Thewaterfelloffaledgelikelead—likeachainwiththickwhitelinks.Thetrainranoutintoasteepgreenmeadow,andJacobsawstripedtulipsgrowingandheardabirdsinging,inItaly.
AmotorcarfullofItalianofficersranalongtheflatroadandkeptupwiththetrain,raisingdustbehindit.Thereweretreeslacedtogetherwithvines—asVirgilsaid.Herewasastationandatremendousleave-takinggoingon,withwomeninhighyellowbootsandoddpaleboysinringedsocks.Virgil'sbeeshadgoneabouttheplainsofLombardy.Itwasthecustomoftheancientstotrainvinesbetweenelms.ThenatMilanthereweresharp-wingedhawks,ofabrightbrown,cuttingfiguresovertheroofs.
TheseItaliancarriagesgetdamnablyhotwiththeafternoonsunonthem,andthechancesarethatbeforetheenginehaspulledtothetopofthegorgetheclankingchainwillhavebroken.Up,up,up,itgoes,likeatrainonascenicrailway.Everypeakiscoveredwithsharptrees,andamazingwhitevillagesarecrowdedonledges.Thereisalwaysawhitetowerontheverysummit,flatred-frilledroofs,andasheerdropbeneath.Itisnotacountryinwhichonewalksaftertea.Foronethingthereisnograss.Awholehillsidewillberuledwitholivetrees.AlreadyinApriltheearthisclottedintodrydustbetweenthem.Andthereareneitherstilesnorfootpaths,norlaneschequeredwiththeshadowsofleavesnoreighteenth-centuryinnswithbow-windows,whereoneeatshamandeggs.Ohno,Italyisallfierceness,bareness,exposure,andblackpriestsshufflingalongtheroads.Itisstrange,too,howyounevergetawayfromvillas.
Still,tobetravellingonone'sownwithahundredpoundstospendisafineaffair.Andifhismoneygaveout,asitprobablywould,hewouldgoonfoot.Hecouldliveonbreadandwine—thewineinstrawbottles—forafterdoingGreecehewasgoingtoknockoffRome.TheRomancivilizationwasaveryinferioraffair,nodoubt.ButBonamytalkedalotofrot,allthesame."YououghttohavebeeninAthens,"hewouldsaytoBonamywhenhegotback."StandingontheParthenon,"hewouldsay,or"TheruinsoftheColiseumsuggestsomefairlysublimereflections,"whichhewouldwriteoutatlengthinletters.Itmightturntoanessayuponcivilization.Acomparisonbetweentheancientsandmoderns,withsomeprettysharphitsatMr.Asquith—somethinginthestyleofGibbon.
Astoutgentlemanlaboriouslyhauledhimselfin,dusty,baggy,slungwithgoldchains,andJacob,regrettingthathedidnotcomeoftheLatinrace,lookedoutofthewindow.
ItisastrangereflectionthatbytravellingtwodaysandnightsyouareintheheartofItaly.Accidentalvillasamongolivetreesappearandmen-servantswateringthecactuses.Blackvictoriasdriveinbetweenpompouspillarswithplastershieldsstucktothem.Itisatoncemomentaryandastonishinglyintimate—tobedisplayedbeforetheeyesofaforeigner.Andthereisalonelyhill-topwherenooneevercomes,andyetitisseenbymewhowaslatelydrivingdownPiccadillyonanomnibus.AndwhatIshouldlikewouldbetogetoutamongthefields,sitdownandhearthegrasshoppers,andtakeupahandfulofearth—Italianearth,asthisisItaliandustuponmyshoes.
Jacobheardthemcryingstrangenamesatrailwaystationsthroughthenight.Thetrainstoppedandheheardfrogscroakingcloseby,andhewrinkledbacktheblindcautiouslyandsawavaststrangemarshallwhiteinthemoonlight.Thecarriagewasthickwithcigarsmoke,whichfloatedroundtheglobewiththegreenshadeonit.TheItaliangentlemanlaysnoringwithhisbootsoffandhiswaistcoatunbuttoned….AndallthisbusinessofgoingtoGreeceseemedtoJacobanintolerableweariness—sittinginhotelsbyoneselfandlookingatmonuments—he'dhavedonebettertogotoCornwallwithTimmyDurrant…."O—h,"Jacobprotested,asthedarknessbeganbreakinginfrontofhimandthelightshowedthrough,butthemanwasreachingacrosshimtogetsomething—thefatItalianmaninhisdicky,unshaven,crumpled,obese,wasopeningthedoorandgoingofftohaveawash.
SoJacobsatup,andsawaleanItaliansportsmanwithagunwalkingdowntheroadintheearlymorninglight,andthewholeideaoftheParthenoncameuponhiminaclap.
"ByJove!"hethought,"wemustbenearlythere!"andhestuckhisheadoutofthewindowandgottheairfullinhisface.
Itishighlyexasperatingthattwenty-fivepeopleofyouracquaintanceshouldbeabletosaystraightoffsomethingverymuchtothepointaboutbeinginGreece,whileforyourselfthereisastopperuponallemotionswhatsoever.ForafterwashingatthehotelatPatras,JacobhadfollowedthetramlinesamileorsooutandfollowedthemamileorsobackhehadmetseveraldrovesofturkeysseveralstringsofdonkeyshadgotlostinbackstreetshadreadadvertisementsofcorsetsandofMaggi'sconsommechildrenhadtroddenonhistoestheplacesmeltofbadcheeseandhewasgladtofindhimselfsuddenlycomeoutoppositehishotel.TherewasanoldcopyoftheDailyMaillyingamongcoffee-cupswhichheread.Butwhatcouldhedoafterdinner?
Nodoubtweshouldbe,onthewhole,muchworseoffthanwearewithoutourastonishinggiftforillusion.Attheageoftwelveorso,havinggivenupdollsandbrokenoursteamengines,France,butmuchmoreprobablyItaly,andIndiaalmostforacertainty,drawsthesuperfluousimagination.One'sauntshavebeentoRomeandeveryonehasanunclewhowaslast