Toward evening I returned over the same road. The woman was still
plowing, but now she had a little girl holding the whip. The sirocco had
blown a heavy mist in from the Adriatic. Where the woman was plowing the
vapors floated in layers of uneven density--the veils of evening. The
plowers passed into them and out again, loomed now and then dwindled in
the mist as the moods of light pleased.
It struck me that it would be worth while to have a few words with this
woman. She was so close to the war and yet, seemingly, so far from it
that almost anything she could say promised to have an unusual color.
"These people here are Slovenes, sir!" remarked my soldier-chauffeur
when I had sought his advice. "They do not speak German, as a rule. But
we can try."
It was love's labor lost. The woman spoke some Slovene words in greeting
and I replied in Bulgarian, of which language I know a few words. The
chauffeur was no better off.