"Enough!" he sighed. "It was a terrible thing!" and in answer to a summons from Cia he went slowly towards the little garden where Luisa was awaiting him, ready to go down to the boat. "Here I am," said he. "And you, Cia, be careful not to let the house tumble into the lake while we are away!"
During the journey on Lake Maggiore on board the San Bernardino, Luisa remained in the second-class cabin most of the time. She went on deck once to try and persuade Uncle Piero to go below also, but, although the wind was cold, Uncle Piero, wrapped in his heavy grey travelling cloak, would not stir from the deck, where he sat calmly watching the hills and villages, and chatting with a priest from Locarno, with a little old woman from Belgirate, and with other second-class passengers. Luisa was obliged to leave him there, while she herself went below again, preferring to be alone with her own thoughts. As they approached Isola Bella a sense of inward excitement and a vague foreboding of many things took possession of her. How would the meeting with Franco take place? How would he treat her? Would he repeat Uncle Piero's sermon to her? His letters were indeed always compassionate and tender, but who does not know that we write in one way and speak in another? How and where would they spend the evening? And then that other question, that question it so terrified her to think about——? All these anxious thoughts were rising higher and higher, threatening to become dominant, to place themselves in bold opposition to that image of the cemetery of Oria, which from time to time would return with impetuous violence, as if to snatch back its own. At the station of Cannero, Luisa heard the noise of many steps and of loud talking above her head, and went upstairs to look after her uncle. A party of soldiers, recalled to service, had come out to the steamer in two large barges. Other small boats bore women, children, and old men, who were crying and waving good-bye. The soldiers, most of whom were Bersaglieri, fine jolly young fellows, answered the greeting with shouts of "Hurrah for Italy!" and made promises of presents from Milan. One old woman, all dishevelled, but tearless, had three sons among those soldiers, and was calling out to them to remember our Lord and the Madonna. "Yes, yes," grumbled an old sergeant who was escorting them, "Remember our Lord, and the Madonna, and the Bishop, and don't forget the prevosto, the parish priest!" The soldiers, who were well acquainted with the prevosto, or military prison, laughed loudly at the joke, as the steamer started forward. There were cries, and waving of handkerchiefs, and then the men burst into song, a song shouted by fifty strong voices.
Addio, mia bella, addio,
L'armata se ne va.
The soldiers were all clustered together at the prow, among piles of bags and barrels, some sitting, some lying down, others standing, and all singing at the top of their voices to the dull accompaniment of the paddles as the steamer glided straight towards that background of sky, against which rose the pointed hills of Ispra, dividing the immense expanse of water from the Ticino beyond. The young men would soon be crossing the Ticino, probably to the cry of "Savoy for ever!" and amidst the fury of cannonading. Death was awaiting many of them down there under that clear sky, but all sang gaily, and only the dull noise of the paddles seemed to be aware of their fate. The free hills of Piedmont, past which the boat was gliding, although they stood in the shadow, seemed to shine with pride and satisfaction at having given their sons to the captive hills of Lombardy, which wore an air of tragedy, although illumined by the sun. Luisa felt her blood begin to tingle, felt her once ardent patriotism begin to stir. And those mothers who had seen their sons depart thus? She foresaw whither her thoughts were tending, and hastened to assure herself that she also would gladly have given a son to Italy, that the grief of those mothers could not in any way be compared to hers. But what a difference there was between reading a letter in Valsolda, telling of the war, and feeling the very breath, hearing the very noise of war all about her, feeling it in the air itself! In the quiet of Valsolda, war was a shadow without substance; here the shadow became incarnate. Here Luisa's personal grief, that immense grief which filled the lifeless air surrounding her in Oria, seemed to shrink before the emotion of many, and her consciousness of this gave her an indefinable sense of discomfort and trouble. Was it the dread of losing a part of her own grief, a part, as it were, of herself? Was it the desire to escape from a comparison from which she shrank? At the same time the idea that Franco was going to this war, the idea that had affected her so slightly in Valsolda, was now assuming a new aspect of reality in her mind, was making her heart quiver, and it also was wrestling with the image of the cemetery of Oria. For the first time this image of the past was no longer the one, all-powerful master of her soul, and although her soul was indignant and regretful, new images, images of the present and of the future, were assailing it.
Uncle Piero began to feel cold and came down to the cabin.
"In little more than an hour we shall be at Isola Bella," said he.
"Are you tired?"
"Not in the least. I feel wonderfully well."
"But nevertheless, you will go to bed early to-night?"