Odyssey of an Immigrant American 3, Louis Adamic
Ⅲ
Our ship stopped for a few hours each at Lisbon, Gibraltar, Cannes, Naples, and Palermo. Save in Cannes, everywhere, on getting ashore, we were mobbed by ragged youngsters, crying, "Gimme! Gimme!" and making signs that they were famished and wanted to eat. In the streets (especially in Lisbon) women with children in their arms approached us and made signs that their babies were hungry. Most of these, no doubt, were professionals, dressed and trained for begging; but even so it was depressing.
"In Yugoslavia it may be even worse," I said.
On the morning of May 13th we began to sail along the coast of Yugoslavia. We passed tiny islands and bright little towns along the shore line, and gradually I began to feel better. I scarcely know why. Perhaps because the hills as ashore looked so much like the hills from San Pedro to San Diego in southern California where I lived for years. Perhaps also because the Adriatic Sea, with the sun on it, was even bluer, lovelier than the Mediterranean.
But even so, I was hardly prepared for Dubrovnik, or Ragusa. From the ship, as we approached it, it appeared unreal. "Like a stage set for a play," Stella remarked. And another American, learning next to her on the rail, said, "Once expects a bunch of actors to appear out there at any moment and begin to sing, 'We are the merry villagers. ...'"
The boat stopped for three hours and we went ashore. Here we were not mobbed by beggars. Some of the young boys on the pier were almost as ragged as those in Lisbon and in Palermo, but they looked anything but starved or sick. Their grins reached from ear to ear. Their faces were brown. Locks of straggly dark hair hung over their blue eyes.
To one of the ragamuffins Stella offered a coin. He looked at her, startled. "Zashto? (What for?)" he asked. I explained to the youngster in Croatian (which, to my surprise, I suddenly began to speak with very little difficulty) that my wife wanted to make him a present of the coin. He scowled: "Havala liepa! (Thank you!) No alms!" Then, as if something just occurred to him his sun-tanned young features lit up. "If you and the lady wish to be friendly and generous," he grinned, "please offer me an American cigarette if you have one and see if I'll take it."
He got several cigarettes; then his mouth and eyes - his whole face - broke into a smile that I cannot describe. "Hvala liepa!" he shouted, and dashed off. Several other boys, all shouting, followed him.
I felt grand. "My people!" I said to myself. " 'No alms!' " I could have run after the urchin and hugged him.
"My people!" I said, aloud.
Stella laughed. We both laughed.
Odyssey of an Immigrant American 2, Louis Adamic
Copyright(c) Shouzou Tahara
http://immigrantebook.blogspot.com/
Odyssey of an Immigrant American 2, Louis Adamic
Copyright(c) Shouzou Tahara
Odyssey of an Immigrant American 5, Louis Adamic
About the Author:Shouzou Tahara
------------
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Sunday, May 27, 2007
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Odyssey of an Immigrant American 2, Louis Adamic
Odyssey of an Immigrant American 2, Louis Adamic
Now, because of my Guggenheim Fellowship, we were going to Europe.
One day eary in April, Stella said, "We'll visit your folks in
Carniola, of course." She evidently thought that would be the
natural thing to do.
"Of course," I said."Of course," I repeated inaudibly to myself,
then added aloud, "Just a shortvisit, though-for an afternoon,
perhalps."
She said, "I suddenly realized that you told me you have people
over there-in Carniola (I like the sound of the name)-and now I'm
curious about them-what they're like."
"So am I," I said, though actually, I think, I wasn't; not in any
deep, vital sense, at any rate.
None the less, I wrote to my family in the old country that my
wife, who was an American and spoke no Slovenian, and I should, in
aa probability, visit them on Sunday afternoon. May 15th. The ship
that we decided to sail on was scheduled to arrive in Trieste on the
14th, and I figured that we might as well get the visit over with
the first thing; then we should immediately find a place in the
mountains somewhere in Italy or Austria and I should begin to work
on my new book dealing with America.
Ⅱ
Three weeks later, in mid-Atlantic, I said to Stella, "I'm a bit scared of this home."
"I thought something was bothering you," she said. "Why?"
"Well," I began to explain, "although" in a way it seems like the day before yesterday, it's a long time since I felt home. I was very young and I think I've changed a great deal-fundamentally-since then. All my emotional and intellectual life now seems to be rooted in America. I belong in America. My old country, somehow, is a million miles away-on another planet-and my old country includes my people."
Stella listened sympathetically.
