It was cloudy in Italy, which surprised them. They had expected brilliant
sunshine. But never mind: it was Italy, and the very clouds looked fat. Neither
of them had ever been there before. Both gazed out of the windows with rapt
faces. The hours flew as long as it was daylight, and after that there was the
excitement of getting nearer, getting quite near, getting there. At Genoa it
had begun to rain—Genoa! Imagine actually being at Genoa, seeing its name
written up in the station just like any other name—at Nervi it was pouring, and
when at last towards midnight, for again the train was late, they got to
Mezzago, the rain was coming down in what seemed solid sheets. But it was
Italy. Nothing it did could be bad. The very rain was different—straight rain,
falling properly on to one’s umbrella; not that violently blowing English stuff
that got in everywhere. And it did leave off; and when it did, behold the earth
would be strewn with roses. Mr. Briggs, San Salvatore’s owner, had said, “You get out at Mezzago, and then
you drive.” But he had forgotten what he amply knew, that trains in Italy are
sometimes late, and he had imagined his tenants arriving at Mezzago at eight
o’clock and finding a string of flys to choose from. The train was four hours late, and when Mrs. Arbuthnot and Mrs. Wilkins
scrambled down the ladder-like high steps of their carriage into the black
downpour, their skirts sweeping off great pools of sooty wet because their
hands were full of suit-cases, if it had not been for the vigilance of
Domenico, the gardener at San Salvatore, they would have found nothing for them
to drive in. All ordinary flys had long since gone home. Domenico, foreseeing
this, had sent his aunt’s fly, driven by her son his cousin; and his aunt and
her fly lived in Castagneto, the village crouching at the feet of San
Salvatore, and therefore, however late the train was, the fly would not dare
come home without containing that which it had been sent to fetch. Domenico’s cousin’s name was Beppo, and he presently emerged out of the dark
where Mrs. Arbuthnot and Mrs. Wilkins stood, uncertain what to do next after
the train had gone on, for they could see no porter and they thought from the
feel of it that they were standing not so much on a platform as in the middle
of the permanent way. Beppo, who had been searching for them, emerged from the dark with a kind of
pounce and talked Italian to them vociferously. Beppo was a most respectable
young man, but he did not look as if he were, especially not in the dark, and
he had a dripping hat slouched over one eye. They did not like the way he
seized their suit-cases. He could not be, they thought, a porter. However, they
presently from out of his streaming talk discerned the words San Salvatore, and
after that they kept on saying them to him, for it was the only Italian they
knew, as they hurried after him, unwilling to lose sight of their suit-cases,
stumbling across rails and through puddles out to where in the road a small,
high fly stood. Its hood was up, and its horse was in an attitude of thought. They climbed in,
and the minute they were in—Mrs. Wilkins, indeed, could hardly be called in—the
horse awoke with a start from its reverie and immediately began going home
rapidly; without Beppo; without the suit-cases. Beppo darted after him, making the night ring with his shouts, and caught the
hanging reins just in time. He explained proudly, and as it seemed to him with
perfect clearness, that the horse always did that, being a fine animal full of
corn and blood, and cared for by him, Beppo, as if he were his own son, and the
ladies must not be alarmed—he had noticed they were clutching each other; but
clear, and loud, and profuse of words though he was, they only looked at him
blankly. He went on talking, however, while he piled the suit-cases up round them, sure
that sooner or later they must understand him, especially as he was careful to
talk very loud and illustrate everything he said with the simplest elucidatory
gestures, but they both continued only to look at him. They both, he noticed
sympathetically, had white faces, fatigued faces, and they both had big eyes,
fatigued eyes. They were beautiful ladies, he thought, and their eyes, looking
at him over the tops of the suit-cases watching his every movement—there were
no trunks, only numbers of suit-cases—were like the eyes of the Mother of God.
