CHAPTER III
From Venice to Udine—Reservists rejoining—Interesting crowd—Delays en route—Endless procession of military trains—Drawn blinds—The Red Cross train—Arrival Udine—Scene on platform—In search of an hotel—A little incident—The well-dressed civilian—The obliging guide—My suspicions—Awkward questions—The best hotel in Udine—A little “Trattoria” close by—A cheap room—First impressions of Udine—At the Police Office—The permis de séjour—The Carabinieri and the local police—The fascination of the big guns—The “Military Commandant of Udine”—A difficult proposition—The luck of the undelivered letter—My guide has to leave me—I change my quarters—The Hotel “Tower of London”—Alone in Udine—An awkward predicament—A friend in need—Still more luck—Dr. Berthod—I am offered a studio—I accept—The delight of having this studio in Udine.
CHAPTER III
The train service between Venice and Udine was apparently running as usual, and there was no difficulty in getting tickets in spite of the drastic regulations with regard to passengers. Possibly it was assumed that anyone already inside the War Zone had permission to be there, so no further questions were asked.
My guide, of course, got the tickets, so I had no trouble in that matter; perhaps if I had gone to the booking office myself with my limited vocabulary of Italian it would have been different. As it was, it all seemed ridiculously simple, and there appeared to be no difficulty whatever.
In Venice they are so accustomed to Englishmen, and artists are such “common objects of the seashore,” that I attracted no particular notice, in spite of my rucksack and my Norfolk jacket, breeches and leggings.
The train left Venice at 8 o’clock in the morning, and was crowded with officers in uniform and reservists in civilian attire, going to join their regiments. Every class of Italian life was to be seen amongst them—from the peasant with his humble belongings in a paper parcel to the smart young man from Venice with his up-to-date suit case and other luggage.
All were in the highest possible spirits, and it gave me more the impression of a holiday outing of some big manufacturing company than a troop-train as it virtually was.
I now began to realize how handicapped I was in not speaking Italian; it would have been so interesting to have been able to chat with these enthusiastic young fellows.
It was supposed to take three hours to get to Udine, but we were two hours and a half longer, as we were continually being held up for trains with troops, artillery and every description of materiel to pass. It was an endless procession, and the soldiers in them seemed as happy as sand-boys, and cheered lustily as they passed us.
The blinds of our windows and doors had to be kept drawn down the whole way, and no one except the officers was allowed to get out of the train at the stations under any pretext. Still there was not much that we did not see; the blinds did not fit so tight as all that.
At one place we passed a long Red Cross train full of badly-wounded men just in from the Front. This was the first time there had been any evidence of the fighting that was taking place on ahead. It was almost a startling sight, and came in sharp contrast to the cheering crowds of healthy boys in the troop trains that had gone by a few minutes previously.
There was a big crowd of officers and soldiers on the platform at Udine, which was the terminus of the line, and one realised at once that it was an important military centre. Outside was a large assemblage of vehicles, motor waggons, and ambulance cars, and altogether there was a scene of military activity that presented a sharp contrast to sleepy Venice.
Rugged and threatening, visible for miles around is the frowning pinnacle of bare rock known as Monte Nero ([see page 40])
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The station is some little distance from the town, so we set off in search of a small hotel we had been recommended to where we could get quiet lodgings for a day or two as I did not want to put up anywhere where we should attract undue attention. I had thought it would be advisable to drop the “War Correspondent” for the time being and to call myself simply a wandering artist in search of Military subjects, and my intelligent young guide quite entered into my idea—it was only a harmless little fib after all.
A few hundred yards from the station a little incident occurred which, curiously enough, turned out to be the commencement of the run of luck which, with one exception, of which I shall tell later, I had during the whole of my stay in Udine. It came about in this wise.
A good-looking, well-dressed man in civilian attire caught us up as we were walking along, and, noticing that we seemed uncertain which way to take, asked pleasantly if we were looking for any particular street. My companion unhesitatingly told him we had just arrived in Udine, and were looking for lodgings.
The stranger, noticing I could not speak Italian, addressed me in a very good French, and obligingly offered to accompany us part of the way. I could not well refuse, but I recollect how the thought instantly flashed through my mind that he was perhaps a police official in mufti or a detective, and my suspicions seemed to be confirmed by a question he put to me bluntly.
