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Genoa in November. It is summer time. Put on thin suit, drink my _café
au lait_ by open window, and stroll out into beautiful Genoa, basking
in the sunshine. _Déjeuner_ in the garden of a restaurant, among the
old palaces. Sit in the shade, without my hat. Think of all the poor
people in London. Wonder if anyone is having a frugal lunch at the
funny little open-air restaurant in Hyde Park. Lemonade and a bath bun
in a fog. Should imagine not.
Charming place, Genoa. Hardly any Germans. Can at last hear people
talking Italian. In Venice there are so many Germans that one might as
well be in Germany. Sitting out on the Piazza, one hears incessantly
their monotonous, guttural chatter, always in the same tone of voice,
without inflections, without emotion, and, worst of all, without end.
Watched at the hotel _table d'hôte_ a German lady sitting between two
German gentlemen. One man talked loudly without ceasing, mouth full
or mouth empty, from soup to dessert. The other man, rather older
and feebler, also talked without ceasing, but he could not equal the
other's noise; he only added to it. As for the lady, her lips moved all
the time; one could imagine the _ja wohl_, the _ach, so?_ the _ja, ja,
ja_, but one could not hear a word. At Florence, at Milan, on the Lakes
it is the same. If by chance one hears a Frenchman speak, his charming
language sounds more vivacious and melodious than ever before. So it
is good to be in Genoa, where even the best hotel is kept by Italians.
Apparently every other good hotel in Italy is kept by HERR SCHMIDT,
or HERR WEBER, or HERR SOMETHINGOROTHER, and all the servants are
German also. There is one hotel in Genoa kept by a German. It faces the
harbour. All night long there are whistles, screams, bangs, rumblings,
bumps, roars, and other sounds from trains, ships, and tramways. All
day long there is the same noise, only more of it. But the Germans
do not mind; they talk just the same, and they make each other hear
through it all.
Charming place, Genoa, with a town hall that is the gayest imaginable.
Marble staircases, vestibules adorned with palms, beautiful little
gardens, at all sorts of levels, outside the windows of the various
offices. Everywhere flowers. If the town rates in Genoa are paid at
the Town Hall, the paying of them must be almost pleasant. One would
go with that horrible demand note, if that is used also in Italy, and
fancy that one was arriving at a ball. The palm-decorated entrance
looks just like it. It only needs a lady rate collector, such as one
hears of in England, and one surely, in whatever manner the Italians
may say it, would beg the charming signora to give one the honour and
pleasure of a dance, and scribble her name on the programme--I mean the
demand note. And no doubt, the Italian officials being leisurely and
the space being ample, one could find time for a waltz in the intervals
of rate paying, or at least sit it out in one of the delightful little
gardens of this ideal Palazzo Municipale.
And so farewell to sunny Genoa, and off to Turin. German hotel again,
German proprietor, German servants. Solitary German visitor drinking
his morning coffee. The hotels of Turin are not crowded; he and I are
alone. What will the poor man do? He must talk his awful language
to someone. He shan't talk it to me, for I will pretend I do not
understand even one word. The waiter has left the room. Must the poor
man be silent? Thunderweather, ah no! Happilywise he is saved. The
considerate proprietor, thoughtful of his countryman's needs, enters;
he stands by the visitor's table, and the talk begins. When it ends I
cannot say, for I leave them, well started and in good voice, and hear,
as I think, their sweetly melodious phrases for the last time in Italy.
The train carries me away. There is not much more of Italy now, for
here is the Mont Cenis tunnel. Farewell, beautiful country, beautiful
pictures, beautiful language! There is someone leaning out of the next
carriage window. No doubt he is also saddened; he is speaking to others
inside, his voice is cheerful, he is evidently trying not to give way
to despair. Now I hear what he says, "_Da werde ich ein Glas Bier
trinken, ja, ja, ja!_"