The only thing the ladies said, and they repeated it at regular intervals, even
after they had started, gently prodding him as he sat on his box to call his
attention to it, was, “San Salvatore?” And each time he answered vociferously, encouragingly, “Sì, sì—San
Salvatore.” “We don’t know of course if he’s taking us there,” said Mrs. Arbuthnot
at last in a low voice, after they had been driving as it seemed to them a long
while, and had got off the paving-stones of the sleep-shrouded town and were
out on a winding road with what they could just see was a low wall on their
left beyond which was a great black emptiness and the sound of the sea. On
their right was something close and steep and high and black—rocks, they
whispered to each other; huge rocks. “No—we don’t know,” agreed Mrs. Wilkins, a slight coldness passing down
her spine. They felt very uncomfortable. It was so late. It was so dark. The road was so
lonely. Suppose a wheel came off. Suppose they met Fascisti, or the opposite of
Fascisti. How sorry they were now that they had not slept at Genoa and come on
the next morning in daylight. “But that would have been the first of April,” said Mrs. Wilkins, in a low
voice. “It is that now,” said Mrs. Arbuthnot beneath her breath. “So it is,” murmured Mrs. Wilkins. They were silent. Beppo turned round on his box—a disquieting habit already noticed, for surely
his horse ought to be carefully watched—and again addressed them with what he
was convinced was lucidity—no patois, and the clearest explanatory
movements. How much they wished their mothers had made them learn Italian when they were
little. If only now they could have said, “Please sit round the right way and
look after the horse.” They did not even know what horse was in Italian. It was
contemptible to be so ignorant. In their anxiety, for the road twisted round great jutting rocks, and on their
left was only the low wall to keep them out of the sea should anything happen,
they too began to gesticulate, waving their hands at Beppo, pointing ahead.
They wanted him to turn round again and face his horse, that was all. He
thought they wanted him to drive faster; and there followed a terrifying ten
minutes during which, as he supposed, he was gratifying them. He was proud of
his horse, and it could go very fast. He rose in his seat, the whip cracked,
the horse rushed forward, the rocks leaped towards them, the little fly swayed,
the suit-cases heaved, Mrs. Arbuthnot and Mrs. Wilkins clung. In this way they
continued, swaying, heaving, clattering, clinging, till at a point near
Castagneto there was a rise in the road, and on reaching the foot of the rise
the horse, who knew every inch of the way, stopped suddenly, throwing
everything in the fly into a heap, and then proceeded up at the slowest of
walks. Beppo twisted himself round to receive their admiration, laughing with pride in
his horse. There was no answering laugh from the beautiful ladies. Their eyes, fixed on
him, seemed bigger than ever, and their faces against the black of the night
showed milky. But here at least, once they were up the slope, were houses. The rocks left
off, and there were houses; the low wall left off, and there were houses; the
sea shrunk away, and the sound of it ceased, and the loneliness of the road was
finished. No lights anywhere, of course, nobody to see them pass; and yet
Beppo, when the houses began, after looking over his shoulder and shouting
“Castagneto” at the ladies, once more stood up and cracked his whip and once
more made his horse dash forward. “We shall be there in a minute,” Mrs. Arbuthnot said to herself, holding on. “We shall soon stop now,” Mrs. Wilkins said to herself, holding on. They said
nothing aloud, because nothing would have been heard above the whip-cracking
and the wheel-clattering and the boisterous inciting noises Beppo was making at
his horse. Anxiously they strained their eyes for any sight of the beginning of San
Salvatore. They had supposed and hoped that after a reasonable amount of village a
mediaeval archway would loom upon them, and through it they would drive into a
garden and draw up at an open, welcoming door, with light streaming from it and
those servants standing in it who, according to the advertisement, remained. Instead the fly suddenly stopped. Peering out they could see they were still in the village street, with small
dark houses each side; and Beppo, throwing the reins over the horse’s back as
if completely confident this time that he would not go any farther, got down
off his box. At the same moment, springing as it seemed out of nothing, a man
and several half-grown boys appeared on each side of the fly and began dragging
out the suit-cases. “No, no—San Salvatore, San Salvatore”—exclaimed Mrs. Wilkins, trying to hold on
to what suit-cases she could. “Sì, sì—San Salvatore,” they all shouted, pulling. “This can’t be San Salvatore,” said Mrs. Wilkins, turning to Mrs.
