The Princess Passes Volume 56, Alice Muriel Williamson, Charles Norris Williamson [primary phonics txt] 📗

Chapter 13 (Afternoon Calls) Pg 91

Mid-Sky, Pearly Pale, And Magical Under The Rising Moon. The Little

Circle Of Light From Our Pink-Shaded Candles On The Table (I Say Our,

Because Boy And I Dined Together) Gave To The Picture A Bizarre

Effect, Which French Artists Love To Put On Canvas; A Blur Of

Gold-And-Rose Artificial Light, Blending With The Silver-Green

Radiance Of A Full Moon.

 

I Don't Know What We Had To Eat, Except That There Were Trout From The

River, And Luscious Strawberries And Cream; But I Know That The Dinner

Seemed Perfect, And That The Head Waiter, A Delightful Person, Brought

Us Champagne, With A Long-Handled Saucepan Wrapped In An Immaculate

Napkin, To Do Duty As An Ice-Pail. I Wondered Why I Had Not Come

Long Ago To This Place, Named In Honour Of Augustus Cæsar, And

Why Everybody Else Did Not Come. The Ex-Brat Was In The Game

Frame Of Mind. We Talked Of More Things Than Are Dreamed Of In

Philosophy--(Other People's Philosophy)--And There Was Not A Book

Which Was A Dear Friend Of Mine That Was Not A Friend Of This Strange

Child's.

 

We Sat Until The Moon Was High, And The Candles Low. I Felt Curiously

Happy And Excited, A Mood No Doubt Due In Part To The Climate Of

Aosta, In Part To The Discovery Of A Congenial Spirit, Where I Had

Least Expected To Find One.

 

Last Night, We Had Been, At Best, On Terms Of Armed Neutrality;

To-Night We Were Friends, And Would Continue Friends, Though We Parted

To-Morrow. But Parting Was Not What We Thought Of At The Moment. On

The Contrary, Half To Our Surprise, We Found Ourselves Planning To See

Aosta In Each Other's Company.

 

After Ten O'clock, When, Deliciously Fatigued, I Was On My Way To My

Room Along A Great Arcaded Balcony Which Ran The Length Of The House,

I Met Joseph, Lying In Wait For Me. My Conscience Pricked. I Had

Forgotten To Send The Poor, Tired Fellow Definite Instructions For The

Next Day. He Had Come To Solicit Them, But, If I Could Judge By

Moonlight, He Looked Far From Jaded; Indeed, He Had An Air Of

Alertness, For Him Almost Of Gaiety.

 

"You And Finois Can Have A Rest To-Morrow And The Day After," Said I,

"While I Do Some Sightseeing. I Hear That I Shall Need One Day At

Least For The Town, And Another For A Drive To The Châteaux And

Show-Places Of The Neighbourhood. I Hope You Will Be Able To Amuse

Yourself."

 

"Monsieur Must Not Think Of Me. I Shall Do Very Well," Dutifully

Replied Joseph.

 

"It Is A Pity That You And Innocentina Do Not Get On. Otherwise----"

 

"Ah, Perhaps I Should Tell Monsieur That I May Have Misjudged The

Young Woman A Little. It Seems A Question Of Bringing Up, More Than

Real Badness Of Heart. It Is Her Tongue That Is In Fault; And I Am

Not Even Sure That With Good Influences She Might Not Improve. I Have

Chapter 13 (Afternoon Calls) Pg 92

Been Talking To Her, Monsieur, Of Religion. She Is Black Catholic, And

I Protestant, But I Think That Some Of My Arguments Made A Certain

Impression Upon Her Mind."

 

After This, I Gave Myself No Further Anxiety About Joseph's To-Morrow,

But Went To Bed, And Dreamed Of Fighting For The Boy's Life,

Gulliver-Like, Against A Band Of Infuriated Brownies.

 

My First Morning Thought Was To Look Out Of All Four Windows At The

Mountains; My Next, To Ring For A Bath.

 

Now, As A Rule, Your Morning Tub Is A Function You Are Not Supposed To

Describe In Detail; But Not To Picture The Ceremony As Performed At

Aosta, Is To Pass By The Place Without Giving The Proper Dash Of Local

Colour.

 

I Rang. A Girl Appeared Who Struck Me As Singularly Beautiful, But I

Discovered Later That All Girls Are More Or Less Beautiful At Aosta.

The Propriety Of This Morning Visit Was Insured By The White Cap,

Which Was, So To Speak, An Adequate Chaperon. On My Request For A

Bath, The Beauty Looked Somewhat Agitated, But, After Reflection, Said

That She Would Fetch One, And Vanished, Tripping Lightly Along The

Balcony.

 

Twenty Minutes Then Passed, And At The End Of That Time The Young Lady

Returned, Almost Obliterated By An Enormous Linen Sheet Which Engulfed

Her Like An Avalanche. She Was Accompanied By A Man And A Boy,

Staggering Under A Strange Object Which Resembled A Vast Arm-Chair, Of

The Grandfather Variety. When Placed On The Floor, I Became Aware That

It Was A Kind Of Cross Between A Throne And A Bath-Tub, And, Having

Seen The Huge Sheet Flung Over It, I Still Rested In Doubt As To The

Latter's Purpose. The Man And Boy, Who Had Not Stood Upon The Order Of

Their Going, Returned After An Embarrassing Absence, With Pails Of

Water, The Contents Of Which, To My Surprise, They Flung Upon The

Sheet.

