The next day but one, the three set off for Florence. Aaron had made
an excursion from Milan with the two young heroes, and dined with them
subsequently at the most expensive restaurant in the town. Then they
had all gone home--and had sat in the young men's bedroom drinking
tea, whilst Aaron played the flute. Francis was really musical, and
enchanted. Angus enjoyed the novelty, and the moderate patronage he
was able to confer. And Aaron felt amused and pleased, and hoped he was
paying for his treat.
So behold them setting off for Florence in the early morning. Angus and
Francis had first-class tickets: Aaron took a third-class.
“Come and have lunch with us on the train,” said Angus. “I'll order
three places, and we can lunch together.”
“Oh, I can buy a bit of food at the station,” said Aaron.
“No, come and lunch with us. It will be much nicer. And we shall enjoy
it as well,” said Angus.
“Of course! Ever so much nicer! Of course!” cried Francis. “Yes, why
not, indeed! Why should you hesitate?”
“All right, then,” said Aaron, not without some feeling of constraint.
So they separated. The young men settled themselves amidst the red plush
and crochet-work, looking, with their hair plastered smoothly back,
quite as first class as you could wish, creating quite the right
impression on the porters and the travelling Italians. Aaron went to his
third-class, further up the train.
“Well, then, _au revoir_, till luncheon,” cried Francis.
The train was fairly full in the third and second classes. However,
Aaron got his seat, and the porter brought on his bags, after disposing
of the young men's luggage. Aaron gave the tip uneasily. He always hated
tipping--it seemed humiliating both ways. And the airy aplomb of the
two young cavaliers, as they settled down among the red plush and the
obsequiousness, and said “Well, then, _au revoir_ till luncheon,” was
peculiarly unsettling: though they did not intend it so.
“The porter thinks I'm their servant--their valet,” said Aaron to
himself, and a curious half-amused, half-contemptuous look flickered on
his face. It annoyed him. The falsity occasioned by the difference in
the price of the tickets was really humiliating. Aaron had lived long
enough to know that as far as manhood and intellect went--nay, even
education--he was not the inferior of the two young “gentlemen.” He knew
quite well that, as far as intrinsic nature went, they did not imagine
him an inferior: rather the contrary. They had rather an exaggerated
respect for him and his life-power, and even his origin. And yet--they
had the inestimable cash advantage--and they were going to keep it. They
knew it was nothing more than an artificial cash superiority. But they
gripped it all the more intensely. They were the upper middle classes.
They were Eton and Oxford. And they were going to hang on to their
privileges. In these days, it is a fool who abdicates before he's forced
to. And therefore:
“Well, then--_au revoir_ till luncheon.”
They were being so awfully nice. And inwardly they were not
condescending. But socially, they just had to be. The world is made like
that. It wasn't their own private fault. It was no fault at all. It was
just the mode in which they were educated, the style of their living.
And as we know, _le style, c'est l'homme_.
Angus came of very wealthy iron people near Merthyr. Already he had a
very fair income of his own. As soon as the law-business concerning his
father's and his grandfather's will was settled, he would be well off.
And he knew it, and valued himself accordingly. Francis was the son of a
highly-esteemed barrister and politician of Sydney, and in his day would
inherit his father's lately-won baronetcy. But Francis had not very much
money: and was much more class-flexible than Angus. Angus had been born
in a house with a park, and of awful, hard-willed, money-bound people.
Francis came of a much more adventurous, loose, excitable family, he had
the colonial newness and adaptability. He knew, for his own part, that
class superiority was just a trick, nowadays. Still, it was a trick that
paid. And a trick he was going to play as long as it did pay.
While Aaron sat, a little pale at the gills, immobile, ruminating these
matters, a not very pleasant look about his nose-end, he heard a voice:
“Oh, there you ARE! I thought I'd better come and see, so that we can
fetch you at lunch time.--You've got a seat? Are you quite comfortable?
Is there anything I could get you? Why, you're in a non-smoker!--But
that doesn't matter, everybody will smoke. Are you sure you have
everything? Oh, but wait just one moment--”
It was Francis, long and elegant, with his straight shoulders and his
coat buttoned to show his waist, and his face so well-formed and so
modern. So modern, altogether. His voice was pleasantly modulated, and
never hurried. He now looked as if a thought had struck him. He put a
finger to his brow, and hastened back to his own carriage. In a minute,
he returned with a new London literary magazine.
