So we traveled by rail to Pisa, to Florence, to Rome, to Naples and Pompeii, stopping as we chose; for, as I say, no one could tell when Europe would be a visiting place again, and we must see what we could.
So we saw Italy, in spite of the rain that fell pretty regularly, and the rather sharp days between-time. We did not know that those rains were soaking down to the great central heat and would produce a terrible earthquake presently, or we might have been rather more anxious to go. As it was, we were glad to be there and really enjoyed all the things.
Yet, there was a different feeling now. The old care-freedom was gone; the future had become obscure. The talk everywhere was of the war; in every city soldiers were marching, fine, beautiful regiments, commanded by officers that were splendidly handsome in their new uniforms. We were told that Italy would not go to war—at least not until spring, but it was in the air, it was an ominous cloud. Nowhere in Europe was anything the same.
One day our little ship came down from Genoa, and we went aboard and were off next morning. We lay a day at Palermo, and then, after some days of calm sailing in the Mediterranean, launched out into the Atlantic gales and breasted the storms for nearly two weeks, pitching and rolling, but homeward bound.
A year and four months from a summer afternoon when we had stood on the upper deck of a little French steamer in Brooklyn and looked down into the hold at a great box that held our car, I went over to Hoboken and saw it taken from another box, and drove it to Connecticut alone, for the weather was cold, the roads icy. It was evening when I arrived, Christmas Eve, and when I pushed back the wide door, drove into the barn, cut off the engine, and in the dim winter light saw our capable conveyance standing in its accustomed place, I had the curious feeling of never having been away at all, but only for a winter's drive, dreaming under dull skies of summertime and France. And the old car—that to us had always seemed to have a personality and sentience—had it been dreaming, too?
It was cold there, and growing dark. I came out and locked the door. We had made the circuit—our great adventure was over. Would I go again, under the same conditions? Ah me! that wakens still another dream—for days ahead. I suppose one should not expect more than one real glimpse of heaven in this world, but at least one need not give up hoping.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] The old rates of exchange are used in this book.
[2] Our honey-dew melon is a mild approach to it.