Sea and Sardinia — Chapter 7, s.2

* * * * * We made our way back to the bus, through the uncouth men who stood about.

To tell the truth, strangers are not popular nowadays--not anywhere.

Everybody has a grudge against them at first sight.

This grudge may or may not wear off on acquaintance.

The afternoon had become hot--hot as an English June.

And we had various other passengers--for one a dark-eyed, long-nosed priest who showed his teeth when he talked.

There was not much room in the coupe, so the goods were stowed upon the little rack.

With the strength of the sun, and the six or seven people in it, the coupe became stifling.

The q-b opened her window.

But the priest, one of the loudtalking sort, said that a draught was harmful, very harmful, so he put it up again.

He was one of the gregarious sort, a loud talker, nervy really, very familiar with all the passengers.

And everything did one harm--_fa male, fa male_.

A draught _fa male, fa molto male_.

_Non e vero?

_ this to all the men from Siniscola.

And they all said Yes--yes.

The bus-mate clambered into the _coupe_, to take the tickets of the second-class passengers in the rotondo, through the little wicket.

There was great squeezing and shouting and reckoning change.

And then we stopped at a halt, and he dashed down with the post and the priest got down for a drink with the other men.

The Hamlet driver sat stiff in his seat.

He pipped the horn.

He pipped again, with decision.

Men came clambering in.

But it looked as if the offensive priest would be left behind.

The bus started venomously, the priest came running, his gown flapping, wiping his lips.

He dropped into his seat with a cackling laugh, showing his long teeth.

And he said that it was as well to take a drink, to fortify the stomach.

To travel with the stomach uneasy did one harm: _fa male, fa male--non e vero?

_ Chorus of "yes."

The bus-mate resumed his taking the tickets through the little wicket, thrusting his rear amongst us.

As he stood like this, down fell his sheepskin-lined military overcoat on the q-b's head.

He was filled with grief.

He folded it and placed it on the seat, as a sort of cushion for her, oh so gently!

And how he would love to devote himself to a master and mistress.

He sat beside me, facing the q-b, and offered us an acid drop.

We took the acid drop.

He smiled with zealous yearning at the q-b, and resumed his conversations.

Then he offered us cigarettes--insisted on our taking cigarettes.

The priest with the long teeth looked sideways at the q-b, seeing her smoking.

Then he fished out a long cigar, bit it, and spat.

He was offered a cigarette.

--But no, cigarettes were harmful: _fanno male_.

The paper was bad for the health: oh, very bad.

A pipe or a cigar.

So he lit his long cigar and spat large spits on the floor, continually.

Beside me sat a big, bright-eyed, rather good-looking but foolish man.

Hearing me speak to the q-b, he said in confidence to the priest: "Here are two Germans--eh?

Look at them.

The woman smoking.

These are a couple of those that were interned here.

Sardinia can do without them now."

Germans in Italy at the outbreak of the war were interned in Sardinia, and as far as one hears, they were left very free and happy, and treated very well, the Sardinians having been generous as all proud people are.

But now our bright-eyed fool made a great titter through the bus: quite unaware that we understood.

He said nothing offensive: but that sort of tittering exultation of common people who think they have you at a disadvantage annoyed me.

However, I kept still to hear what they would say.

But it was only trivialities about the Germans having nearly all gone now, their being free to travel, their coming back to Sardinia because they liked it better than Germany.

Oh yes--they all wanted to come back.

They all wanted to come back to Sardinia.

Oh yes, they knew where they were well off.

They knew their own advantage.

Sardinia was this, that, and the other of advantageousness, and the Sardi were decent people.

It is just as well to put in a word on one's own behalf occasionally.

As for La Germania--she was down, down: bassa.

What did one pay for bread in Germany?

Five francs a kilo, my boy.

* * * * * The bus stopped again, and they trooped out into the hot sun.

The priest scuffled round the corner this time.

Not to go round the corner was no doubt harmful.

We waited.

A frown came between the bus Hamlet's brows.

He looked nerve-worn and tired.

It was about three o'clock.

We had to wait for a man from a village, with the post.

And he did not appear.

"I am going!

I won't wait," said the driver.

"Wait--wait a minute," said the mate, pouring oil.

And he went round to look.

But suddenly the bus started, with a vicious lurch.

The mate came flying and hung on to the footboard.

He had really almost been left.

The driver glanced round sardonically to see if he were there.

The bus flew on.

The mate shook his head in deprecation.

