“The ruling passion—strong in poverty,” he commented, and waved me a farewell.
I walked forward through the train looking for my belongings and encountered Marcelle. She was eager to explain by signs that the Cook’s man had told her to get off at Garaban.
“M’sieur Thomas Cook, il m’a dit—il faut que je descends à Garaban—pas Ventimiglia—Garaban.” She understood well enough that if she wanted to get back to Monte Carlo early in the evening she would have to make this train, as the next was not before ten o’clock.
I led the way to a table in the dining-car still vacant, and we talked as only people can talk who have no common language. By the most astonishing efforts Marcelle made it known that she would not stay at Monte Carlo very long now, and that if I wanted her to come to Florence when I got there she would. Also she kept talking about Fontainebleau and horseback riding in April. She imitated a smart rider holding the reins with one hand and clucking to the horse with her lips. She folded her hands expressively to show how heavenly it would be. Then she put her right hand over her eyes and waved her left hand to indicate that there were lovely vistas which we could contemplate. Finally she extracted all her bills from the Hôtel de Paris—and they were astonishing—to show me how expensive her life was at Monte Carlo; but I refused to be impressed. It did not make the least difference, however, in her attitude or her mood. She was just as cheerful as ever, and repeated “Avril—Fontainebleau,” as the train stopped and she stepped off. She reached up and gave me an affectionate farewell kiss. The last I saw of her she was standing, her arms akimbo, her head thrown smartly back, looking after the train.
* * * * *
It was due to a railroad wreck about twenty miles beyond Ventimiglia that I owe my acquaintance with one of the most interesting men I have met in years, a man who was very charming to me afterwards in Rome, but before that I should like to relate how I first really entered Italy. One afternoon, several days before, Barfleur and I paid a flying visit to Ventimiglia, some twenty miles over the border, a hill city and the agreed customs entry city between France and Italy. No train leaving France in this region, so I learned, stopped before it reached Ventimiglia, and none leaving Ventimiglia stopped before it entered France, and once there customs inspectors seized upon one and examined one’s baggage. If you have no baggage you are almost an object of suspicion in Italy.
On the first visit we came to scale the walls of this old city which was much like Eze and commanded the sea from a great eminence. But after Eze it was not Ventimiglia that interested me so much as the fact that Italy was so different from France. In landing at Fishguard I had felt the astonishing difference between England and the United States. In landing at Calais the atmosphere of England had fallen from me like a cloak and France—its high color and enthusiasm—had succeeded to it. Here this day, stepping off the train at Ventimiglia only a few miles from Monte Carlo, I was once more astonished at the sharp change that had come over the spirit of man. Here were Italians, not French, dark, vivid, interesting little men who, it seemed to me, were so much more inclined to strut and stare than the French that they appeared to be vain. They were keen, temperamental, avid, like the French but strange to say not so gay, so light-hearted, so devil-may-care.
Italy, it seemed to me at once, was much poorer than France and Barfleur was very quick to point it out. “A different people,” he commented, “not like the French, much darker and more mysterious. See the cars—how poor they are. You will note that everywhere. And the buildings, the trains—the rolling stock is not so good. Look at the houses. The life here is more poverty-stricken. Italy is poor—very. I like it and I don’t. Some things are splendid. My mother adores Rome. I crave the French temperament. It is so much more light-hearted.” So he rambled on.
It was all true—accurate and keenly observed. I could not feel that I was anywhere save in a land that was seeking to rehabilitate itself but that had a long way to go. The men—the officials and soldiery of whom there were a legion clad in remarkable and even astonishing uniforms, appealed to my eye, but the souls of them to begin with, did not take my fancy. I felt them to be suspicious and greedy. Here for the first time I saw the uniform of the Italian bersaglieri: smart-looking in long capes, round hats of shiny leather with glossy green rooster feathers, and carrying short swords.
This night as I crossed the border after leaving Garaban I thought of all I had seen the day I came with Barfleur. When we reached Ventimiglia it was pitch dark and being alone and speaking no Italian whatsoever, I was confused by the thought of approaching difficulties.