I
There are some experiences that remain in the mind as possessing a charm all their own, so that no matter what may follow after, they stand forth unblemished as something to remember with a sense of deep gratitude. And of these, the first glimpse of that lovely coastline that curves like a sickle round the Genoese Gulf is surely not the least, for nothing more perfect could ever be wedded to sunshine.
The train had steamed out of Genoa station and was moving slowly by the side of the water, now into a long dark rumbling tunnel, now out into the glorious sunshine again, the rich, orange sunshine of mid-October. The sea and the sky were incredibly blue, and the peace of the sky stooped down to the sea, and the peace of the sea reached up to the sky, and the drowsy, motherly peace of autumn encircled them both, as with arms.
Gian-Luca stood in the corridor of the train with Maddalena at his side; they were holding each other’s hands, and their faces were steadfastly turned to the window. The peace had got into Maddalena’s eyes so that they were full of contentment; from time to time they rested on her husband, and then she must murmur in a voice of rapture: “Com’ e bella, la nostra Italia!”
Gian-Luca silently pressed her hand, his heart was too full for speech at that moment. All the beauty and the wonder of this first homecoming had filled him with a kind of reverential awe. He was conscious of a queer sense of things familiar, he felt that he knew the little white houses with bright-colored garments flapping from their windows, and the pergolas covered with strong green vines, and the jars of rioting red carnations that stood along the sides of the roofs. There were people, too, in the tiny gardens, women with handkerchiefs bound round their heads; men lolling back on chairs in the sunshine; children who played on the hot, virile soil, and whose bare arms and legs were the color of copper, so that they seemed to be part of the soil, part of the eternally patient Mother from whom sprang all fruitful things. And Gian-Luca felt that he too was a child, but one who had grown very weary; and he wanted to lay his cheek close to this earth and let all the strength of it go throbbing through him, and all the joy of it make him feel young, until he forgot about suffering and sorrow, and cared for nothing at all but the sunshine and the glory of being alive.
Presently he said: “This will make me quite well, this is the thing I have been needing.”
And hearing him, Maddalena rejoiced, and she praised the Mother of God in her heart.
All the way, curving gently southward, the splendid blue water went with them; and the sun and the warm air came in at the window, touching Gian-Luca as though they felt happy to welcome this tired son home. And every few miles the leisurely train would stop at a wayside station, and the names of such places would be soft on the tongue, so that Gian-Luca must speak them aloud for the pleasure he took in their beauty. There were Nervi, Rapallo, Zoagli, Chiavari, Sestri Levant, Moneglia; and all these small hamlets were bathed in sunshine which the walls of their houses caught and gave back, and the vines and the flowers that clung to the walls, and the eyes and the faces of the children.
Very soon Maddalena was waving from the window, for the train was coming into Levanto, and there on the platform stood Cousin Sisto patiently waiting for the train.
“Eccoci! Here we are!” called Maddalena.
The Cousin Sisto waved too: “Maddalena, but this is splendid!” he shouted. “And Gian-Luca, but this is splendid!”
Cousin Sisto was a broad, squat person of fifty. His grey hair was cut en brosse, giving to his large head a square appearance, and the hair itself was very stiff in texture; you felt, indeed, that if you held him upside down, it would polish your parquet floors. His clothes were suggestive of Sundays or funerals, and belonged by rights to the latter; for Cousin Sisto had lost his Mamma a year ago at the age of eighty; and now, although he had gone out of mourning, his best suit survived, so he wore it for galas, enlivened by a bright yellow necktie. Cousin Sisto’s watch-chain was a thing to remember; it was made of an opulent red gold. The links were enormous and unusual in pattern; they ended in a species of curtain ring, which was clipped through his buttonhole. And now Cousin Sisto took out his watch, and the watch was of tarnished white metal; it was rather a shock after seeing that chain, but then, as its owner was wont to say, smiling: “Non importa, he lives in a pocket!”
“It is late, this train,” remarked Cousin Sisto, in a voice of incredulous surprise; “nearly one hour and a half of delay!” And he hurried them off to retrieve their luggage which was being hurled out of the van.
Then he gave an order to Carlo, the porter, who groaned and sighed loudly as he heaved the small trunks on to his antiquated truck. At the entrance to the station stood Sisto’s conveyance, a species of market-wagon. A lean, white mare was drooping in the shafts, too languid to twitch the flies off her ears, where they clustered in blue-black blotches.
“Sacramento!” swore Sisto, “I forgot about the chickens and now the train has departed! Oh, well, never mind, they must wait until the morning. Carlo, come here and help me!” Carlo looked even more languid than the mare, and considerably less sweet-tempered. He dropped the handle of his truck with a frown, and together he and Sisto disinterred the chickens, banging their crate on the pavement. The crate appeared to be filled to bursting, judging by the heads that protruded, and those that could not find an opening to protrude from were firmly pressed against the slats. The fowls shuffled and squatted on top of each other in a futile effort to get ease; from time to time they clucked rather weakly, and tried to shake out their feathers.
