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 _Baedeker_ 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.
[Illustration]
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.