Arbuthnot, who sat quite still watching her suit-cases being taken from her
with the same patience she applied to lesser evils. She knew she could do
nothing if these men were wicked men determined to have her suit-cases. “I don’t think it can be,” she admitted, and could not refrain from a moment’s
wonder at the ways of God. Had she really been brought here, she and poor Mrs.
Wilkins, after so much trouble in arranging it, so much difficulty and worry,
along such devious paths of prevarication and deceit, only to be— She checked her thoughts, and gently said to Mrs. Wilkins, while the ragged
youths disappeared with the suit-cases into the night and the man with the
lantern helped Beppo pull the rug off her, that they were both in God’s hands;
and for the first time on hearing this, Mrs. Wilkins was afraid. There was nothing for it but to get out. Useless to try to go on sitting in the
fly repeating San Salvatore. Every time they said it, and their voices each
time were fainter, Beppo and the other man merely echoed it in a series of loud
shouts. If only they had learned Italian when they were little. If only they
could have said, “We wish to be driven to the door.” But they did not even know
what door was in Italian. Such ignorance was not only contemptible, it was,
they now saw, definitely dangerous. Useless, however, to lament it now. Useless
to put off whatever it was that was going to happen to them by trying to go on
sitting in the fly. They therefore got out. The two men opened their umbrellas for them and handed them to them. From this
they received a faint encouragement, because they could not believe that if
these men were wicked they would pause to open umbrellas. The man with the
lantern then made signs to them to follow him, talking loud and quickly, and
Beppo, they noticed, remained behind. Ought they to pay him? Not, they thought,
if they were going to be robbed and perhaps murdered. Surely on such an
occasion one did not pay. Besides, he had not after all brought them to San
Salvatore. Where they had got to was evidently somewhere else. Also, he did not
show the least wish to be paid; he let them go away into the night with no
clamour at all. This, they could not help thinking, was a bad sign. He asked
for nothing because presently he was to get so much. They came to some steps. The road ended abruptly in a church and some
descending steps. The man held the lantern low for them to see the steps. “San Salvatore?” said Mrs. Wilkins once again, very faintly, before committing
herself to the steps. It was useless to mention it now, of course, but she
could not go down steps in complete silence. No mediaeval castle, she was sure,
was ever built at the bottom of steps. Again, however, came the echoing shout—“Sì, sì—San Salvatore.” They descended gingerly, holding up their skirts just as if they would be
wanting them another time and had not in all probability finished with skirts
for ever. The steps ended in a steeply sloping path with flat stone slabs down the
middle. They slipped a good deal on these wet slabs, and the man with the
lantern, talking loud and quickly, held them up. His way of holding them up was
polite. “Perhaps,” said Mrs. Wilkins in a low voice to Mrs. Arbuthnot, “It is all right
after all.” “We’re in God’s hands,” said Mrs. Arbuthnot again; and again Mrs. Wilkins was
afraid. They reached the bottom of the sloping path, and the light of the lantern
flickered over an open space with houses round three sides. The sea was the
fourth side, lazily washing backwards and forwards on pebbles. “San Salvatore,” said the man pointing with his lantern to a black mass curved
round the water like an arm flung about it. They strained their eyes. They saw the black mass, and on the top of it a
light. “San Salvatore?” they both repeated incredulously, for where were the
suit-cases, and why had they been forced to get out of the fly? “Sì, sì—San Salvatore.” They went along what seemed to be a quay, right on the edge of the water. There
was not even a low wall here—nothing to prevent the man with the lantern
tipping them in if he wanted to. He did not, however, tip them in. Perhaps it
was all right after all, Mrs. Wilkins again suggested to Mrs. Arbuthnot on
noticing this, who this time was herself beginning to think that it might be,
and said no more about God’s hands. The flicker of the lantern danced along, reflected in the wet pavement of the
quay. Out to the left, in the darkness and evidently at the end of a jetty, was
a red light. They came to an archway with a heavy iron gate. The man with the
lantern pushed the gate open. This time they went up steps instead of down, and
at the top of them was a little path that wound upwards among flowers. They
could not see the flowers, but the whole place was evidently full of them. It here dawned on Mrs. Wilkins that perhaps the reason why the fly had not
driven them up to the door was that there was no road, only a footpath. That
also would explain the disappearance of the suit-cases. She began to feel
confident that they would find their suit-cases waiting for them when they got
up to the top. San Salvatore was, it seemed, on the top of a hill, as a
mediaeval castle should be. At a turn of the path they saw above them, much
nearer now and shining more brightly, the light they had seen from the quay.