“Something to read--I shall have to FLY--See you at lunch,” and he had
turned and elegantly hastened, but not too fast, back to his carriage.
The porter was holding the door for him. So Francis looked pleasantly
hurried, but by no means rushed. Oh, dear, no. He took his time. It was
not for him to bolt and scramble like a mere Italian.
The people in Aaron's carriage had watched the apparition of the elegant
youth intently. For them, he was a being from another sphere--no doubt
a young milordo with power wealth, and glamorous life behind him. Which
was just what Francis intended to convey. So handsome--so very, very
impressive in all his elegant calm showiness. He made such a _bella
figura_. It was just what the Italians loved. Those in the first class
regions thought he might even be an Italian, he was so attractive.
The train in motion, the many Italian eyes in the carriage studied
Aaron. He, too, was good-looking. But by no means as fascinating as
the young milordo. Not half as sympathetic. No good at all at playing a
role. Probably a servant of the young signori.
Aaron stared out of the window, and played the one single British role
left to him, that of ignoring his neighbours, isolating himself in
their midst, and minding his own business. Upon this insular trick our
greatness and our predominance depends--such as it is. Yes, they might
look at him. They might think him a servant or what they liked. But he
was inaccessible to them. He isolated himself upon himself, and there
remained.
It was a lovely day, a lovely, lovely day of early autumn. Over the
great plain of Lombardy a magnificent blue sky glowed like mid-summer,
the sun shone strong. The great plain, with its great stripes of
cultivation--without hedges or boundaries---how beautiful it was!
Sometimes he saw oxen ploughing. Sometimes. Oh, so beautiful, teams
of eight, or ten, even of twelve pale, great soft oxen in procession,
ploughing the dark velvety earth, a driver with a great whip at their
head, a man far behind holding the plough-shafts. Beautiful the soft,
soft plunging motion of oxen moving forwards. Beautiful the strange,
snaky lifting of the muzzles, the swaying of the sharp horns. And the
soft, soft crawling motion of a team of oxen, so invisible, almost, yet
so inevitable. Now and again straight canals of water flashed blue. Now
and again the great lines of grey-silvery poplars rose and made avenues
or lovely grey airy quadrangles across the plain. Their top boughs were
spangled with gold and green leaf. Sometimes the vine-leaves were gold
and red, a patterning. And the great square farm-homesteads, white,
red-roofed, with their out-buildings, stood naked amid the lands,
without screen or softening. There was something big and exposed about
it all. No more the cosy English ambushed life, no longer the cosy
littleness of the landscape. A bigness--and nothing to shelter the
unshrinking spirit. It was all exposed, exposed to the sweep of plain,
to the high, strong sky, and to human gaze. A kind of boldness, an
indifference. Aaron was impressed and fascinated. He looked with
new interest at the Italians in the carriage with him--for this same
boldness and indifference and exposed gesture. And he found it in them,
too. And again it fascinated him. It seemed so much bigger, as if the
walls of life had fallen. Nay, the walls of English life will have to
fall.
Sitting there in the third-class carriage, he became happy again. The
_presence_ of his fellow-passengers was not so hampering as in England.
In England, everybody seems held tight and gripped, nothing is left
free. Every passenger seems like a parcel holding his string as fast as
he can about him, lest one corner of the wrapper should come undone
and reveal what is inside. And every other passenger is forced, by
the public will, to hold himself as tight-bound also. Which in the end
becomes a sort of self-conscious madness.
But here, in the third class carriage, there was no tight string round
every man. They were not all trussed with self-conscious string as tight
as capons. They had a sufficient amount of callousness and indifference
and natural equanimity. True, one of them spat continually on the floor,
in large spits. And another sat with his boots all unlaced and his
collar off, and various important buttons undone. They did not seem to
care if bits of themselves did show, through the gaps in the wrapping.
Aaron winced--but he preferred it to English tightness. He was pleased,
he was happy with the Italians. He thought how generous and natural they
were.
So the towns passed by, and the hours, and he seemed at last to have got
outside himself and his old conditions. It seemed like a great escape.