"Of course," I went on, "I remember my parents as they were before left home, but now my memory of them is seriously blurred by the idea which abruptly intrudes itself upon my mind, that in these nineteen years, which have been a drastic, turbulent period for everybody in Europe, they, too, must have changed-not merely grown older, but changed, probably, in their characters. This adds to the distance between them and me.
"I have four brothers and five sisters in Carniola. Seven of them were already in the world nineteen years ago. Of the two born since then, I have, of course, no notion, except that their names are Yozhe and Anica, and their ages seventeen and fifteen, respectively. The other seven I remember but dimly as they were in 1913. I was the oldest (three children before me had died). My oldest sister, Tonchka, was thirteen. My oldest brother, Stan, was ten. My youngest brother, France, was a little over a year. Now he is nearly twenty-one. Tonchka is thirty-two, married, and has two children. Stan is twenty-nine. Another sister, Mimi, was four when I left. Now she is twenty-three, a nun in a hospital, and her name is Manuela. Why she became a nun is more than I know. Then there is my brother Ante and my sister Paula and Poldaka-barely more than names to me. In fact, I have to strain my memory to tell you their names. And now I'm going to visit them because that, somehow, seems the proper thing to do."
"It'll probably be very interesting," said Stella.
"Probably very awkward," said I. "During the last fifteen years my contact with home has been exceedingly thin. For two years after America's entry into the war I could not write to my people because I was in the American army and they were in Austria. We were 'enemies.' For two or three years after the war my circumstances were nothing to write about to anybody; so I didn't. In the last eight or nine years after the war I wrote home, as a rule, once in six months-a card or a short note, to the effect that I was well and hoped they were all well, too. I could not write much more. For one thing, I could not begin to tell them about America and myself; how I felt about America, what a wonderful and terrible place it was, how it fascinated and thrilled me. They might misunderstand something; something I'd say might disturb them; then I'd have to explain, and so on; there would be no end to writing-to what purpose? At the end they would really know nothing or very little about America or me. One has to live in the United States a long time to even begin to know it. Besides, if I got them interested in America, some of my brothers and sisters might want to come over --and I did not want that. I had troubles enough of my own. And they were possibly as well off in Carniola as they would be in America …. Another thing : of late years I could express only the most ordinary things n my native tongue. I could not write in Slovenian of involved matters, such as my life in America.
"At home, of course, they did not understand me, what I was up to in America, why I wrote so little ; and they, with their peasant patience and pride (which, as I recall, does not break down even before members of their own family) -they, in turn, asked me for no explanations, and their letters to me were almost as brief as mine to them. They-mother or one of my sisters or brothers-usually answered that they were well, too, thank you. Occasionally they added some such information at that Tonchka had married or had had a child, or that Stan or Ante had had to go into military services, or that Mimi had become a nun-bare facts, nothing else.
"So I don't know what I'll find. I have no idea how they stand economically. When I felt for America my father was a well-to-do peasant in the village. Now, if one is to believe American newspapers, all of Europe is in a bad way and I don't know what's happened to my people lately. Then, too, you must remember that I'm coming from America, and when one returns from America one is supposed to bring with him a pot of money and help those who have stayed at home-while all I have is a Guggenheim Fellowship, barely enough to keep you and me in Europe for a year!"
Stella was optimistic. "Chances are it won't be bad as you think. Perhaps your people are as scared of you, what America has done to you, and the kind of girl you married, as you are of them and what the nineteen years have done to them."
"Maybe," I said. I felt a little better, not much, and not for long.
Odyssey of an Immigrant American 2, Louis Adamic
Copyright(c) Shouzou Tahara
Odyssey of an Immigrant American 5, Louis Adamic
--------
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Now, because of my Guggenheim Fellowship, we were going to Europe.
One day eary in April, Stella said, "We'll visit your folks in
Carniola, of course." She evidently thought that would be the
natural thing to do.
"Of course," I said."Of course," I repeated inaudibly to myself,
then added aloud, "Just a shortvisit, though-for an afternoon,
perhalps."
She said, "I suddenly realized that you told me you have people
over there-in Carniola (I like the sound of the name)-and now I'm
curious about them-what they're like."
"So am I," I said, though actually, I think, I wasn't; not in any
deep, vital sense, at any rate.
None the less, I wrote to my family in the old country that my
wife, who was an American and spoke no Slovenian, and I should, in
aa probability, visit them on Sunday afternoon. May 15th. The ship
that we decided to sail on was scheduled to arrive in Trieste on the
14th, and I figured that we might as well get the visit over with
the first thing; then we should immediately find a place in the
mountains somewhere in Italy or Austria and I should begin to work
on my new book dealing with America.
Ⅱ
Three weeks later, in mid-Atlantic, I said to Stella, "I'm a bit scared of this home."
