IN studying out my itinerary1 at Florence I came upon the homely2 advice in Baedeker that in Venice “care should be taken in embarking3 and disembarking, especially when the tide is low, exposing the slimy lower steps.” That, as much as anything I had ever read, visualized4 this wonder city to me. These Italian cities, not being large, end so quickly that before you can say Jack5 Robinson you are out of them and away, far into the country. It was early evening as we pulled out of Florence; and for a while the country was much the same as it had been in the south—hill-towns, medieval bridges and strongholds, the prevailing7 solid browns, pinks, grays and blues8 of the architecture, the white oxen, pigs and shabby carts, but gradually, as we neared Bologna, things seemed to take on a very modern air of factories, wide streets, thoroughly9 modern suburbs and the like. It grew dark shortly after that and the country was only favored by the rich radiance of the moon which made it more picturesque10 and romantic, but less definite and distinguishable.
In the compartment11 with me were two women, one a comfortable-looking matron traveling from Florence to Bologna, the other a young girl of twenty or twenty-one, of the large languorous12 type, and decidedly good looking. She was very plainly dressed and evidently belonged to the middle class.
The married Italian lady was small and good-looking and bourgeoise. Considerably13 before dinner-time, and as we were nearing Bologna, she opened a small basket399 which she carried and took from it a sandwich, an apple, and a bit of cheese, which she ate placidly14. For some reason she occasionally smiled at me good-naturedly, but not speaking Italian, I was without the means of making a single observation. At Bologna I assisted her with her parcels and received a smiling backward glance and then I settled myself in my seat wondering what the remainder of the evening would bring forth15. I was not so very long in discovering.
Once the married lady of Bologna had disappeared, my young companion took on new life. She rose, smoothed down her dress and reclined comfortably in her seat, her cheek laid close against the velvet-covered arm, and looked at me occasionally out of half-closed eyes. She finally tried to make herself more comfortable by lying down and I offered her my fur overcoat as a pillow. She accepted it with a half-smile.
About this time the dining-car steward16 came through to take a memorandum17 of those who wished to reserve places for dinner. He looked at the young lady but she shook her head negatively. I made a sudden decision. “Reserve two places,” I said. The servitor bowed politely and went away. I scarcely knew why I had said this, for I was under the impression my young lady companion spoke18 only Italian, but I was trusting much to my intuition at the moment.
A little later, when it was drawing near the meal time, I said, “Do you speak English?”
“Non,” she replied, shaking her head.
“Sprechen Sie Deutsch?”
“Ein wenig,” she replied, with an easy, babyish, half-German, half-Italian smile.
“Sie sind doch Italianisch,” I suggested.
“Oh, oui!” she replied, and put her head down comfortably on my coat.
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“Reisen Sie nach Venedig?” I inquired.
“Oui,” she nodded. She half smiled again.
I had a real thrill of satisfaction out of all this, for although I speak abominable19 German, just sufficient to make myself understood by a really clever person, yet I knew, by the exercise of a little tact20 I should have a companion to dinner.
“You will take dinner with me, won’t you?” I stammered21 in my best German. “I do not understand German very well, but perhaps we can make ourselves understood. I have two places.”
She hesitated, and said—“Ich bin6 nicht hungerich.”
“But for company’s sake,” I replied.
“Mais, oui,” she replied indifferently.
I then asked her whether she was going to any particular hotel in Venice—I was bound for the Royal Danieli—and she replied that her home was in Venice.
Maria Bastida was a most interesting type. She was a Diana for size, pallid22, with a full rounded body. Her hair was almost flaxen and her hands large but not unshapely. She seemed to be strangely world-weary and yet strangely passionate—the kind of mind and body that does and does not, care; a kind of dull, smoldering23 fire burning within her and yet she seemed indifferent into the bargain. She asked me an occasional question about New York as we dined, and though wine was proffered24 she drank little and, true to her statement that she was not hungry, ate little. She confided25 to me in soft, difficult German that she was trying not to get too stout26, that her mother was German and her father Italian and that she had been visiting an uncle in Florence who was in the grocery business. I wondered how she came to be traveling first class.
The time passed. Dinner was over and in several hours more we would be in Venice. We returned to401 our compartment and because the moon was shining magnificently we stood in the corridor and watched its radiance on clustered cypresses27, villa-crowned hills, great stretches of flat prairie or marsh28 land, all barren of trees, and occasionally on little towns all white and brown, glistening29 in the clear light.
“It will be a fine night to see Venice for the first time,” I suggested.
“Oh, oui! Herrlich! Prachtvoll!” she replied in her queer mixture of French and German.
I liked her command of sounding German words.
She told me the names of stations at which we stopped, and finally she exclaimed quite gaily30, “Now we are here! The Lagoon31!”
I looked out and we were speeding over a wide body o............