There was magic again in life--real magic. Was it illusion, or was it
genuine? He thought it was genuine, and opened his soul a if there was
no danger.
Lunch-time came. Francis summoned Aaron down the rocking tram. The
three men had a table to themselves, and all felt they were enjoying
themselves very much indeed. Of course Francis and Angus made a great
impression again. But in the dining car were mostly middle-class,
well-to-do Italians. And these did not look upon our two young heroes as
two young wonders. No, rather with some criticism, and some class-envy.
But they were impressed. Oh, they were impressed! How should they not
be, when our young gentlemen had such an air! Aaron was conscious all
the time that the fellow-diners were being properly impressed by
the flower of civilisation and the salt of the earth, namely, young,
well-to-do Englishmen. And he had a faint premonition, based on
experience perhaps, that fellow-passengers in the end never forgive the
man who has “impressed” them. Mankind loves being impressed. It asks to
be impressed. It almost forces those whom it can force to play a role
and to make an impression. And afterwards, never forgives.
When the train ran into Bologna Station, they were still in the
restaurant car. Nor did they go at once to their seats. Angus had paid
the bill. There was three-quarters-of-an-hour's wait in Bologna.
“You may as well come down and sit with us,” said Francis. “We've got
nobody in our carriage, so why shouldn't we all stay together during the
wait. You kept your own seat, I suppose.”
No, he had forgotten. So when he went to look for it, it was occupied
by a stout man who was just taking off his collar and wrapping a white
kerchief round his neck. The third class carriages were packed. For
those were early days after the war, while men still had pre-war
notions and were poor. Ten months would steal imperceptibly by, and the
mysterious revolution would be effected. Then, the second class and the
first class would be packed, indescribably packed, crowded, on all
great trains: and the third class carriages, lo and behold, would be
comparatively empty. Oh, marvellous days of bankruptcy, when nobody will
condescend to travel third!
However, these were still modest, sombre months immediately after the
peace. So a large man with a fat neck and a white kerchief, and his
collar over his knee, sat in Aaron's seat. Aaron looked at the man,
and at his own luggage overhead. The fat man saw him looking and stared
back: then stared also at the luggage overhead: and with his almost
invisible north-Italian gesture said much plainer than words would have
said it: “Go to hell. I'm here and I'm going to stop here.”
There was something insolent and unbearable about the look--and about
the rocky fixity of the large man. He sat as if he had insolently taken
root in his seat. Aaron flushed slightly. Francis and Angus strolled
along the train, outside, for the corridor was already blocked with the
mad Bologna rush, and the baggage belonging. They joined Aaron as he
stood on the platform.
“But where is YOUR SEAT?” cried Francis, peering into the packed and
jammed compartments of the third class.
“That man's sitting in it.”
“Which?” cried Francis, indignant.
“The fat one there--with the collar on his knee.”
“But it was your seat--!”
Francis' gorge rose in indignation. He mounted into the corridor. And in
the doorway of the compartment he bridled like an angry horse rearing,
bridling his head. Poising himself on one hip, he stared fixedly at the
man with the collar on his knee, then at the baggage aloft. He looked
down at the fat man as a bird looks down from the eaves of a house. But
the man looked back with a solid, rock-like impudence, before which an
Englishman quails: a jeering, immovable insolence, with a sneer round
the nose and a solid-seated posterior.
“But,” said Francis in English--none of them had any Italian yet. “But,”
said Francis, turning round to Aaron, “that was YOUR SEAT?” and he flung
his long fore-finger in the direction of the fat man's thighs.
“Yes!” said Aaron.
“And he's TAKEN it--!” cried Francis in indignation.
“And knows it, too,” said Aaron.
“But--!” and Francis looked round imperiously, as if to summon his
bodyguard. But bodyguards are no longer forthcoming, and train-guards
are far from satisfactory. The fat man sat on, with a sneer-grin,
very faint but very effective, round his nose, and a solidly-planted
posterior. He quite enjoyed the pantomime of the young foreigners. The
other passengers said something to him, and he answered laconic. Then
they all had the faint sneer-grin round their noses. A woman in the
corner grinned jeeringly straight in Francis' face. His charm failed
entirely this time: and as for his commandingness, that was ineffectual
indeed. Rage came up in him.
