[Illustration]
There is no doubt that one's first impressions are always the
brightest and the best; therefore I resolve to record the first
impressions of a first visit to the Italian lakes.
"_British Bellagio_,"--
"Hôtel Victoria, Prince de Galles et des Iles Britanniques," or
some such name, is usually, as _Baedeke_r says, "frequented by the
English." They are here certainly, and one hears one's native language
everywhere. There are the honeymoon couples, silent and reserved, who
glare fiercely at anyone who might be supposed to imagine for a moment
that they are newly married; there are people who converse in low
monotonous voices about the weather, which changes every hour; there
is an old lady, who gives one startling information, telling one, for
instance, that Paul Veronese was born at Verona; and there are two
or three British menservants, gazing with superb disdain at the poor
foreigners. The hotel is very quiet. The evening of a week-day is like
Sunday evening, and Sunday evening is----!!! If only the weather were
not also English, or even worse. On the last day of September the only
warm place is by the fire in the _fumoir_. So let us hurry off from
this wintry climate to somewhere, to anywhere. By the first boat we
go.
Still English everywhere. At Bellagio a great crowd, and heaps of
luggage. At Cadenabbia a greater crowd, and more heaps of luggage.
Here they come, struggling along the gangway in the wind. There is a
sad-faced Englishman, his hands full of packages, his pockets stuffed
with others, carrying under his arm a little old picture wrapped
loosely in pink tissue paper, which the wind blows here and there.
He is a forgetful man, for he wanders to and fro collecting his
possessions. With him is another forgetful Englishman in very shabby
clothes, who also carries packages in paper, and who drags after him
an immensely fat bull-dog at the end of a cord five yards long, which
winds round posts and human legs and other obstacles. At last they are
all on board--the forgetful Englishmen have darted back for the last
time to fetch in an ice-axe and an old umbrella--and on we go over the
grey water, past the grey hills, under the grey sky, towards Como. At
Cernobbio the shabby Englishman lands, dragging his bull-dog at the
end of the cord, and carrying in his arms two rolls of rugs, a bag,
and other trifles. His sad-faced companion, still holding his tiny Old
Master in the ever-diminishing pink paper, wanders in and out seeking
forgotten treasures, an ice-axe, a bag, another paper parcel. Finally
all are landed, the gangway is withdrawn, the steamer begins to
move. Suddenly there is a shout. The shabby Englishman has forgotten
something. The sympathetic passengers look round. There is a solitary
umbrella on a seat No doubt that is his. A friendly stranger cries,
"Is this yours?" and tosses it to him on the quay. Then there is
another shout. "_Ach Himmel_, dat is mine!" The frantic German waves
his arms, the umbrella is tossed back, he catches it and is happy. But
meanwhile another English man, the most egregious ass that ever lived,
has discovered yet another solitary umbrella, which he casts wildly
into space. For one moment the captain, the passengers, the people on
the quay, gaze breathless as it whirls through the air. It falls just
short of the landing-stage, and sinks into the grey waters of that
chilly lake, never more to be recovered, in any sense of the word.
In those immeasurable depths its neat silk covering will decay, its
slender frame will fall to pieces. It has gone for ever. Beneath
this grey Italian sky some Italian gamp must keep off these Italian
showers. Then the captain, the passengers, and the people smile and
laugh. I, who write this, am the only one on whose face there is not a
grin, for that umbrella was mine.