“Disgraceful,” she said and ordered them out. But still the officers remained. Then turning to me she said, “You who must be Italian, please tell them what I think of them.”
I told her, “It was not my rôle to interpret such uncharitable language.”
Then the officers turning to me, said in Italian, “Although English, you are much kinder than your companion; please tell her we only want to stop a quarter of an hour, and there is absolutely no danger for her.”
Rising, the old spinster looked for the alarm signal, but finally decided to call the guard, who ordered the officers out. Before they went, however, they pulled out their watches and asked me to thank her for her kind hospitality: they reminded me that they had what they wanted, a quarter of an hour’s rest.
Luckily our arrival at Venice meant good-bye to this disagreeable old creature, whose type flourishes all over the Continent, even in Constantinople, and who sacrifices on the altar of respectability everything, even charity.
*****
Now I understand the enthusiasm of those who have spoken of Italy. Nothing one can say is sufficient eulogy for this land of sunshine and poetry and tradition.
I am told by the people of the north I shall be disappointed when I see the south, but that does not disturb my impression of the moment. I am worshipping Venice, and everything there pleases me.
