I am saying all my good-byes—to Angelo and the gondola; to the greedy
pigeons of San Marco, so heavy in the crop that they can scarcely waddle
on their little red feet; to the bees and birds and flowers and trees of
the beautiful garden behind the _casa_; to the Little Genius and her
eagle’s nest on the house-top; to “the city that is always just putting
out to sea.” It has been a month of enchantment, and although rather
expensive, it is pleasant to think that the padrona’s mortgage is nearly
paid.
It is a saint’s day, and to-night there will be a _fiesta_. Coming home
to our island, we shall hear the laughter and the song floating out from
the wine shops and the _caffès_; we shall see the lighted barges with
their musicians; we shall thrill with the cries of “_Viva Italia_! _viva
el Re_!” The moon will rise above the white palaces; their innumerable
lights will be reflected in the glassy surface of the Grand Canal. We
shall feel for the last time “the quick silent passing” of the only
Venetian cab.
“How light we move, how softly! Ah,
Were life but as the gondola!”
To-morrow we shall be rowed against the current to Padua. We shall see
Malcontenta and its ruined villa: Oriago and Mira and the campanile of
Dolo. Venice will lie behind us, but she will never be forgotten. Many
a time on such a night as this we shall say with other wandering
Venetians:—
“O Venezia benedetta!
Non ti voglio più lasciar!”
III
PENELOPE’S PRINTS OF WALES
And at length it chanced that I came to the fairest Valley in the
World, wherein were trees of equal growth; and a river ran through
the Valley, and a path was by the side of the river. And I followed
the path until midday, and I continued my journey along the remainder
of the Valley until the evening: and at the extremity of a plain I
came to a lone and lustrous Castle, at the foot of which was a
torrent.
WE are coaching in Wales, having journeyed by easy stages from Liverpool
through Llanberis, Penygwryd, Bettws-y-Coed, Beddgelert and Dolgelly on
our way to Bristol, where we shall make up our minds as to the next step;
deciding in solemn conclave, with floods of argument and temperamental
differences of opinion, what is best worth seeing where all is beautiful
and inspiring. If I had possessed a little foresight I should have
avoided Wales, for, having proved apt at itinerary doggerel, I was
solemnly created, immediately on arrival, Mistress of Rhymes and
Travelling Laureate to the party—an office, however honourable, that is
no sinecure since it obliges me to write rhymed eulogies or diatribes on
Dolgelly, Tan-y-Bulch, Gyn-y-Coed, Llanrychwyn, and other Welsh hamlets
whose names offer breakneck fences to the Muse.
I have not wanted for training in this direction, having made a journey
(heavenly in reminiscence) along the Thames, stopping at all the villages
along its green banks. It was Kitty Schuyler and Jack Copley who
insisted that I should rhyme Henley and Streatley and Wargrave before I
should be suffered to eat luncheon, and they who made me a crown of
laurel and hung a pasteboard medal about my blushing neck when I
succeeded better than usual with Datchett!—I well remember Datchett,
where the water-rats crept out of the reeds in the shallows to watch our
repast; and better still do I recall Medmenham Abbey, which defied all my
efforts till I found that it was pronounced Meddenam with the accent on
the first syllable. The results of my enforced tussles with the Muse
stare at me now from my Commonplace Book.
“Said a rat to a hen once, at Datchett,
‘Throw an egg to me, dear, and I’ll catch it!’
‘I thank you, good sir,
But I greatly prefer
To sit on mine _here_ till I hatch it.’”
“Few hairs had the Vicar of Medmenham,
Few hairs, and he still was a-sheddin’ ’em,
But had none remained,
He would not have complained,
Because there was _far_ too much red in ’em!”
It was Jack Copley, too, who incited me to play with rhymes for Venice
until I produced the following _tour de force_:
“A giddy young hostess in Venice
Gave her guests hard-boiled eggs to play tennis.
She said ‘If they _should_ break,
What odds would it make?