"He's a bit _nervoso_, the driver," said the q-b. "A bit out of temper!"

"Ah, poor chap!"

said the good-looking young mate, leaning forward and making such beseeching eyes of hot tolerance.

"One has to be sorry for him.

Persons like him, they suffer so much from themselves, how should one be angry with them!

_Poverino.

_ We must have sympathy."

Never was such a language of sympathy as the Italian.

_Poverino!

Poverino!

_ They are never happy unless they are sympathising pityingly with somebody.

And I rather felt that I was thrown in with the _poverini_ who had to be pitied for being _nervosi_.

Which did not improve my temper.

However, the bus-mate suddenly sat on the opposite seat between the priest and the q-b. He turned over his official note book, and began to write on the back cover very carefully, in the flourishing Italian hand.

Then he tore off what he had written, and with a very bright and zealous look he handed me the paper saying: "You will find me a post in England, when you go in the summer?

You will find me a place in London as a chauffeur--!"

"If I can," said I. "But it is not easy."

He nodded his head at me with the most complete bright confidence, quite sure now that he had settled his case perfectly.

On the paper he had written his name and his address, and if anyone would like him as chauffeur they have only to say so.

On the back of the scrap of paper the inevitable goodwill: _Auguri infiniti e buon Viaggio_.

Infinite good wishes and a good journey.

I folded the paper and put it in my waistcoat pocket, feeling a trifle disconcerted by my new responsibility.

He was such a dear fellow and such bright trustful eyes.

* * * * * This much achieved, there was a moment of silence.

And the bus-mate turned to take a ticket of a fat, comfortable man who had got in at the last stop.

There was a bit of flying conversation.

"Where are they from?"

asked the good-looking stupid man next to me, inclining his head in our direction.

"Londra," said our friend, with stern satisfaction: and they have said so often to one another that London is the greatest city in the world, that now the very word Londra conveys it all.

You should have seen the blank little-boy look come over the face of the big handsome fellow on hearing that we were citizens of the greatest city in the world.

"And they understand Italian?"

he asked, rather nipped.

"Sicuro!"

said our friend scornfully.

"How shouldn't they?"

"Ah!"

My large neighbour left his mouth open for a few moments.

And then another sort of smile came on to his face.

He began to peep at us sideways from his brown eyes, brightly, and was henceforth itching to get into conversation with the citizens of the world's mistress-city.

His look of semi-impudence was quite gone, replaced by a look of ingratiating admiration.

Now I ask you, is this to be borne?

Here I sit, and he talks half-impudently and patronisingly about me.

And here I sit, and he is glegging at me as if he saw signs of an aureole under my grey hat.

All in ten minutes.

And just because, instead of _la Germania_ I turn out to be _l'Inghilterra_.

I might as well be a place on a map, or a piece of goods with a trade-mark.

So little perception of the actual me!

so much going by labels!

I now could have kicked him harder.

I would have liked to say I was ten times German, to see the fool change his smirk again.

* * * * * The priest now chimed up, that he had been to America.

He had been to America and hence he dreaded not the crossing from Terranuova di Sardegna to Civita Vecchia.

For he had crossed the great Atlantic.

Apparently, however, the natives had all heard this song of the raven before, so he spat largely on the floor.

Whereupon the new fat neighbour asked him was it true that the Catholic Church was now becoming the one Church in the United States?

And the priest said there was no doubt about it.

* * * * * The hot afternoon wore on.

The coast was rather more inhabited, but we saw practically no villages.

The view was rather desolate.

From time to time we stopped at a sordid-looking canteen house.

From time to time we passed natives riding on their ponies, and sometimes there was an equestrian exhibition as the rough, strong little beasts reared and travelled rapidly backwards, away from the horrors of our great automobile.

But the male riders sat heavy and unshakeable, with Sardinian male force.

Everybody in the bus laughed, and we passed, looking back to see the pony still corkscrewing, but in vain, in the middle of the lonely, grass-bordered high-road.

* * * * * The bus-mate climbed in and out, coming in to sit near us.

He was like a dove which has at last found an olive bough to nest in.

And we were the olive bough in this world of waste waters.

Alas, I felt a broken reed.

But he sat so serenely near us, now, like a dog that has found a master.

The afternoon was declining, the bus pelted on at a great rate.

Ahead we saw the big lump of the island of Tavolara, a magnificient mass of rock which fascinated me by its splendid, weighty form.

It looks like a headland, for it apparently touches the land.