“Are you journalists?” he enquired suddenly.
My first impulse was to ask what business it was of his what we were, when it flashed through my mind that it was better not to resent his query, which might after all mean no harm. So I replied that I was a travelling artist in search of military subjects, and that my companion was my interpreter. “But why do you ask if we are journalists?” I continued.
“Because journalists are forbidden to come to Udine, and only yesterday the famous Barzini himself was arrested and sent back to Milan for coming here without permission. Of course there may be no objection to you as an artist if all your papers are in order.”
I assured him they were, but nevertheless I did not feel very reassured after what he had told me; it seemed a sort of hint that unless I was very sure of my position I had better not think of taking lodgings at Udine, otherwise I was asking for trouble. However, I had weighed all this in my mind beforehand, and was well aware of the risk I was taking.
It makes me smile even now when I recall how curtly I answered him, and how every remark he made only increased my early doubts as to his bona-fides, for he turned out to be as good and genuine a fellow as I ever met, and had it not been for this chance meeting, my early impressions of Udine would have been very different to what they were, apart from the result it had on my work whilst there, but of all this more anon.
The modest hotel we had been recommended to put up at was merely modest in comparison with Danielli’s at Venice, for it was the Hotel d’Italie, one of the best and most frequented in Udine, and the very last place I should have chosen for seclusion. As it turned out, they had not a room vacant, so we had perforce to seek accommodation elsewhere.
Meanwhile the obliging stranger had left us to our own devices, much to my relief, as I was not over keen on his knowing where we put up.
There happened to be a little “trattoria” close by, and we went in to get something to eat. It was late for lunch, so we had it to ourselves, and the proprietor, seeing we were strangers, came and had a chat with us.
It turned out that he had a room to let for 1.50 per night with two beds in it; it was large and very clean, so, to avoid walking about trying to find something better, I told him that I would take it. But it was more easily said than done.
“You must go to the Questura (the police) and get their permission to stay in Udine before I can let you have it,” he told us. This was a bit awkward, but there was no help for it but to go at once and get the ordeal over, so we made our way at once to the police station.
We had to pass through a main street, and I realised at once that Udine, although the “Front” and the Headquarters of the Army, was only a small Italian garrison town, with perhaps more soldiers about than there would have been in normal times.
Considering how close it was at that moment to the actual opening operations of the war, it was distinctly disappointing from my point of view, considering I was looking for military subjects. In this respect it was even less interesting than many of the French towns such as, for instance, Epinal or Langres, I had been in during the early days shortly after the commencement of hostilities.
This was my first impression of Udine—I had reason to modify it considerably in a very short time, in fact during the first day I was there. The echo of the big guns convinced me that although life in Udine was outwardly normal, the war was very near indeed.
At the Questura, to my surprise, the Commissaire made but little difficulty in giving me a permis de séjour, on seeing my passport and my last permis from Venice, and on my guide explaining that I might be remaining some little time, he readily made it out for one month.
As I came away I could not help wondering why it should have been so easy for me to obtain this permission to remain in Udine when Barzini had been arrested and sent away a couple of days previously.
I had yet to learn that in the War Zone the civil authorities and the local police take a very back seat, and that the permis de séjour I had just been given would prove of no value whatever if the Carabinieri—i.e., the military police—took exception to my being in Udine. Fortunately I did not learn this until some days later, and in the meantime, confident in the possession of my police permit, I had no hesitation in walking about the town freely.
The sound of the big guns, however, which one heard unceasingly, soon began to exercise the curious fascination over me that they always have, and I was not long making up my mind that I must lose no time in Udine.
It was a delightfully quaint old town, with cafés and restaurants, and altogether a pleasant place to spend a few days in, but this was not what I had come for. So I immediately set about making enquiries for the quarters of the “Military Commandant of Udine” in order to present my letter from the Consul, and ask for permission to go out to the scene of operations.
It seemed on the face of it a perfectly simple matter to find out where he was staying, but we spent several hours going from place to place without success.
The long official envelope with “On His Majesty’s Service” on it proved an open sesame everywhere, and I was received with marked courtesy by all the staff officers I showed it to, and the envelope itself seemed to inspire respect, but not one of them could (or as I thought “would”) give me the information of the Commandant’s whereabouts. It struck me as being very strange all this mystery as it appeared.
