thing that did not exist? When half a dozen human beings have in good
faith seen Giambolo and are willing to swear before God that they have,
no further discussion is possible.
"Then tell me what it is, since you have seen it."
With a gesture the Italian checked all forthcoming answers.
"Giambolo is Giambolo," he pronounced, with imposing solemnity. "One
cannot, unless one is mad, argue about it. Only, it is not granted to
everyone to see it."
There was evidently on the bell tower of Torcello no one bereft of
reason, for silence followed this speech, and no one seemed inclined to
dispute a settled fact. Groaning under the weight of his shame, the
unfortunate young man who had not seen Giambolo gave the signal for
moving on, and the descent was made in the contented repose of mind that
attends the happy accomplishment of an act above the common.
On the lowest step, the good Torcellian reaped in his discreetly
outstretched cap an abundant harvest of silver coins. It is hardly
possible to be niggardly with those who have shown one Giambolo.
A few days later, on the roof of the Milan Cathedral, amid the thick
forest of statues which makes the place surprising, I saw a mustachioed
guide hurling at the marble multitude augmented by a flock of Cook's
tourists the names of the snowy summits composing the Alpine range along
the horizon. The memory of Torcello was so recent that I could not but
be struck by the identity of the scene. The same motions, same accent,
same voluble emphasis. The session was near its end. I was about to pass
on, when the man, after a moment's silent scrutiny, drew forth an opera
glass through which perhaps, in her day, Malibran was seen at the Scala;
he signified by a gesture that he had a supplementary communication to
make. All Cook's flock drew near, grave, anxious, open mouthed. Oh,
surprise! Like the man of Torcello, the Milanese had caught sight of
something not usually to be seen. With an authoritative gesture he
called upon the elements to deliver up their mystery, and extending a
finger with infallible accuracy toward a point known only to himself,
cast upon the wind a name the sonorous vibrations of which spread
through space. Was it an illusion? It seemed to me that the name was
Giambolo.
Still Giambolo! Giambolo, visible from all heights. And the same scene
was enacted as on the lagoon at Venice.
The magical glass passed from hand to hand; exclamations of joy and
surprise followed one another. Everybody wished to see and saw Giambolo.
They exchanged their impressions.
"Did you see the little puff of vapour?"
"Something white."
"Yes--blue."
"No--gray."
"That is it! You have seen it!"
And there was inexpressible delight. Only a few silent individuals
showed by their dejected attitude the humiliation they felt at not being
sure of what they had seen, or whether they had seen it. But no one took
any notice of this in the tumult of commentary.
I looked at the happy group. Laughing faces, bright eyes, all the
weariness of travel wiped out. Some of the women grew quiet, the more
consciously to taste their joy. The men, more communicative, exchanged
opinions. They had seen Giambolo, and could not get over the wonder of
it.
They had not come to Italy in vain. Which opinion was shared by the
excellent Lombardy guide, weighing in his palm the money accruing to him
from the sight of Giambolo.
A week had passed without any notable event other than meeting
everywhere those pilgrim bands who spoil all pleasure in beautiful
things by the obsession of their ready-made admirations. From the outer
rotunda of the convent in Assisi I was letting my gaze wander over the
plain of Umbria, all the world in sight being an expanse of billowing
greenness. As if through a trap door a man sprang up at my side, then
two, then ten, then what seemed a thousand, for the platform on which I
had a moment before been walking alone under the sky was turned into a
clamorous ant hill.
Voices on all sides exclaimed: "Here it is! Here is the place from which
we can see. Over there, there, the towers of Perugia. And the railway!"
"What! The railway that brought us?"
"Yes, really!"
"How strange!"
"Can you tell me, sir," said a fat man, puffing, "the name of yonder
village?"
"No, sir."
"Ah, and that other one?"
"No, sir."
There was a cry. Everyone rushed in the direction whence it came. I
feared that someone had fallen over the parapet. Not at all, it was the
call of the cicerone who had something to impart. As soon as he had
obtained silence:
"Ladies and gentlemen," he began in ringing tones, "the day is
exceptionally favourable to show you, far away, beyond Perugia,
something which few travellers have had the good fortune to see from
here."
The greasy opera glass came into sight, wrapped in a red handkerchief
together with cigarettes and divers odds and ends. The entire audience
was aquiver with suspense, keen to the point of anguish.
"You shall now see," he cried.
I fled. But I had finally begun to see the philosophy of the phenomenon.
In a word, Giambolo was a reality, since it was the thing that all these
people came in search of. What exactly was it? There was no advantage in
knowing, since, if Giambolo were within reach, all joy in it would be
lost. Giambolo stands for that which cannot be grasped. Giambolo stands
for the beyond--it is the door leading from the known to the Infinite.
We leave our country, our home and friends, all to whom we give the best
of ourselves, all for whom we spend ourselves, and we go to foreign
lands in quest of that fascinating Giambolo which we do not find at
home, where strangers sometimes come in search of it. We wear ourselves
out in the quest. When we reach home again, we claim to have seen it.
Sometimes we are not sure of having done so. A monument, a statue, a
picture is too close. We can always, taking the word of fame, make
believe to discover what we in reality do not. But if we succeed in
deceiving others, it is harder in good faith to delude ourselves.
Whereas, from a height, through the blurred glass of faith, the little
white light, beyond the edge of the visible world, by which we are
enabled sincerely to see what we do not see brings us the surest
realization of human hope.
And, kind readers, if any one of you ever has any doubts, even though
you sit in your armchair at home, follow the advice of the guide on the
Venetian lagoon: "Half close your eyes----" and you will see Giambolo.
THE END
* * * * *
THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS
GARDEN CITY, N. Y.
* * * * *
_Books by the Same Author_
THE STRONGEST
LE GRAND PAN
AU FIL DES JOURS
ETC.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Surprises of Life, by Georges Clemenceau