“I hope you are feeling quite right now,” I interposed.
“So far as my digestion goes, yes, thank you!” she returned. “Well, I was just about ready to go back, when I heard some people in the hotel one night talking about Venice—if that’s the way they pronounce it here. They’d left the day before, they said, and they were going on, saying how grand it all was. And the more I listened to them the more it seemed as if I must come down here. Somehow I had no idea it was that near. I’ve always wanted to see the place ever since I read about it in geography at school. There was a picture of it, and underneath it said: ‘Venice, a city of northern Italy, situated upon 117 small islands in the Adriatic Sea.’ I thought that was just wonderful—a hundred and seventeen small islands! And I made up my mind then that whenever I got the chance I’d come here. So I started right off the next day. I knew all about the I-talians, though, and I just made up my mind I’d get ahead of them. I wasn’t going to land in their country at night, and get robbed or stabbed or something. There was a real nice German in the car, and I found out from him which was the last station in Switzerland and I got out there.”
“Oh, my poor lady!” I cried. “You don’t mean to say that you spent the night at Chiasso instead of going on to Milan?”
“That’s exactly what I did, if that’s the way you pronounce it; but I don’t believe Italy itself could have been any worse. The hotel was just the limit, and they charged me more than Claridge does—in London, you know. However, I managed to get on to Milan the next day. And I like to have been there yet.”
“What was the matter?” I inquired.
“Why, when we had to change cars I couldn’t make anybody understand a thing, and they were all so black and horrid and murderous-looking that I ’most wished I’d never tried to come. I was afraid they hadn’t put me in the right car, either; and I hadn’t much idea how far it was, and at every station I’d start up and look for the name because I couldn’t understand a word the conductor said. But as long as I didn’t see those hundred and seventeen small islands I felt pretty sure I was right to stay in the car. Once I almost got out, when we came to some water with mountains all around—as blue as blue! But there didn’t seem to be any islands, and we went on and on, and it grew dark, and by and by it began to rain and I didn’t know what I should do—everything looked so watery and islandy outside. Then the train stopped and a man opened the door, and when I asked him if ’twas Venus he just took my grip and dumped it out. I was that mad I would have put it right back in. When I got out, though, I saw we were at the end of the line—wherever that might be. So, as it was pretty late to start off anywheres else, I thought I might as well try my luck and find out afterwards whether it was Ve—Venice or not. But I don’t believe I ever would, for sure, if I hadn’t met you.”
“Beata Vergine!” I murmured. “Can these things be?” Then aloud: “Why, you seem to have got on very well, Miss Stackpole, for one who didn’t know the language.”
“Well, I always did manage to find my way around pretty well,” she admitted. “But I never had a time like this before. The getting here was bad enough, but after I got here it was worse. I followed the people out of the station and I looked all around for a hotel ’bus. That’s what I always do—get into the slickest one I see, and then I land at a good hotel. But I couldn’t find a single one. There were just those queer boats. A good many people seemed to be getting into them, too; but I didn’t like to, everything was so dark and the men looked so horrid. I didn’t know where to tell them to go, either. Then I saw some more people making for a little steamer, and I almost thought I’d try that. But I hadn’t any idea where it might take me, and I thought it was safer to stick to dry land. A whole lot of the dreadfullest men kept saying things to me, though, and tried to grab my grip, and I just about wished I was dead. But I set my teeth and held on hard and said over some things in good United States, and then I began hunting for a decent-looking hotel near by. It seemed as if I was sure to strike some big street if I just walked on perfectly straight. That’s what I always do when I get lost. But I couldn’t go straight, to begin with. I just kept going round and round in the worst little alleys that landed me up against a stone wall or at the edge of the water or in some creepy place where it was as much as my life was worth to take another step. I got so tired and scared I could have laid right down in the street and cried.
“I’d made up my mind that I’d find a hotel, though, and I did. I finally went up to a man that looked something like a policeman, and I showed him my bag, and said ‘Hotel’ real loud, several times. He understood anyway, for he called a man with a brass check on his arm, and said something, and waved me along quite polite. I was pretty scared, because I didn’t know but what the man would take me off into one of those creepy places and cut my throat. Nobody would ever find out. I was too done up to mind, though. I just followed along, and by and by we came to a cute little street that wasn’t much bigger than the others; but it was real bright, with stores, and lots of people walking, and so we came at last to a hotel. It wasn’t a bit like the kind of hotels I go to. I knew this was Italy, though, and you couldn’t expect much, and I was that tired I would have slept on an ash heap.”
“I wonder what hotel it was,” I said.