“Sympathy is always grateful,” Armstrong replied, unconvinced, “but every moment we lose discussing nutrition is a moment taken off the finest trip we have tried yet. The car is in splendid condition, the weather is ideal, and Pisa awaits us at the other end of our excursion.”
“So it is to be Pisa, is it?” Uncle Peabody arose. “Do you know, Jack, I like you for the way you plan these charming rides, and that almost makes up for your lack of judgment in some other directions. An ordinary man would spend at least the day before in studying maps, asking advice, and in making plans generally. You, on the contrary, wait until breakfast is over, throw down your napkin, and then with a proper show of impatience say, ‘Why do you keep me waiting? The car is ready to take us to the moon.’ All this fits in exactly with my principles: it is the unexpected which always brings satisfaction.”
“Uncle’s praise is distinctly a man’s approval,” Helen protested. “From a woman’s standpoint Jack’s methods represent the acme of tyranny. No inquiries as to where we prefer to be spirited, no suggestions that our opinions are worth consulting, no suspicion that we are other than clay in the potter’s hands; simply, ‘The machine is ready. Please hurry.’ Yes, we are coming,” Helen hurriedly added, seeing Jack’s impatience over the bantering, “we are coming!”
Giuseppe, Annetta, and the cook were avowed enemies of the motor-car, not only because of the effect it had produced upon the household arrangements, but also because of the intrusion of the French chauffeur which it had forced upon them. They would die rather than show the slightest interest in it, yet on one pretext or another they never allowed the machine to start out without regarding it with secret admiration and respect. Giuseppe, on this particular morning, was gathering roses on the terrace, Annetta was closing a shutter on the veranda, while the cook’s red face peered around the corner of the villa. Giuseppe crossed himself as the engine started up, then jumped and fell squarely into his rose-basket as the chauffeur maliciously pressed the bulb, and the machine moved majestically past him, out of the court-yard, and into the narrow road.
“I don’t blame these people for resenting the invasion of motor-cars and other evidences of modern progress,” said Inez as they reached the level; “it is all so out of keeping with everything around them and with everything they have been brought up to regard as right and proper.”
“But ‘these people’ represent only one portion of the Italians, Miss Thayer,” replied Uncle Peabody. “Italian civic life contains two great contrasting factors—one practical, the other ideal. Each in its way is proud of the past; the first thinks more of the present and the future, while the second, opposed on principle to innovations, only accepts, and then under protest, those which come from Italian sources. This car we are riding in is of French manufacture. Were it Italian, you would find that it would have been greeted with smiles instead of scowls just now. And yet I like their patriotism.”
“But it does seem a sacrilege for the wonderful old towers and walls here in Florence to be torn down to make room for prosaic twentieth-century trolley-cars,” Helen added.
“And Mr. Armstrong says there is talk of a board road being built for automobiles between Mestre and Venice. What will dear old Italy be when ‘modern civilization’ has finished with her?” Inez asked.
“From present tendencies,” remarked Uncle Peabody, gravely, “I expect to live to see the day when the Venetian gondola will be propelled by gasolene; when the Leaning Tower of Pisa will either be straightened by some enterprising American engineer or made to lean a bit more, so that automobiles may make the ascent, even as the Colosseum at Rome is already turned over to Buffalo Bill or some other descendant of Barnum’s circus for regular performances, including the pink lemonade and the peanuts.”
“Don’t!” Inez cried. “It would be far better to go to the other extreme, which Mr. Armstrong would like to see.”