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Page 43
"I sometimes wish," said momma, "that I were not the only person in this
family with the artistic temperament."
Sometimes we stopped at the little yellow towns and saw quite closely
their queer old defences and belfrys and clock towers, and guessed at
the pomegranates and oleanders behind their high courtyard walls. They
had musical names, even in the mouths of the railway guards, who sang
every one of them with a high note and a full octave on the syllable of
stress--"Rosign_a_no!" "Car_m_iglia!" The Senator was fascinated with
the spectacle of a railway guard who could express himself intelligibly,
to say nothing of the charm; he spoke of introducing the system in the
United States, but we tried it on "New York," "Washington," "Kansas
City," and it didn't seem the same.
It was at Orbatello, I think, that we made the travelling acquaintance
of the enterprising little gentleman to whom momma still mysteriously
alludes as "il capitano." He bowed ceremoniously as he entered the
carriage and stowed the inevitable enormous valise in the rack, and his
eye brightened intelligently as he saw we were a family of American
tourists. He wore a rather seamy black uniform and a soft felt hat with
cocks' feathers drooping over it, and a sword and a ridiculously amiable
expression for a man. I don't think he was five feet high, but his
moustache and his feathers and his sword were out of all proportion.
There was a gentle trustful exuberance about him which suggested that,
although it was possibly twenty-five years since he was born, his age
was much less than that. He twirled his moustache in voluble silence for
ten minutes while we all furtively scrutinised him with the curiosity
inspired by a foreigner of any size, and then with a smile of conscious
sweetness he asked the Senator if he might take the liberty to give the
trouble to see the English newspaper for a few seconds only. "I should
be too thankful," he added.
"Why certainly," said poppa, much gratified. "I see you spikkum
English," he added encouragingly.
"I speak--um, _si_. I have learned some--a few of them. But O very
baddili I speak them!"
"I guess that's just your modesty," said poppa kindly. "But that's not
an English paper, you know--it's published in New York."
"Ah!" he exclaimed with enthusiasm. "That will be much _much_ the more
pleasurable for me." His eyes shone with feeling. "In Italy," he added
with an impulsive gesture, "we love the American peoples beyond the
Londonian. We always remember that it was an Italian, Cristoforo
Col----"
"I know," said poppa. "Very nice of you. But what's your reason now, for
preferring Americans as a nation?"
We saw our first Italian shrug. It is more prolonged, more sentimental
than French ones. In this case it expressed the direct responsibility of
Fate.
"I think," he said, "that they are more _simpatica_--sympatheticated to
us." He seemed to be unaware of me, but his eye rested upon momma at
this point, and took her into his confidence.
"We also," said she reciprocally, "are always charmed to see Italians in
our country."
I wondered privately whether she was thinking of hand organ men or
members of the Mafia society, but it was no opportunity to inquire. My
impression is that about this time, in spite of Tuscany outside, I went
to sleep, because my next recollection is of the little Captain pouring
Chianti out of a large black bottle into momma's jointed silver
travelling cup. I remember thinking when I saw that, that they must have
made progress. Scraps of conversation floated through my waking moments
when the train stopped--I heard momma ask him if his parents were both
living and where his home was. I also understood her to inquire whether
the Italians were domestic in their tastes or whether they were like the
French, who, she believed, had no home life at all. I saw the Senator
put a card in his pocket-book and restore it to his breast, and heard
him inquire whether his new Italian acquaintance wore his uniform every
day as a matter of choice or because he had to. An hour went by, and
when I finally awoke it was to see momma sitting by with folded hands
and an expression of much gratification while poppa gave a graphic
account of the rise and progress of the American baking-powder interest.
"I don't expect," said he, "you've ever heard of Wick's Electric
Corn-flour?"
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