There it rests at the sea's edge, in this lost afternoon world.

Strange how this coast-country does not belong to our present-day world.

As we rushed along we saw steamers, two steamers, steering south, and one sailing ship coming from Italy.

And instantly, the steamers seemed like our own familiar world.

But still this coast-country was forsaken, forgotten, not included.

It just is not included.

* * * * * How tired one gets of these long, long rides!

It seemed we should never come up to Tavolara.

But we did.

We came right near to it, and saw the beach with the waves rippling undisturbed, saw the narrow waters between the rock-lump and the beach.

For now the road was down at sea-level.

And we were not very far from Terranova.

Yet all seemed still forsaken, outside of the world's life.

The sun was going down, very red and strong, away inland.

In the bus all were silent, subsiding into the pale travel-sleep.

We charged along the flat road, down on a plain now.

And dusk was gathering heavily over the land.

We saw the high-road curve flat upon the plain.

It was the harbour head.

We saw a magic, land-locked harbour, with masts and dark land encircling a glowing basin.

We even saw a steamer lying at the end of a long, thin bank of land, in the shallow, shining, wide harbour, as if wrecked there.

And this was our steamer.

But no, it looked in the powerful glow of the sunset like some lonely steamer laid up in some land-locked bay away at Spitzbergen, towards the North Pole: a solemn, mysterious, blue-landed bay, lost, lost to mankind.

* * * * * Our bus-mate came and told us we were to sit in the bus till the post-work was done, then we should be driven to the hotel where we could eat, and then he would accompany us on the town omnibus to the boat.

We need not be on board till eight o'clock: and now it was something after five.

So we sat still while the bus rushed and the road curved and the view of the weird, land-locked harbour changed, though the bare masts of ships in a bunch still pricked the upper glow, and the steamer lay away out, as if wrecked on a sand-bank, and dark, mysterious land with bunchy hills circled round, dark blue and wintry in a golden after-light, while the great, shallow-seeming bay of water shone like a mirror.

In we charged, past a railway, along the flat darkening road into a flat God-lost town of dark houses, on the marshy bay-head.

It felt more like a settlement than a town.

But it was Terranova-Pausanias.

And after bumping and rattling down a sombre uncouth, barren-seeming street, we came up with a jerk at a doorway--which was the post-office.

Urchins, mudlarks, were screaming for the luggage.

Everybody got out and set off towards the sea, the urchins carrying luggage.

We sat still.

* * * * * Till I couldn't bear it.

I did not want to stay in the automobile another moment, and I did not, I did not want to be accompanied by our new-found friend to the steamer.

So I burst out, and the q-b followed.

She too was relieved to escape the new attachment, though she had a great _tendre_ for him.

But in the end one runs away from one's _tendres_ much harder and more precipitately than from one's _durs_.

The mudlarking urchins fell upon us.

Had we any more luggage--were we going to the steamer?

I asked how one went to the steamer--did one walk?

I thought perhaps it would be necessary to row out.

You go on foot, or in a carriage, or in an aeroplane, said an impudent brat.

How far?

Ten minutes.

Could one go on board at once?

Yes, certainly.

So, in spite of the q-b's protests, I handed the sack to a wicked urchin, to be led.

She wanted us to go alone--but I did not know the way, and am wary of stumbling into entanglements in these parts.

I told the bus-Hamlet, who was abstract with nerve fatigue, please to tell his comrade that I would not forget the commission: and I tapped my waistcoat pocket, where the paper lay over my heart.

He briefly promised--and we escaped.

We escaped any further friendship.

* * * * * I bade the mud-lark lead me to the telegraph office: which of course was quite remote from the post-office.

Shouldering the sack, and clamouring for the kitchenino which the q-b stuck to, he marched forward.

By his height he was ten years old: by his face with its evil mud-lark pallor and good-looks, he was forty.

He wore a cut-down soldier's tunic which came nearly to his knees, was barefoot, and sprightly with that alert mudlarking quickness which has its advantages.

So we went down a passage and climbed a stair and came to an office where one would expect to register births and deaths.

But the urchin said it was the telegraph-office.

No sign of life.

Peering through the wicket I saw a fat individual seated writing in the distance.

Feeble lights relieved the big, barren, official spaces--I wonder the fat official wasn't afraid to be up here alone.

He made no move.

I banged the shutter and demanded a telegraph blank.

His shoulders went up to his ears, and he plainly intimated his intention to let us wait.

