A number of persons went to Communion; there was a rousing sermon, and then came much jollification in the piazza, crammed with little booths that looked like altars of flame themselves, the wildly flaring torches lighting up strange wares—long rosaries of yellow nuts that swung in the wind, artificial roses set in a whirl of spun glass, each with its pin to stick into hat or braids of hair, holy pictures in the crude reds and blues that the people love, sweetmeats and honey-cakes and fruit. Outside and everywhere beyond, the blackness of night, and on that tiny plateau of the rocks a little whirlpool of life and fire.
We crept away, I and my Maria, and after some trouble found our carrozzella and its driver, and started for home just as the darkness thinned before the dawn. It was cold enough in the mountain roads then, and I was glad to reach the lower levels and the hospitable gate of the villa by the sea.
I think it was in that same year that my brother’s two boys, enthusiastically aided by all the sailors, invented a kind of switchback railway which really carried passengers! They got four or five little trucks built—without saying a word to any of us—and, coupling them together, started at the outer gate of the villa and raced down the long paved incline which led, between walls covered with stephanotis and jasmine, to the round garden in front of the house. Here the encircling walk was also paved, and the impetus of the downward rush carried the train once or twice round the whole space, after which Luigi and Antonio submissively dragged it all the way to the front gate again.
There was quite an excitement in whirling round the corners, and for some days every member of the family had to get into the cars and be carried along, an occasional upset only adding to the delight of the experience, as far as Harold and Bertie were concerned. Then they built a ristorante at one point, and installed their sisters to dispense lemonade and bonbons to the weary travellers, who were supposed to have come from an immense distance. Of course the travellers had to pay—such an undertaking costs money! Then, as the autumn days drew in, there were night excursions, when the train, with headlights on, came roaring down the garden to a great accompaniment of hoots and whistles, quite an alarming thing to meet if one were taking a stroll in the twilight.
The ferro-via was a great success, but the owners of the line panted for more public recognition. We elders did not care to risk ourselves in the trucks after dark, and for two or three evenings, as we sat over our tea in the drawing-room, we wondered rather at the steady persistence with which the train rushed backwards and forwards outside. The boys were unusually silent about their exploits now, but from their bright eyes and their sisters’ obstinate refusal to answer questions, we could not help fancying that some kind of mischief was afoot. Then one evening, just before dinner, Bonifazio came into the drawing-room, looking very scared.
“Signora mia,” he exclaimed to my sister-in-law, “do you know what the Signorini are doing? The entire town is gathered in the piazzale outside the gate, and the young gentlemen are taking all the passengers the cars will hold, twice round the garden—for two sous the trip! And the young ladies are actually selling refreshments to these contadini! For the love of Heaven, let the Signora stop this scandal! The people are fighting to get into the cars!”
It would be interesting to know what is really going on in children’s minds—those fairy plans which they weave steadily through lessons and play and would rather die than confide to their elders! I remember a surprise that my small brother and sister sprung upon the family before I was married—a scheme all worked and irrevocably launched before accident revealed it to any of the grown-ups in the house. Daisy was about nine years old, and Arthur, her submissive slave, just over seven. It was the height of the winter season, and there was the usual rush of engagements for weeks ahead, when at some afternoon reception a friend of my mother’s said to her: “We are so glad next Thursday is free! We shall be so much interested to see your children’s play!”
“My children’s play? There must be some mistake,” my mother replied. “I have not issued any invitations for theatricals!”
“Your little people have,” the lady retorted; “look at this!”
And she produced a card on which was written in a nice round hand, “Miss Terry and Master Arthur Terry request the pleasure of Mrs. ——’s company on Thursday next at 9 o’clock. (Theatrakulls.)”