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Page 17
Chapter 5
It was Cloudy in Italy, which surprised them. They had expected
brilliant sunshine. But never mind: it was Italy, and the very clouds
looked fat. Neither of them had ever been there before. Both gazed
out of the windows with rapt faces. The hours flew as long as it was
daylight, and after that there was the excitement of getting nearer,
getting quite near, getting there. At Genoa it had begun to rain--
Genoa! Imagine actually being at Genoa, seeing its name written up in
the station just like any other name--at Nervi it was pouring, and when
at last towards midnight, for again the train was late, they got to
Mezzago, the rain was coming down in what seemed solid sheets. But it
was Italy. Nothing it did could be bad. The very rain was different--
straight rain, falling properly on to one's umbrella; not that
violently blowing English stuff that got in everywhere. And it did
leave off; and when it did, behold the earth would be strewn with
roses.
Mr. Briggs, San Salvatore's owner, had said, "You get out at
Mezzago, and then you drive." But he had forgotten what he amply knew,
that trains in Italy are sometimes late, and he had imagined his
tenants arriving at Mezzago at eight o'clock and finding a string of
flys to choose from.
The train was four hours late, and when Mrs. Arbuthnot and Mrs.
Wilkins scrambled down the ladder-like high steps of their carriage
into the black downpour, their skirts sweeping off great pools of sooty
wet because their hands were full of suit-cases, if it had not been for
the vigilance of Domenico, the gardener at San Salvatore, they would
have found nothing for them to drive in. All ordinary flys had long
since gone home. Domenico, foreseeing this, had sent his aunt's
fly, driven by her son his cousin; and his aunt and her fly lived in
Castagneto, the village crouching at the feet of San Salvatore, and
therefore, however late the train was, the fly would not dare come home
without containing that which it had been sent to fetch.
Domenico's cousin's name was Beppo, and he presently emerged out
of the dark where Mrs. Arbuthnot and Mrs. Wilkins stood, uncertain what
to do next after the train had gone on, for they could see no porter
and they thought from the feel of it that they were standing not so
much on a platform as in the middle of the permanent way.
Beppo, who had been searching for them, emerged from the dark
with a kind of pounce and talked Italian to them vociferously. Beppo
was a most respectable young man, but he did not look as if her were,
especially not in the dark, and he had a dripping hat slouched over one
ye. They did not like the way he seized their suit-cases. He could
not be, they thought, a porter. However, they presently from out of
his streaming talk discerned the words San Salvatore, and after that
they kept on saying them to him, for it was the only Italian they knew,
as they hurried after him, unwilling to lose sight of their suit-cases,
stumbling across rails and through puddles out to where in the road a
small, high fly stood.
Its hood was up, and its horse was in an attitude of thought.
They climbed in, and the minute they were in--Mrs. Wilkins, indeed,
could hardly be called in--the horse awoke with a start from its
reverie and immediately began going home rapidly; without Beppo;
without the suit-cases.
Beppo darted after him, making the night ring with his shouts,
and caught the hanging reins just in time. He explained proudly, and
as it seemed to him with perfect clearness, that the horse always did
that, being a fine animal full of corn and blood, and cared for by him,
Beppo, as if he were his own son, and the ladies must be alarmed--he
had noticed they were clutching each other; but clear, and loud, and
profuse of words though he was, they only looked at him blankly.
He went on talking, however, while he piled the suit-cases up
round them, sure that sooner or later they must understand him,
especially as he was careful to talk very loud and illustrate
everything he said with the simplest elucidatory gestures, but they
both continued only to look at him. They both, he noticed
sympathetically, had white faces, fatigued faces, and they both had big
eyes, fatigued eyes. They were beautiful ladies, he though, and their
eyes, looking at him over the tops of the suit-cases watching his every
movement--there were no trunks, only numbers of suit-cases--were like
the eyes of the Mother of God. The only thing the ladies said, and
they repeated it at regular intervals, even after they had started,
gently prodding him as he sat on his box to call his attention to it,
was, "San Salvatore?"
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