HEN the Young Man and the Young Woman who were travelling with a party, and whom we had met at Monte Carlo and grown to like, told us that they would enjoy the trip across northern Italy because it would be "improving to the mind," we edged off uncomfortably toward the Casino and lost a few more unimproving francs. But even the absorbing of our silver did not blot out the gloomy prospect of motoring an intellectual pair through an emotional country.
We, as a middle-aged couple (the expression had been forced upon us, until we finally accepted it), had considered the inviting of the Young Man and the Young Woman as near an approach to a revival of tender sentiment as our slightly silvered hair would permit. It had been our vague intention to hold the mirror up to them—and see ourselves. We wished the young couple, for the trip at least, to engage in a sort of delicate exchange of gallantries, which we should have enjoyed with ourselves in the principal rôles had not the stigma of "middle age" weighted us down with its awful dignity. We hoped for a sort of flirtation pleasing to the eye, which would blossom under the Italian sky, then, later, gently die. I made this statement to the Illustrator with no knowledge of the rhyme until he laughed. Since then I have been repeating it proudly.
The Illustrator, as he bitterly slung in their books of reference amid the oil-cans and made ready for an intellectual departure, had no hope of their vulnerability, but I was not bereft of all attacking methods. The first one, I admit, was frustrated, for at the start the young girl beckoned me to the rear seat, where she had already installed herself, with a mental firmness which no romantic couple in middle age could well combat—and remain unashamed. The Young Man settled himself in my favorite place by the driving Illustrator; the satiated retinue of the Monte Carlo hostelry bowed their adieus; and with my heart beating expectantly at re-entering the land of rich sensations, we made for Italy.
The Young Woman, who must have heard the prancing of this artery of mine which refuses to grow old, smiled at me kindly, with a question in her eyes.
"I am wishing," I said to her, conscious of my effort at careful phrasing, "that the first of the little dramas of the roadside which come to us so thickly in this country will greet us at the Customs, just as we slip past the tricolor and draw up at the post of green and white and red. Don't you think that would be splendid?"
The Young Woman looked dubious. "An episode that will give a clue to the character of the country?"
I nodded, flattened but defiant. After all, she had my thought. So she leaned forward, one hand upon her note-book, pencil poised.
At the French barrier the clean children bade us "bon voyage," then a climb across a gorge—muleteers along the way—a donkey-boy singing half French and half Italian—a sudden turn—the colors, green and white and red, upon a rock—a small stucco house with an official lounging waitingly—and in the doorway a signora gravely examining the tousled head of a small, dirty child.
"How awful!" cried the girl, shutting her note-book with a snap.
"How Italian!" I replied, well satisfied.
If one follows the Corniche road after passing into Italy, only the man of wildest imaginings can feel an appreciable difference between it and the country that is left behind. There are still the colorful sea, the baked white road, and the pink villas, where surely no one was ever born or has ever died. There is not the dignity of these simple events about their vapid architecture. But twist the motor to the left after leaving Ventimiglia, thrust its nose into the Maritime Alps, and let it smell out Tenda, and one's forgotten Italian speech comes back to him by the aid of sign-posts and road warnings. It is a way of sharp turns bitten into the rock, across mountain torrents busily furnishing electric power to the gambling-houses back on the Riviera, and past vineyards, hanging from crevices, which soften the grim visage of Mother Earth as do long eyelashes beautify a stern-faced woman.
The Young Man and the Young Woman gave forth expressions.
"It is volcanic," they agreed.
"It is glorious," I asserted.
"It is every bit on the high speed," said the Illustrator, whose mind was on his engine.