Well, after having spent two hours going from one staff building to another, we had to give it up as a bad job—it was evidently a very difficult proposition to present a letter to the “Military Commandant of Udine”—and the envelope was beginning to show signs of wear after being handled so much, so there was nothing for it but to have the letter always handy and chance coming across him sometime—in the meantime, if any questions were asked me as to the reason of my being in Udine I felt I had always the excuse of this document which I was waiting to hand personally to the “Military Commandant.”
As it turned out I owed all my luck in remaining in Udine as long as I did to this undelivered letter in its official envelope. Whenever I was asked any awkward questions as to why I was there, out it would come, and the mere sight of it seemed to afford me protection. It was a veritable talisman. How its spell was eventually broken I will narrate in due course.
To get out to the scene of operations without a permit appeared hopeless, for the moment; one realised it would take some time to work it, so the only thing to do was to chance it and to remain on in the hope of something turning up—that Udine was the place to stay in if one could was evident. I therefore decided not to budge till they turned me out, and I never had cause to regret my decision.
My guide had only been given a few days holiday, so when he saw that there was no immediate chance of getting out to see anything of the fighting he told me he thought he had better return to Venice.
This, of course, meant my remaining on alone—a somewhat dreary prospect, since I knew no one, and, as I said, could scarcely make myself understood, but there was no help for it.
Before he left I managed, with his assistance, to find a better room in a small hotel in the main street (curiously enough the hotel was named “The Tower of London”), and arranged to have my luggage sent from Venice.
It would be difficult to describe my feelings when I found myself alone outside the station after my guide had gone. I felt literally stranded, but my lucky star was in the ascendant, and in a few minutes a little incident occurred that made me feel that I might get used to Udine after all.
There is a tramcar running from the station to the town, so I got on it as a sort of first attempt at finding my way about without assistance, but when the conductor apparently asked me where I wanted to go I was at once non-plussed, and could only gesticulate my ignorance and offer him a lire to take the fare out of.
I might have been in an awkward predicament and have attracted more attention than I desired, when a big stout man, who was also standing on the platform of the car, turned to me and in excellent English asked me where I was going and if he could be of any assistance since he saw I was an Englishman and could not speak Italian.
Needless to add, that this led to a conversation, and I learned that he had lived for many years at Cairo, hence his speaking English so well. He was a very genial fellow, and a genuine admirer of the English nation and our methods in Egypt.
Before we parted it was arranged that I should meet him the following day at the principal café in the town, and that he would introduce me to a young fellow, a friend of his, who also spoke English fluently, and who would doubtless be glad to show me around. So within five minutes of the departure of my guide I had fallen on my feet.
My luck even then was not out: just as I got off the tram I ran into the affable stranger who had walked with us from the station on the day of our arrival. He seemed so genuinely pleased to meet me again that my suspicions of him vanished at once, and I unhesitatingly accepted his offer of an “Americano” at the café close by; the fact of my being alone seemed to interest him immensely, and he expressed astonishment at my risking remaining in Udine without understanding Italian.
In the course of conversation I learned he was Dr. Berthod, the President of an Agrarian Society, with a big warehouse and office in Udine. He asked me where I proposed to do my work, and when I said in my bedroom at the hotel, he told me that in his building there was a large room with a north light which he, speaking on behalf of his members, would be pleased if I would make use of as a studio whilst I was in Udine.
This was so unexpected that I was quite taken aback—such friendliness from a stranger quite overwhelmed me.
He would take no refusal, and insisted on my going with him to see if it would suit me.
It turned out to be a capital room, and I told him it would answer my purpose admirably, so he got some of his workmen to clear it out for me at once, in readiness for me to commence work, and promised to find me an easel and everything I required.
He refused to discuss the idea of my paying anything for it, saying they were only too pleased to help an Englishman, and that they would be delighted if I would consider it as my studio as long as I was in Udine. This was eighteen months ago, and the room is still reserved for me.
Without this studio, as I soon realised, life up at the Front for any length of time would have been terribly fatiguing and monotonous. It is difficult to convey an idea of the delight it was, having a quiet place to come back to work in after rushing about in a car for hours and probably having been under fire all the time.
To get away for a while from the turmoil of war when you were in the midst of it was a relief, like going from blazing sunshine into the cool interior of a cathedral.