26．Asummer Day
One day thirty years ago Marseilles lay in the burning sun. A blazing nonupon a fierce August day was no greater rarity in southern France thenthan at any other time before or since. Every-tiring in Marseiiles andabout Marseilles had stared at the fervid sun, and been stared at in return,until a staring habit had become universal there. Strangers were staredout of countenance(1) by staring white houses, 8taring white streets,staring tracts of arid road, staring hills from which verdure was burntaway. The only things to be seen not fixedly staring and glaring were thevines drooping under their loads of grapes. These did occasionally winka little, u the hot air barely moved their faint leaves.
The universal stare made the eyes ache. Towards the distant blue(2) ofthe Italian coast, indeed, it was a little relieved by light clouds ofmist Slowly rising from the evaporation of the sea, but it softened nowhereelse. Far away the staring roads, deep in dust, stared from the hillside,stared from the hollow, stared from the interminable plain. Far away thedusty vines overhanging wayside cottages, and the monotonous waysideavenues of parched trees without shade, dropped beneath the stare of earthand sky. So did the horses with drowsy bells, in long files of carts,creeping slowly towards the interior; so did their recumbent drivers, whenthey were awake, which rarely happened; so did the exhausted laborers inthe fields.(3) Every- thing that lived or grew was oppressed by the glare;except the lizard, passing swiftly over rough stone walls, and cicada,chirping its dry hot chirp, like a rattle. The very dust was scorched brown,and something quivered in the atmosphere as if the air itself were panting.
Blinds, shutters, curtains ,awnings, were all closed and drawn to keepout the stare. Grant it but a chink or a keyhole, and it shot in like awhite-hot arrow.(4) |