“Oh well--something must be done,” said he decisively. “But didn't you
put something in the seat to RESERVE it?”
“Only that _New Statesman_--but he's moved it.”
The man still sat with the invisible sneer-grin on his face, and that
peculiar and immovable plant of his Italian posterior.
“Mais--cette place etait RESERVEE--” said Francis, moving to the direct
attack.
The man turned aside and ignored him utterly--then said something to the
men opposite, and they all began to show their teeth in a grin.
Francis was not so easily foiled. He touched the man on the arm. The man
looked round threateningly, as if he had been struck.
“Cette place est reservee--par ce Monsieur--” said Francis with hauteur,
though still in an explanatory tone, and pointing to Aaron.
The Italian looked him, not in the eyes, but between the eyes, and
sneered full in his face. Then he looked with contempt at Aaron. And
then he said, in Italian, that there was room for such snobs in the
first class, and that they had not any right to come occupying the place
of honest men in the third.
“Gia! Gia!” barked the other passengers in the carriage.
“Loro possono andare prima classa--PRIMA CLASSA!” said the woman in the
corner, in a very high voice, as if talking to deaf people, and pointing
to Aaron's luggage, then along the train to the first class carriages.
“C'e posto la,” said one of the men, shrugging his shoulders.
There was a jeering quality in the hard insolence which made Francis go
very red and Augus very white. Angus stared like a death's-head behind
his monocle, with death-blue eyes.
“Oh, never mind. Come along to the first class. I'll pay the difference.
We shall be much better all together. Get the luggage down, Francis.
It wouldn't be possible to travel with this lot, even if he gave up the
seat. There's plenty of room in our carriage--and I'll pay the extra,”
said Angus.
He knew there was one solution--and only one--Money.
But Francis bit his finger. He felt almost beside himself--and quite
powerless. For he knew the guard of the train would jeer too. It is
not so easy to interfere with honest third-class Bolognesi in Bologna
station, even if they _have_ taken another man's seat. Powerless,
his brow knitted, and looking just like Mephistopheles with his high
forehead and slightly arched nose, Mephistopheles in a rage, he hauled
down Aaron's bag and handed it to Angus. So they transferred themselves
to the first-class carriage, while the fat man and his party in the
third-class watched in jeering, triumphant silence. Solid, planted,
immovable, in static triumph.
So Aaron sat with the others amid the red plush, whilst the train
began its long slow climb of the Apennines, stinking sulphurous through
tunnels innumerable. Wonderful the steep slopes, the great chestnut
woods, and then the great distances glimpsed between the heights,
Firenzuola away and beneath, Turneresque hills far off, built of
heaven-bloom, not of earth. It was cold at the summit-station, ice and
snow in the air, fierce. Our travellers shrank into the carriage again,
and wrapped themselves round.
Then the train began its long slither downhill, still through a whole
necklace of tunnels, which fortunately no longer stank. So down and
down, till the plain appears in sight once more, the Arno valley. But
then began the inevitable hitch that always happens in Italian travel.
The train began to hesitate--to falter to a halt, whistling shrilly
as if in protest: whistling pip-pip-pip in expostulation as it stood
forlorn among the fields: then stealing forward again and stealthily
making pace, gathering speed, till it had got up a regular spurt: then
suddenly the brakes came on with a jerk, more faltering to a halt,
more whistling and pip-pip-pipping, as the engine stood jingling with
impatience: after which another creak and splash, and another choking
off. So on till they landed in Prato station: and there they sat. A
fellow passenger told them, there was an hour to wait here: an hour.
Something had happened up the line.
“Then I propose we make tea,” said Angus, beaming.
“Why not! Of course. Let us make tea. And I will look for water.”
So Aaron and Francis went to the restaurant bar and filled the little
pan at the tap. Angus got down the red picnic case, of which he was so
fond, and spread out the various arrangements on the floor of the coupe.
He soon had the spirit-lamp burning, the water heating. Francis proposed
that he and Aaron should dash into Prato and see what could be bought,
whilst the tea was in preparation. So off they went, leaving Angus like
a busy old wizard manipulating his arrangements on the floor of the
carriage, his monocle beaming with bliss. The one fat fellow--passenger
with a lurid striped rug over his knees watched with acute interest.