She told Mrs. Arbuthnot of her dawning belief, and Mrs. Arbuthnot agreed that
it was very likely a true one. Once more, but this time in a tone of real hopefulness, Mrs. Wilkins said,
pointing upwards at the black outline against the only slightly less black sky,
“San Salvatore?” And once more, but this time comfortingly, encouragingly, came
back the assurance, “Sì, sì—San Salvatore.” They crossed a little bridge, over what was apparently a ravine, and then came
a flat bit with long grass at the sides and more flowers. They felt the grass
flicking wet against their stockings, and the invisible flowers were
everywhere. Then up again through trees, along a zigzag path with the smell all
the way of the flowers they could not see. The warm rain was bringing out all
the sweetness. Higher and higher they went in this sweet darkness, and the red
light on the jetty dropped farther and farther below them. The path wound round to the other side of what appeared to be a little
peninsula; the jetty and the red light disappeared; across the emptiness on
their left were distant lights. “Mezzago,” said the man, waving his lantern at the lights. “Sì, sì,” they answered, for they had by now learned “sì, sì”. Upon which
the man congratulated them in a great flow of polite words, not one of which
they understood, on their magnificent Italian; for this was Domenico, the
vigilant and accomplished gardener of San Salvatore, the prop and stay of the
establishment, the resourceful, the gifted, the eloquent, the courteous, the
intelligent Domenico. Only they did not know that yet; and he did in the dark,
and even sometimes in the light, look, with his knife-sharp swarthy features
and swift, panther movements, very like somebody wicked. They passed along another flat bit of path, with a black shape like a high wall
towering above them on their right, and then the path went up again under
trellises, and trailing sprays of scented things caught at them and shook
raindrops on them, and the light of the lantern flickered over lilies, and then
came a flight of ancient steps worn with centuries, and then another iron gate,
and then they were inside, though still climbing a twisting flight of stone
steps with old walls on either side like the walls of dungeons, and with a
vaulted roof. At the top was a wrought-iron door, and through it shone a flood of electric
light. “Ecco,” said Domenico, lithely running up the last few steps ahead and
pushing the door open. And there they were, arrived; and it was San Salvatore; and their suit-cases
were waiting for them; and they had not been murdered. They looked at each other’s white faces and blinking eyes very solemnly. It was a great, a wonderful moment. Here they were, in their mediaeval castle
at last. Their feet touched its stones. Mrs. Wilkins put her arm round Mrs. Arbuthnot’s neck and kissed her. “The first thing to happen in this house,” she said softly, solemnly, “shall be
a kiss.” “Dear Lotty,” said Mrs. Arbuthnot. “Dear Rose,” said Mrs. Wilkins, her eyes brimming with gladness. Domenico was delighted. He liked to see beautiful ladies kiss. He made them a
most appreciative speech of welcome, and they stood arm in arm, holding each
other up, for they were very tired, blinking smilingly at him, and not
understanding a word.