The Desire of Life

by Matilde Serao

"On Sunday is the great departure from here, seventy-two people."

From day to day the last words were said, the last acts accomplished rapidly and anxiously. In the hotels the crowd surged round the telephone boxes impatiently waiting its turn to telephone to Zurich, or Geneva, or Basle, giving orders, changing itineraries and instructions, receiving affirmative, or adverse replies. The crowd surged in the roads at the doors of the five or six banks, to withdraw the balance of their last letters of credit, to send away their last sum of money; they surged from shop to shop, to buy the last pretty and useful things from the Engadine, and the last souvenirs of St. Moritz and the Grissons, to take away for relations and friends; they surged at the post office to expedite the last registered letter, to stamp the last picture post cards, to send the last telegrams. But the crowd surged more or less compactly, with one object only in every place, from the little wooden gallery where the music plays in the morning, near the "Kurhaus," to the larger gallery at the new springs by the "Stahlbad," while the serenade from Pagliacci resounded sadly; they surged from the confiserie of De Gasparis to the tea-rooms of the "Kulm," from the pastry shop of Hanselmans to tea at the Golf Club, as they came and went on foot or tram, with the single idea of looking for friends to say good-bye to them. Every moment at these and other places, beneath the beautiful porticoes of the Bad, at the Inn bridge, before the vestibules of the hotels, on the footpaths of the Dorf, at the carriage door, there were meetings, little cries of joy, feigned sighs, greetings and leave-takings.

"... I will look you up."

"... Of course I will come."

"... We leave this evening."

"... At Paris within three weeks."

"... To-morrow at Lucerne, on Tuesday at Geneva."

"... At Varrenna, on the 15th of September."

Early in the morning horses pawed the ground and tinkled their little bells before the main doors of the hotels, to warn those who were to descend in special carriages to Italy. Before the post office, the ordinary and special post-carriages were drawn up in a line, one behind the other, while postilions busied themselves around them, and porters continuously sought out and piled up fresh luggage on the carts which followed the carriages. Everywhere there was a rapid movement, a great hurrying of those who were setting out at this early hour, who had few friends and acquaintances and an indescribable anxiety to get away, speeded at the hotel door only by the very sleepy under-secretary, speeded at the post office merely by the under-porter, leaving without companions and without flowers, hurriedly, securing themselves in their carriages and settling themselves comfortably, without a glance at the country they were leaving, without a farewell as they went on their way. Amidst the cracking of postilions' and coachmen's whips and the tinkling of bells they went on their way tranquilly and serenely, now that they had started for the Maloja, the Val Bregaglia—and Italy.

The others set out in carriages, much later, towards Italy, at ten or eleven, those who were in an immense hurry to fly, but who had to take leave of so many people in the hotels, greet so many friends on the square, return thanks and accept and render homage, receive flowers, give bonbonnières, all with an increasing anxiety which worldly politeness did not succeed in concealing, with a joyful excitement which was hidden by a false regret, as if to console those who were still remaining for two or three days, and who had no need of consolation, since they in their turn would leave. So on one side and the other words of farewell tried in vain to be sorrowful, though as a matter of fact the lady who was about to leave was secretly glad that she was being surrounded by this homage for the last time, and the man was secretly glad to be rid of another of his relations in the high mountains. The husband for private reasons, good and bad, was glad to be going elsewhere, and the children were at the height of joy and mischief, as was the case every time they changed ground. A little crowd surrounds the carriage; hats are lifted once more, the horses spring forward: the travellers wave their gloved hands, veils flutter, bells tinkle, and they are away over the Inn bridge, towards the Maloja, the Val Bregaglia, and Italy. Other carriages are with them which have arrived from the Dorf hotels, Campfer, Silvaplana, and Sils, and all unite to form a cortège of noisily rolling carriages, of trotting horses, cracking whips, tinkling bells, fluttering veils, without any of those who were on their way giving a glance to the mountains, lakes, and meadows that they are leaving behind them, without any act of farewell for the things around them.