Italian Days and Ways

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Wharton Anne Hollingsworth. Italian Days and Ways

I. LA SUPERBA IN THE CLOUDS

II. ALONG THE RIVIERA

III. CAPTURED BY A CABMAN

IV. AN EXCITING DRIVE

V. BELLA ROMA

VI. A POET'S CORNER

VII. ANTIQUITIES AND ORANGE-BLOSSOMS

VIII. VIA APPIA

IX. TU ES PETRUS

X. VALE ROMA

XI. SHORT JOURNEYS

XII AN UMBRIAN IDYL

XIII. A SUNDAY IN ASSISI

XIV. THE CITY OF FLOWERS

XV. AN EARTHLY PARADISE

XVI. FIESOLE

XVII. HAPS AND HAPPENINGS

XVIII. ANGELA'S LETTER

Отрывок из книги

Of course the sun was shining when we left Genoa. We were glad to see how fair La Superba could be, with her terraced gardens, many villas, and noble background of blue mountains. Indeed, I confess to some qualms of conscience, feeling that I may have given you a too gloomy picture of the fine old city; but how can one give a cheerful view of the attractions of a place where one's gayest hours were spent in a cemetery?

Our way lay along the sea by the Western Riviera, one of the garden spots of the world. The railroad winds in and out among the rocks, or into tunnels pierced through them, often running parallel with the famous Cornice Drive, which was for many years the only road from Genoa to Nice. The beauty of this drive, which lies sometimes between the railroad and the sea and again ascends the rocky heights beyond, made us wish that railroads had never been invented. A coach and four, a Cinderella coach, would be the only suitable equipage in which to make this journey into fairyland.

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Remembering that there lay before us a long stretch of road overhanging a sharp declivity, Zelphine and I made a desperate attempt to stop our hilarious vetturino in his mad career. Finding that our remonstrances excited him to more strenuous exertions, Zelphine tried the effect of her few available words and many eloquent gestures upon the small boy, urging him to make his brother drive more carefully, telling him that the old lady of the party was very much alarmed, and advising him to get the whip into his own hands. This, however, proved to be impossible; the boy, well frightened himself by this time, only succeeded in getting hard words and a shaking. Give up his whip! Not he. As well ask a soldier to lay down his arms. The whip was his pride and joy, his pièce de résistance, so to speak, with which he awoke the echoes of these slumbering old Italian towns, bringing the inhabitants, men, women, children, cats, dogs, and chickens, to the sidewalk to witness our rapid transit. Even those among our own countrymen who pride themselves most upon their skill in annihilating space could not have made better time than we did as we rattled over that Calabrian highway. Fortunately, the horses were well-trained and steady enough to balance the driver's eccentricities. Perhaps they were accustomed to them by long experience. Be this as it may, we proceeded on our way without any accident, passing the dangerous part of the road before darkness overtook us.

We clattered through Salerno at a tearing gallop, and as we neared La Cava the whip-cracking was resumed with renewed vigor, bringing the citizens to their doors and windows. Some of them, indeed, followed the carriage, crying out, "Prima donna! Prima donna!"

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