You can’t _think_ how prolific my hen is.’”
Reminiscences of former difficulties bravely surmounted faded into
insignificance before our first day in Wales was over.
Jack Copley is very autocratic, almost brutal in discipline. It is he
who leads me up to the Visitors’ Books at the wayside inns, and putting
the quill in my reluctant fingers bids me write in cheerful hexameters my
impressions of the unpronounceable spot. My martyrdom began at Penygwryd
(Penny-goo-rid’). We might have stopped at Conway or some other town of
simple name, or we might have allowed the roof of the Cambrian Arms or
the Royal Goat or the Saracen’s Read to shelter us comfortably, and
provide me a comparatively easy task; but no; Penygwryd it was, and the
outskirts at that, because of two inns that bore on their swinging signs
the names: _Ty Ucha_ and _Ty Isaf_, both of which would make any minor
poet shudder. When I saw the sign over the door of our chosen hostelry I
was moved to disappear and avert my fate. Hunger at length brought me
out of my lair, and promising to do my duty, I was allowed to join the
irresponsible ones at luncheon.
Such a toothsome feast it was! A delicious ham where roses and lilies
melted sweetly into one another; some crisp lettuces, ale in pewter mugs,
a good old cheese, and that stodgy cannon-ball the “household loaf,” dear
for old association’s sake. We were served at table by the granddaughter
of the house, a little damsel of fifteen summers with sleek brown hair
and the eyes of a doe. The pretty creature was all blushes and dimples
and pinafores and curtsies and eloquent goodwill. With what a sweet
politeness do they invest their service, some of these soft-voiced
British maids! Their kindness almost moves one to tears when one is
fresh from the resentful civility fostered by Democracy.
As we strolled out on the greensward by the hawthorn hedge we were
followed by the little waitress, whose name, however pronounced, was
written Nelw Evans. She asked us if we would write in the “Locked Book,”
whereupon she presented us with the key. It seems that there is an
ordinary Visitors’ Book, where the common herd is invited to scrawl its
unknown name; but when persons of evident distinction and genius
patronize the inn, this “Locked Book” is put into their hands.
I found that many a lord and lady had written on its pages, and men
mighty in Church and State had left their mark, with much bad poetry
commendatory of the beds, the food, the scenery, and the fishing.
Nobody, however, had given a line to pretty Nelw Evans; so I pencilled
her a rhyme, for which I was well paid in dimples:—
“At the Inn called the Penygwryd
A sweet little maiden is hid.
She’s so rosy and pretty
I write her this ditty
And leave it at Penygwryd.”
Our next halt was at Bettws-y-Coed, where we passed the week-end. It was
a memorable spot, as I failed at first to rhyme the name, and only
succeeded under threats of a fate like unto that of the immortal babes in
the wood. I left the verse to be carved on a bronze tablet in the
village church, should any one be found fitted to bear the weight of its
eulogy:—
“Here lies an old woman of Bettws-y-Co_ed_;
Wherever she went, it was there that she go_ed_.
She frequently said: ‘My own row have I ho_ed_,
And likewise the church water-mark have I to_ed_.
I’m therefore expecting to reap what I’ve sow_ed_,
And go straight to heaven from Bettws-y-Co_ed_.’”
At another stage of our journey, when the coaching tour was nearly ended,
we were stopping at the Royal Goat at Beddgelert. We were seated about
the cheerful blaze (one and sixpence extra), portfolio in lap, making
ready our letters for the post. I announced my intention of writing to
Salemina, left behind in London with a sprained ankle, and determined
that the missive should be saturated with local colour. None of us were
able to spell the few Welsh words we had picked up in our journeyings,
but I evaded the difficulties by writing an exciting little episode in
which all the principal substantives were names of Welsh towns, dragged
in bodily, and so used as to deceive the casual untravelled reader.
I read it aloud. Jack Copley declared that it made capital sense, and
sounded as if it had happened exactly as stated. Perhaps you will agree
with him:—