Everybody who passed the doorway stood to contemplate the scene with
pleasure. Officials came and studied the situation with appreciation.
Then Francis and Aaron returned with a large supply of roast chestnuts,
piping hot, and hard dried plums, and good dried figs, and rather stale
rusks. They found the water just boiling, Angus just throwing in the
tea-egg, and the fellow-passenger just poking his nose right in, he was
so thrilled.
Nothing pleased Angus so much as thus pitching camp in the midst of
civilisation. The scrubby newspaper packets of chestnuts, plums, figs
and rusks were spread out: Francis flew for salt to the man at the
bar, and came back with a little paper of rock-salt: the brown tea was
dispensed in the silver-fitted glasses from the immortal luncheon-case:
and the picnic was in full swing. Angus, being in the height of his
happiness, now sat on the seat cross-legged, with his feet under him, in
the authentic Buddha fashion, and on his face the queer rapt alert look,
half a smile, also somewhat Buddhistic, holding his glass of brown
tea in his hand. He was as rapt and immobile as if he really were in
a mystic state. Yet it was only his delight in the tea-party. The
fellow-passenger peered at the tea, and said in broken French, was it
good. In equally fragmentary French Francis said very good, and offered
the fat passenger some. He, however, held up his hand in protest, as if
to say not for any money would he swallow the hot-watery stuff. And he
pulled out a flask of wine. But a handful of chestnuts he accepted.
The train-conductor, ticket-collector, and the heavy green soldier who
protected them, swung open the door and stared attentively. The fellow
passenger addressed himself to these new-comers, and they all began to
smile good-naturedly. Then the fellow-passenger--he was stout and fifty
and had a brilliant striped rug always over his knees--pointed out the
Buddha-like position of Angus, and the three in-starers smiled again.
And so the fellow-passenger thought he must try too. So he put aside his
rug, and lifted his feet from the floor, and took his toes in his hands,
and tried to bring his legs up and his feet under him. But his knees
were fat, his trousers in the direst extreme of peril, and he could no
more manage it than if he had tried to swallow himself. So he desisted
suddenly, rather scared, whilst the three bunched and official heads in
the doorway laughed and jested at him, showing their teeth and teasing
him. But on our gypsy party they turned their eyes with admiration. They
loved the novelty and the fun. And on the thin, elegant Angus in his new
London clothes, they looked really puzzled, as he sat there immobile,
gleaming through his monocle like some Buddha going wicked, perched
cross-legged and ecstatic on the red velvet seat. They marvelled that
the lower half of him could so double up, like a foot-rule. So they
stared till they had seen enough. When they suddenly said “Buon
'appetito,” withdrew their heads and shoulders, slammed the door, and
departed.
Then the train set off also--and shortly after six arrived in Florence.
It was debated what should Aaron do in Florence. The young men had
engaged a room at Bertolini's hotel, on the Lungarno. Bertolini's was
not expensive--but Aaron knew that his friends would not long endure
hotel life. However, he went along with the other two, trusting to find
a cheaper place on the morrow.
It was growing quite dark as they drove to the hotel, but still was
light enough to show the river rustling, the Ponte Vecchio spanning its
little storeys across the flood, on its low, heavy piers: and some sort
of magic of the darkening, varied houses facing, on the other side of
the stream. Of course they were all enchanted.
“I knew,” said Francis, “we should love it.”
Aaron was told he could have a little back room and pension terms for
fifteen lire a day, if he stayed at least fifteen days. The exchange
was then at forty-five. So fifteen lire meant just six-shillings-and-six
pence a day, without extras. Extras meant wine, tea, butter, and light.
It was decided he should look for something cheaper next day.
By the tone of the young men, he now gathered that they would prefer it
if he took himself off to a cheaper place. They wished to be on their
own.
“Well, then,” said Francis, “you will be in to lunch here, won't you?
Then we'll see you at lunch.”
It was as if both the young men had drawn in their feelers now. They
were afraid of finding the new man an incubus. They wanted to wash their
hands of him. Aaron's brow darkened.
“Perhaps it was right your love to dissemble
But why did you kick me down stairs?...”
