco replied that she was.
Well then, the Genoese maid went with them, that Iknow for certain. And where have they gone?
To Cordova, a city. The boy gave vent to a sigh,then he said with resignation,
Then I will go to Cordova. Ah, poor child, exclaimed the gentleman in Spanish,
poor boy! Cordova is hundreds of miles from here.
Marco turned as white as a corpse, and clung withone hand to the railings.
Let us see, let us see, said the gentleman movedto pity, and opening the door,
come inside a moment, let us see if anything canbe done. He sat down, gave the boy a seat,
and made him tell his story, listened to it veryattentively, meditated a little,
then said resolutely, You have no money, have you?I still have some, a little, answered Marco.
The gentleman reflected for five minutes more,then seated himself at a desk,
wrote a letter, sealed it, and handing it to theboy, he said to him.
Listen to me, little Italian. Take this letter toBoca. That is a little city which is half
Genoese, and lies two hours' journey from here.Any one will be able to show you the road.
Go there and find the gentleman to whom thisletter is addressed, and whom everyone knows.
Carry the letter to him. He will send you off tothe town of Rosario tomorrow,
and will recommend you to someone there, who willthink out a way of enabling you to pursue
your journey to Cordova, where you will find the Miquin's family and your mother.
In the meanwhile, take this. And he placed in hishand a few lira. Go, and keep up your courage,
you will find fellow countrymen of yours in everydirection, and you will not be deserted. Adios.
The boy said, thanks, without finding any otherwords to express himself, went out with his bag,
09:02
and having taken leave of his little guide, he setout slowly in the direction of Boca,
filled with sorrow and amazement, across thatgreat and noisy town.