"I thought something was bothering you," she said. "Why?"
"Well," I began to explain, "although" in a way it seems like the day before yesterday, it's a long time since I felt home. I was very young and I think I've changed a great deal-fundamentally-since then. All my emotional and intellectual life now seems to be rooted in America. I belong in America. My old country, somehow, is a million miles away-on another planet-and my old country includes my people."
Stella listened sympathetically.
"Of course," I went on, "I remember my parents as they were before left home, but now my memory of them is seriously blurred by the idea which abruptly intrudes itself upon my mind, that in these nineteen years, which have been a drastic, turbulent period for everybody in Europe, they, too, must have changed-not merely grown older, but changed, probably, in their characters. This adds to the distance between them and me.
"I have four brothers and five sisters in Carniola. Seven of them were already in the world nineteen years ago. Of the two born since then, I have, of course, no notion, except that their names are Yozhe and Anica, and their ages seventeen and fifteen, respectively. The other seven I remember but dimly as they were in 1913. I was the oldest (three children before me had died). My oldest sister, Tonchka, was thirteen. My oldest brother, Stan, was ten. My youngest brother, France, was a little over a year. Now he is nearly twenty-one. Tonchka is thirty-two, married, and has two children. Stan is twenty-nine. Another sister, Mimi, was four when I left. Now she is twenty-three, a nun in a hospital, and her name is Manuela. Why she became a nun is more than I know. Then there is my brother Ante and my sister Paula and Poldaka-barely more than names to me. In fact, I have to strain my memory to tell you their names. And now I'm going to visit them because that, somehow, seems the proper thing to do."
"It'll probably be very interesting," said Stella.
"Probably very awkward," said I. "During the last fifteen years my contact with home has been exceedingly thin. For two years after America's entry into the war I could not write to my people because I was in the American army and they were in Austria. We were 'enemies.' For two or three years after the war my circumstances were nothing to write about to anybody; so I didn't. In the last eight or nine years after the war I wrote home, as a rule, once in six months-a card or a short note, to the effect that I was well and hoped they were all well, too. I could not write much more. For one thing, I could not begin to tell them about America and myself; how I felt about America, what a wonderful and terrible place it was, how it fascinated and thrilled me. They might misunderstand something; something I'd say might disturb them; then I'd have to explain, and so on; there would be no end to writing-to what purpose? At the end they would really know nothing or very little about America or me. One has to live in the United States a long time to even begin to know it. Besides, if I got them interested in America, some of my brothers and sisters might want to come over --and I did not want that. I had troubles enough of my own. And they were possibly as well off in Carniola as they would be in America …. Another thing : of late years I could express only the most ordinary things n my native tongue. I could not write in Slovenian of involved matters, such as my life in America.
"At home, of course, they did not understand me, what I was up to in America, why I wrote so little ; and they, with their peasant patience and pride (which, as I recall, does not break down even before members of their own family) -they, in turn, asked me for no explanations, and their letters to me were almost as brief as mine to them. They-mother or one of my sisters or brothers-usually answered that they were well, too, thank you. Occasionally they added some such information at that Tonchka had married or had had a child, or that Stan or Ante had had to go into military services, or that Mimi had become a nun-bare facts, nothing else.
"So I don't know what I'll find. I have no idea how they stand economically. When I felt for America my father was a well-to-do peasant in the village. Now, if one is to believe American newspapers, all of Europe is in a bad way and I don't know what's happened to my people lately. Then, too, you must remember that I'm coming from America, and when one returns from America one is supposed to bring with him a pot of money and help those who have stayed at home-while all I have is a Guggenheim Fellowship, barely enough to keep you and me in Europe for a year!"
Stella was optimistic. "Chances are it won't be bad as you think. Perhaps your people are as scared of you, what America has done to you, and the kind of girl you married, as you are of them and what the nineteen years have done to them."
"Maybe," I said. I felt a little better, not much, and not for long.
Odyssey of an Immigrant American 2, Louis Adamic
Copyright(c) Shouzou Tahara
Odyssey of an Immigrant American 5, Louis Adamic
--------
◆電子書籍販売サイト：制限時間２分、立ち読み可（無料）。大手出版社も採用しているT-Time形式 ダウンロード版「ルイス・アダミック作品集」
ebook、オンライン読書、ルビ、本、図書館、日本図書館協会選定図書、全国学校図書館選定図書。
●TOP「Louis Adamic in Japan」 スポンサーバナー広告募集
Wanted sp ads Suponsabana for my publication
●「電子書籍ebook (ebook_global) on Twitter」
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