 

I Tried To Explain That, If This Were A Bath, I Preferred It Without

The Family Linen, But The _Femme De Chambre_ Seemed So Shocked At

These Protestations, That I Ceased Uttering Them, And Determined To

Make The Best Of Things As They Stood.

 

When I Was Again Alone, After Several Rehearsals I Found A Way Of

Accommodating The Human Form To The Hybrid Receptacle, And Was Amazed

At Its Luxuriousness. The Secret Of This Lay In The Sheet, Which Was

Fragrant Of Lavender, And Protected The Body From Contact With A Cold,

Base Metal Which Hundreds Of Other Bodies Must Have Touched Before.

 

"'Twas Mine, 'Tis His, And Has Been Slave To Thousands," Might Be Said

Of A Hotel Bath-Tub As Well As Of A Stolen Purse; And Having Once

Known The Linen-Lined Bath Of Aosta, I Was Promptly Spoiled For

Common, Un-Lined Tubs. This Was A Lesson Not To Form Hasty Opinions;

But Being A Normal Man, I Shall No Doubt Continue To Do So Until The

Day Of My Death.

Chapter 13 (Afternoon Calls) Pg 93

 

The Boy And I Broke Our Fast Together On The Loggia, Which Was Even

More Entertaining As A _Salle-À-Manger_ By Morning Than By Night. The

Coffee Was Exquisite; The Hot, Foaming Milk Had But Lately Been Drawn

From Its Original Source, A Little Biscuit-Coloured Alderney With The

Pleading Eyes Of That Fair Nymph Stricken To Heiferhood By Jealous

Juno. The Strawberries And Figs Came To The Table From The Hotel

Garden, And So Did The Luscious Roses, Which Filled A Bowl In The

Centre Of Our Small White Table.

 

This Was Arcadia. The Very Simplicities Of The Hotel Endeared It To

Our Hearts, And There Was No Real Comfort Lacking Which We Could Have

Obtained In London Or In Paris.

 

After Breakfast We Set Off With Our Cameras To The Town, A Walk Of Ten

Or Fifteen Minutes. It Was Strange, In This Pilgrimage Of Mine, How

Often I Found Myself Running Back Into The Feudal Or Middle Ages, As

Far Removed From The Familiar Bustle Of Modern Days As If An Iron Door

Had Been Shut And Padlocked Behind Me.

 

There Was Little Of The Twentieth Century In Aosta (Named By Augustus

The "Rome Of The Alps"), Except The Monument To "Le Roi Chasseur," And

The Bookshops, Which Seemed Extraordinarily Well Supplied With The

Best Literature Of All Countries. The Type Of Face We Met Was

Primitive; Scarcely One Which Would Have Been Out Of Place On Some Old

Roman Coin. Here, At The End Of A Narrow, Shadowed Street, Where St.

Anselm First Saw The Light (It Must Have Been With Difficulty) We Came

Upon A Magnificent Archway, Built To Do Honour To Augustus Cæsar's

Defeat Of The Brave Salasses, Four And Twenty Years Before The World

Had A Saviour. A Few Steps Further On, And We Were Under The Majestic

Mass Of The Porta Pretoria; Or We Were Crossing A Roman Bridge, Or

Gazing At The Ruins Of Roman Ramparts. Or, We Lost Our Way In

Searching For The Amphitheatre, And Found Ourselves Suddenly Skipping

Over Centuries Into The Middle Ages, Represented By The Mysterious

Tour Bramafam, The Tour Des Prisons, Or The Tour Du Lepreux, Round

Which Xavier Maistre Wrote His Pathetic Dialogue. Then, There Was The

Cathedral With Its Extraordinary Painted Façade, Like A Great Coloured

Picture-Book; And The Tall Cross, Straddling A Spring In A Paved

Street, Put Up In Thanksgiving By The Aostans When They Joyfully Saw

Calvin's Back For The Last Time.

 

We Spent All Day In Sightseeing, And Had Another Moonlight Evening On

The Loggia. We Were Great Pals Now, Boy And I. I Had Never Met Anyone

In The Least Like Him. At One Moment He Was A Human Boy, Almost A

Child; At Another His Brain Leaped Beyond Mine, And He Became A Poet

Or A Philosopher; Again He Was An Elfin Sprite, A Creature For Whom

Puck Was The One Thinkable Name. There Was A Single Thing Only, About

Which You Could Always Be Sure. He Would Never Be Twice The Same.

 

Still, Though We Were Friends, "Boy" And "Man" We Remained. He Kept

His Name A Secret, And He Had Forbidden Me To Mention Mine. Nor Had He

Spoken Of His Route Or Destination, After Aosta. As To This I Was

Curious, For I Knew Now That It Would Be A Wrench To Part With The

Chapter 13 (Afternoon Calls) Pg 94

Strange Little Being Whose Ears I Had Tingled To Box Three Days (Or

Was It Three Years?) Ago. Already He Had Done Me Good; And Though I

Had Hardly Reached The Point Of Confessing As Much To Myself, As A

Plain Matter Of Fact I Would Not Have Exchanged His Quaint

Companionship For That Of My Lost Love. How She Would Have Hated This

Idyllic Arcadia! How _Triste_ She Would Have Been; How Weary After A

Day's Tour Among Relics Of Past Ages; And How Much She Would Have

Preferred Bond Street To The Arch Of Augustus, Or The Park To Our Snow

Mountains And Green Valley! Even Davos She Would Have Found

Intolerable Had It Not Been For The Tobogganing, The Dances And The

Theatricals, In All Of Which She Had Played A Leading Part. Deep Down

In The Darkest Corner Of My Soul, I Now Knew That I