But I said loudly to the urchin: "Is _that_ the telegraph official?"

and the urchin said: "Si signore"--so the fat individual had to come.

* * * * * After which considerable delay, we set off again.

The bus, thank heaven, had gone, the savage dark street was empty of friends.

We turned away to the harbour front.

It was dark now.

I saw a railway near at hand--a bunch of dark masts--the steamer showing a few lights, far down at the tip of a long spit of land, remote in mid-harbour.

And so off we went, the barefoot urchin twinkling a few yards ahead, on the road that followed the spit of land.

The spit was wide enough to carry this road, and the railway.

On the right was a silent house apparently built on piles in the harbour.

Away far down in front leaned our glimmering steamer, and a little train was shunting trucks among the low sheds beside it.

Night had fallen, and the great stars flashed.

Orion was in the air, and his dog-star after him.

We followed on down the dark bar between the silent, lustrous water.

The harbour was smooth as glass, and gleaming like a mirror.

Hills came round encircling it entirely--dark land ridging up and lying away out, even to seaward.

One was not sure which was exactly seaward.

The dark encircling of the land seemed stealthy, the hills had a remoteness, guarding the waters in the silence.

Perhaps the great mass away beyond was Tavolara again.

It seemed like some lumpish berg guarding an arctic, locked-up bay where ships lay dead.

[Illustration: TERRANOVA] On and on we followed the urchin, till the town was left behind, until it also twinkled a few meagre lights out of its low, confused blackness at the bay-head, across the waters.

We lad left the ship-masts and the settlement.

The urchin padded on, only turning now and again and extending a thin, eager hand toward the kitchenino.

Especially when some men were advancing down the railway he wanted it: the q-b's carrying it was a slur on his prowess.

So the kitchenino was relinquished, and the lark strode on satisfied.

* * * * * Till at last we came to the low sheds that squatted between the steamer and the railway-end.

The lark led me into one, where a red-cap was writing.

The cap let me wait some minutes before informing me that this was the goods office--the ticket office was further on.

The lark flew at him and said "Then you've changed it, have you?"

And he led me on to another shed, which was just going to shut up.

Here they finally had the condescension to give me two tickets--a hundred and fifty francs the two.

So we followed the lark who strode like Scipio Africanus up the gangway with the sack.

* * * * * It was quite a small ship.

The steward put me in number one cabin--the q-b in number seven.

Each cabin had four berths.

Consequently man and woman must separate rigorously on this ship.

Here was a blow for the q-b, who knows what Italian female fellow-passengers can be.

However, there we were.

All the cabins were down below, and all, for some mysterious reason, inside--no portholes outside.

It was hot and close down below already.

I pitched the sack on my berth, and there stood the lark on the red carpet at the door.

I gave him three francs.

He looked at it as if it were my death-warrant.

He peered at the paper in the light of the lamp.

Then he extended his arm with a gesture of superb insolence, flinging me back my gold without a word.

"How!"

said I. "Three francs are quite enough."

"Three francs--two kilometers--and three pieces of luggage!

No signore.

No!

Five francs.

Cinque franchi!"

And averting his pallid, old mudlarking face, and flinging his hand out at me, he stood the image of indignant repudiation.

And truly, he was no taller than my upper waistcoat pocket.

The brat!

The brat!

He was such an actor, and so impudent, that I wavered between wonder and amusement and a great inclination to kick him up the steps.

I decided not to waste my energy being angry.

"What a beastly little boy!

What a horrid little boy!

What a _horrid_ little boy!

Really--a little thief.

A little swindler!"

I mused aloud.

"Swindler!"

he quavered after me.

And he was beaten.

"Swindler" doubled him up: that and the quiet mildness of my tone of invocation.

Now he would have gone with his three francs.

And now, in final contempt, I gave him the other two.

He disappeared like a streak of lightning up the gangway, terrified lest the steward should come and catch him at his tricks.

For later on I saw the steward send other larks flying for demanding more than one-fifty.

The brat.

* * * * * The question was now the cabin: for the q-b simply refused to entertain the idea of sharing a cabin with three Italian women, who would all be sick simply for the fuss of it, though the sea was smooth as glass.

We hunted up the steward.

He said all the first-class cabins had four berths--the second had three, but much smaller.

How that was possible I don't know.

However, if no one came, he would give us a cabin to ourselves.

The ship was clean and civilised, though very poky.

And there we were.

* * * * * We went on deck.