Then morning found him out early, before his friends had arisen. It was
sunny again. The magic of Florence at once overcame him, and he forgot
the bore of limited means and hotel costs. He went straight out of the
hotel door, across the road, and leaned on the river parapet. There ran
the Arno: not such a flood after all, but a green stream with shoals of
pebbles in its course. Across, and in the delicate shadow of the early
sun, stood the opposite Lungarno, the old flat houses, pink, or white,
or grey stone, with their green shutters, some closed, some opened. It
had a flowery effect, the skyline irregular against the morning light.
To the right the delicate Trinita bridge, to the left, the old bridge
with its little shops over the river. Beyond, towards the sun, glimpses
of green, sky-bloomed country: Tuscany.
There was a noise and clatter of traffic: boys pushing hand-barrows over
the cobble-stones, slow bullocks stepping side by side, and shouldering
one another affectionately, drawing a load of country produce, then
horses in great brilliant scarlet cloths, like vivid palls, slowly
pulling the long narrow carts of the district: and men hu-huing!--and
people calling: all the sharp, clattering morning noise of Florence.
“Oh, Angus! Do come and look! OH, so lovely!”
Glancing up, he saw the elegant figure of Francis, in fine coloured-silk
pyjamas, perched on a small upper balcony, turning away from the river
towards the bedroom again, his hand lifted to his lips, as if to catch
there his cry of delight. The whole pose was classic and effective: and
very amusing. How the Italians would love it!
Aaron slipped back across the road, and walked away under the houses
towards the Ponte Vecchio. He passed the bridge--and passed the
Uffizi--watching the green hills opposite, and San Miniato. Then he
noticed the over-dramatic group of statuary in the Piazza Mentana--male
and physical and melodramatic--and then the corner house. It was a big
old Florentine house, with many green shutters and wide eaves. There was
a notice plate by the door--“Pension Nardini.”
He came to a full stop. He stared at the notice-plate, stared at the
glass door, and turning round, stared at the over-pathetic dead soldier
on the arm of his over-heroic pistol-firing comrade; _Mentana_--and
the date! Aaron wondered what and where Mentana was. Then at last
he summoned his energy, opened the glass door, and mounted the first
stairs.
He waited some time before anybody appeared. Then a maid-servant.
“Can I have a room?” said Aaron.
The bewildered, wild-eyed servant maid opened a door and showed him into
a heavily-gilt, heavily-plush drawing-room with a great deal of frantic
grandeur about it. There he sat and cooled his heels for half an hour.
Arrived at length a stout young lady--handsome, with big dark-blue
Italian eyes--but anaemic and too stout.
“Oh!” she said as she entered, not knowing what else to say.
“Good-morning,” said Aaron awkwardly.
“Oh, good-morning! English! Yes! Oh, I am so sorry to keep you, you
know, to make you wait so long. I was upstairs, you know, with a lady.
Will you sit?”
“Can I have a room?” said Aaron.
“A room! Yes, you can.”
“What terms?”
“Terms! Oh! Why, ten francs a day, you know, pension--if you stay--How
long will you stay?”
“At least a month, I expect.”
“A month! Oh yes. Yes, ten francs a day.”
“For everything?”
“Everything. Yes, everything. Coffee, bread, honey or jam in the
morning: lunch at half-past twelve; tea in the drawing-room, half-past
four: dinner at half-past seven: all very nice. And a warm room with the
sun--Would you like to see?”
So Aaron was led up the big, rambling old house to the top floor--then
along a long old corridor--and at last into a big bedroom with two
beds and a red tiled floor--a little dreary, as ever--but the sun just
beginning to come in, and a lovely view on to the river, towards the
Ponte Vecchio, and at the hills with their pines and villas and verdure
opposite.
Here he would settle. The signorina would send a man for his bags, at
half past two in the afternoon.
At luncheon Aaron found the two friends, and told them of his move.
“How very nice for you! Ten francs a day--but that is nothing. I am so
pleased you've found something. And when will you be moving in?” said
Francis.
“At half-past two.”
“Oh, so soon. Yes, just as well.--But we shall see you from time to
time, of course. What did you say the address was? Oh, yes--just near
the awful statue. Very well. We can look you up any time--and you will
find us here. Leave a message if we should happen not to be in--we've
got lots of engagements--”