It is quite evident that she wants to play
cards; only that, and nothing more.
I withdraw, stealthily.
Not downstairs. I go to linger awhile on the broad terrace where
jessamine grows in Gargantuan tubs; there I pace up and down, admiring
the cupolas and towers of Rome that gleam orange-tawny against the blue
background of distant hills. How much of its peculiar flavour a town
will draw - not from artistic monuments but from the mere character of
building materials! How many variations on one theme! This mellow Roman
travertine, for instance.... I call to mind those disconsolate places in
Cornwall with their chill slate and primary rock, the robust and
dignified bunter-sandstone of the Vosges, the satanic cheerfulness of
lava, those marble-towns that blind you with their glare, Eastern cities
of brightly tinted stucco or mere clay, the brick-towns, granite-towns,
wood-towns - how they differ in mood from one another!... Here I pace up
and down, rejoicing in the spacious sunlit prospect, and endeavouring to
disentangle from one another the multitudinous street-cries that climb
to this hanging garden in confused waves of sound. Harsh at close
quarters, they weave themselves into a mirthful symphony up here.
From that studio, too, comes a lively din - the laughter has begun again.
Mrs. Nichol is having a good time. It will be followed, I daresay, by a
period of acute depression. I shall probably be consulted with masonic
frankness about some little tragedy of the emotions which is no concern
of mine. She can be wondrously engaging at such times - like a child that
has got into trouble and takes you into its confidence.
One of these days I must write a character-sketch of Mrs. Nichol. She
foreshadows a type - represents it, very possibly - a type which will grow
commoner from day to day. She dreams of a Republic of women, vestals or
otherwise, wherefrom all men are to be excluded unless they possess
qualifications of a rather unusual nature. I think she would like to
draft a set of rules and regulations for that community. She could be
trusted, I fancy, to make them sufficiently stringent.
I think I understand, now, why a certain line in her copy of Baudelaire
was marked with that derisive exclamation-point on the margin: "Fuyez
l'infini que vous portez en vous."
"Fuyez?" it seemed to say. "Why 'fuyez'?"
Fulfil it!
Soriano
Amid clouds of dust you are whirled to Soriano, through the desert
Campagna and past Mount Soracte, in a business-like tramway - different
from that miserable Olevano affair which, being narrow gauge, can go but
slowly and even then has a frolicsome habit of jumping off the rails
every few days. From afar you look back upon the city; it lies so low as
to be invisible; over its site hovers the dome of Saint Peter, like an
iridescent bubble suspended in the sky.
This region is unfamiliar to me. Soriano lies on the slope of an immense
old volcano and conveys at first glance a somewhat ragged and sombre
impression. It was an unpleasantly warm day, but those macaroni - they
atoned for everything. So exquisite were they that I forthwith vowed to
return to Soriano, for their sake alone, ere the year should end. (I
kept my vow.) The right kind at last, of lily-like candour and
unmistakably authentic, having been purchased in large quantities at the
outbreak of hostilities by the provident hostess, who must have
anticipated a rise in price, a deterioration in quality, or both, as the
result of war.
How came Mrs. Nichol to discover their whereabouts? That is her affair.
I know not how she has managed, in so brief a space of time, to collect
such a variety of useful local information. I can only testify that on
her arrival in Rome she knew no more about the language and place than
the proverbial babe unborn, and that nowadays, when anybody is faced
with a conundrum like mine, one always hears the words: "Try Mrs.
Nichol." And how many women, by the way, would have made a note of the
particular quality of those macaroni? One in a hundred? These are
temperamental matters....
We also - for of course I took a friend with me, a well-preserved old
gentleman of thirty-two, whose downward career from a brilliant youth
into hopeless mediocrity has been watched, by both of us, with
philosophic unconcern - we also consumed a tender chicken, a salad
containing olive oil and not the usual motor-car lubricant, an omelette
made with genuine butter, and various other items which we enjoyed
prodigiously, eating, one would think, not only for the seven lean years
just past but for seven - yea, seventy times seven - lean years to come.
So great a success was this open-air meal that my companion, a
case-hardened Roman, was obliged to confess:
"It seems one fares better in the province than at home. You could not
get such bread in Rome, not if you offered fifty francs a pound."
As for myself, I had lost all interest in the bread by this time, but
grown fairly intimate with the wine, a rosy muscatel, faintly
sparkling - very young, but not altogether innocent.
There were flies, however, and dogs, and children. We ought to have
remained indoors. Thither we retired for coffee and cigars and a
liqueur, of the last of which my friend refused to partake. He fears and
distrusts all liqueurs; it is one of his many senile traits. The stuff
proved, to my surprise, to be orthodox Strega, likewise a rarity
nowadays.
It is a real shame - what is happening to Strega at this moment. It has
grown so popular that the country is flooded with imitations. There must
be fifty firms manufacturing shams of various degrees of goodness and
badness; I have met their travellers in the most unexpected places.
