_En Route to the Mediterranean._--I am alone, until a Frenchman and his
young wife come in and glare at me, presumably because I am already
there. The ordinary honeymoon couple anywhere are supercilious enough,
and a French honeymoon couple perhaps more so. If you gaze absently at
the back of Madame's hat, when you are looking at the mountains beyond
Madame's head, Monsieur glares at you with the concentrated fury of an
angry menagerie. But a French couple, travelling in Italy, which loves
the Triple Alliance, develope an air of superciliousness quite
unapproached; and when their solitude is invaded by an Englishman, a
native of the country which occupies Egypt, thousand thunders, it is too
strong!
So these two whisper together, and look out of one window, while I look
out of the other, at Viareggio, and the distant Carrara quarries and
other sights. All interesting and beautiful, no doubt, but not to be
compared to what I shall see beyond Spezia. Think of the blue sea, the
glorious hills, the olive woods, the Italian fishing villages, the
orange groves, the gardens and the flowers. Rather better than that
English coast which Londoners know so well, the seashore at Brighton,
probably the ugliest in the world, with the most unpicturesque town
stretching along it. Of course, I shall not see everything from the
train, but I shall at least have the recollection of an earthly
paradise, to torment me ever after when travelling in the infernal
regions of the Underground Railway. November in Genoa; November in Gower
Street! Halloo, this is Spezia!
Now then, look out. Oh, here's a tunnel first. Wait patiently till we
are through the tunnel. By dim light of carriage-lamp perceive the
French people glaring at me. This _is_ a long tunnel. But then at the
end I shall see----Here is the end. Down with the window. There's the
Mediter----Halloo! Another tunnel. Up with the window. At last this one is
coming to an end. Down with the window again. Look out. There's the
Medi----Halloo, another one! Up with the window again. French people still
glare, but, it seems to me, more mildly. A fellow-feeling of
suffocation, no doubt.
Well, this _is_ long. At last we're out. Down with the window once more.
There's the Med----What? Another one. Up with the window once more. This
_is_ a long one. Begin to cough. Frenchman also coughs. A bond of
sympathy. We cough together. Well, at last we are out of these awful
tunnels. Down with the window. There's the Medit----Up with the window.
Another one! These gymnastics with the windows are most fatiguing. Choke
again. Frenchman also chokes. "_Ces tunnels!_" he gasps at last, "_on
étouffe_----" Just then the train bursts into daylight, and his head, as
before, goes out of his window, like mine out of my window. There's the
Me----. Another! "_Sapristi!_" By Jove! More choking. "_Ces chemins de
fers italiens----_" begins the Frenchman. Then another burst of daylight
and his head and mine go out. There's the Medit----"_Matin!_" Great Scott!
Agree with Frenchman. "_C'est assommant_," says he, "_quel pays----_" Then
another gap and heads out as before. There's the Mediterra----"_Mille
tonnerres!_" I'm hanged! Frenchman and I abuse the line, the tunnels,
the bad light and the worse air. Another interval.
There's the M---- "_Sacré nom de nom!_" Confound! Frenchman becomes quite
friendly. Even Madame says a word or two. Begin now to disregard half
seconds of daylight, and treat it as all tunnel over two hours' long.
At last arrive at Genoa, our faces streaked with soot, our lungs full of
smoke, our collars nearly black, and all the superciliousness shaken out
of us. Frenchman almost affectionate when we part. As for the
Mediterranean, I should have seen nearly as much of it at Moorgate
Street.