Carlo examined the address on the label: “No train before ten o’clock tomorrow morning,” he announced, staring crossly at the crate.
“Allora? And what then?” demanded Cousin Sisto.
“It is big, it will take up much room in the station,” muttered Carlo, ignoring any inconvenience that might accrue to the chickens.
Sisto waved his objection away. “Climb up beside me,” he said to Maddalena, “Gian-Luca will not mind if he sits on the luggage? He knows that we are only simple country folk. Get in, Gian-Luca; are you ready? Va bene, and now we will make for home.”
He found his imitation panama hat, and pressed it down on his head. “Ee-yup!” he encouraged, cracking his whip, and the mare moved stiffly forward.
Gian-Luca refrained from looking at the crate, but he wondered if Maddalena had noticed. Perhaps she had not; now, at all events, her eyes were turned to the sea. He followed the direction of her gaze, determined to think of nothing but the sunshine; before him there stretched a calm little bay in a semicircle of hills. The sun had begun to drop down westward, and whatever it touched it gilded; the half-furled sail of a skiff in the harbor looked as though cut out of cloth of gold, while the windows of the villas that lay back from the water were all afire with the sunset.
Sisto turned inland and drove through the town, where people sat outside the café; some of these people were drinking Amarena, and Gian-Luca thought of Nerone. And now they were out on a white country road, a long straight road that sloped upwards; and down the road came the tinkling of bells and the sharp clip, clip of home-going mules, laden with loads of herbage. On their right lay a very ancient smithy where a youth was working the bellows; with each downward sweep of the rough, wooden pole, the fire glowed softly through the gathering dusk, and the blacksmith’s hammer clanged on the anvil in harmony with the mule-bells. They passed a pair of tall iron gates, above each gate was a crown.
“Guarda!” said Sisto, pointing with his whip; “the estate of my master, the Marchese.”
Gian-Luca could just glimpse a big, untidy garden from which came a mixture of sweet scents, and sweetest of all, the scent of hot earth, steaming a little under dew.
“He is rich, very rich,” Cousin Sisto was saying; “I will show you his villa, Maddalena. Just now he has gone to Milan on business, and it is I who must see to all things in his absence; I have very much to do at this time of the vendemmia, they are terrible robbers, our peasants.”
The road had begun to climb upwards in good earnest, and the mare was stumbling and straining. Her sides were going in and out like the bellows at the blacksmith’s down in the village.
“Ee-yup! Ee-yup!” commanded Cousin Sisto, in the voice of him who must be obeyed.
But the mare, unable for the moment to go farther, stood still, ignoring Cousin Sisto.
And now Gian-Luca forgot about the sunset, and could think of nothing but the mare. “We are much too heavy for her,” he protested, “she looks as though she would drop between the shafts; if you wait for a minute, I will get out and walk.”
“Neanche per sogno!” laughed Cousin Sisto, “she would never understand it; you will see, she can go very well when she wishes.”
“But her flanks are all dripping with sweat,” said Gian-Luca, “her flanks are quite grey with sweat!”
Then Sisto heaved a sympathetic sigh and glanced over his shoulder at Gian-Luca. “She is old, very old, poverina,” he said sadly, and proceeded to lash her with the whip.
“Stop!” shouted Gian-Luca, “my wife and I will walk. Come down, Maddalena, we will walk!” And he jumped out and held up his hand to Maddalena, where she sat beside Cousin Sisto.
Obedient as always, she climbed down from her seat and stood beside her husband in the road. Then Gian-Luca went to the back of the cart and tried to ease the wheels forward. Meanwhile Cousin Sisto stared round in amazement.
“But what is the matter?” he demanded. “Ma guarda, she is twenty years old the good mare, do you expect her to fly?”
The cart had begun to move slowly again, but nothing would induce Gian-Luca to get in; so he and Maddalena tramped on through the dust, which sprayed up over their ankles.
Cousin Sisto felt annoyed. “He is mad!” he was thinking. “He makes his wife walk for a horse!” and he looked down on Maddalena with pity, “Povera disgraziata!” he muttered.
Still walking, they arrived at the gates of the farm, where Lidia was standing to receive them; a plump, comely woman with wavy brown hair, and small, very even white teeth. But seeing Maddalena tramping through the dust, she held up her hands and exclaimed:
“Madonna! What has happened?” she inquired in agitation. “Has there been an accident, Sisto?”
“It was only our Giuseppina,” said Sisto; “she pretended that the cart was too heavy.”
“The Giuseppina is sly,” smiled Lidia; “she is old, and the old grow crafty. But to walk, that is too bad, and on your first evening! However, you are safely arrived, God be thanked; and now do come in, I must get to know Gian-Luca, I am happy in having a new cousin.”