My Friend the Chauffeur
"The dear thing! How nice to see it again! I could kiss it," I heard
Maida saying. Something was snorting dreadfully, too. I'm not sure which
waked me. But I sleepily asked Maida what it was she could kiss.
"Why, the automobile, of course," she replied. "Now, Beechy, _don't_
drop off again. It's down there in the courtyard. Can't you hear it
calling? This is the third time I've tried to wake you up."
"Oh, I thought it was the Ten of Clubs roaring, while I dipped him
repeatedly into boiling cod-liver oil," I murmured; but I jumped out of
bed and dressed myself as if the house were on fire.
Mamma said that she had been up since six; and I knew why; she hadn't
liked to make herself beautiful under the eyes of Maida, so exquisitely
adorned by Nature. But she was fresh and gay as a cricket.
In the _salle a manger_ were Sir Ralph and Mr. Barrymore, who had
brought the motor from the machine shop. He looked as well tubbed and
groomed as if he had had two hours for his toilet, instead of twenty
minutes; and we laughed a great deal as we told our night adventures,
feeling as if we'd been friends for months, if not years. It was much
nicer without the Prince, I thought, though Mamma kept glancing at the
door, and showed her disappointment on learning that he had stolen off
to sleep at Alessandria. Joseph, it seemed, had telegraphed him this
morning about the water-wheel, and the news that his automobile couldn't
be ready till twelve or one o'clock.
As we thankfully turned our backs on Cuneo we realized why it had been
given a name signifying "wedge," because of the two river torrents, the
Stura and Gesso, that whittle the town to a point, one on either side.
For a while we ran smoothly along a road on a high embankment, which
reminded Sir Ralph and the Chauffeulier of the Loire; less beautiful
though, they thought, despite the great wedding-ring of white mountains
that girdled the country round.
By and by the mountains dwindled to hills, purple and blue in the
distance, misty spring-green in the foreground; in place of the
dandelions of yesterday we had a carpet of buttercups woven in gold on
either side of the road. There was always the river, too; and, as Maida
said, water brightens a landscape as a diamond brightens a ring.
The air was as warm now as on the Riviera but there was a tingle of
youth and spring in it, while at Cap Martin it was already heavy with
the perfume of summer flowers. And we had not to be sorry for poor
people to-day, for there were no poverty-stricken villages. The country
was rich, every inch cultivated, and there were comfortable farms with
tall, important-looking gateways. But, then, Mr. Barrymore told us that
it was no safer to judge an Italian farm by its gateway than an Italian
village shop by the contents of its windows.
After a while, just as we might have begun to tire of the far-reaching
plain, it broke into billows, each earthy wave crested by a ruined
chateau, or a still thriving mediaeval town. Bra was the finest, with a
grand old red-brown castle towering high on a hill, and throwing a cool
shadow all across the hot, white road below.
"We must stop in Asti, if it's but for ten minutes," said Sir Ralph.
"Why?" asked Maida, over her shoulder (she was sitting in the front seat
again, where Mr. Barrymore had contrived to put her). "Do you mean on
account of Vittorio Alfieri?"
"Who is he?" inquired Mamma; and I was wondering, too; but I hate to
show that I don't know things Maida knows.
"Oh, he was a charming poet, born in Asti in the middle of the
eighteenth century," said Maida. "I've read a lot about him, at--at
home. He had one of the prettiest love stories in history. It is like an
Anthony Hope romance. I thought, perhaps, Sir Ralph wanted us to see the
house where he lived."
"I'm ashamed to say it was the Asti Spumante I was thinking of,"
confessed Sir Ralph. "It's a wine for children, but it might amuse you
all to taste it on its native heath; and you could drink the health of
Vittorio Alfieri--in a better world."
Mamma thought that proceeding rather too Popish for a professed
Presbyterian; nevertheless, we decided to have the wine. We approached
Asti by way of a massive gateway, which formed a part of the ancient
fortifications of the city; and though we had seen several others rather
like it since coming into Piedmont and Lombardy, it struck me with a
sort of awe that I would have been ashamed to put into words, except on
paper, for fear somebody might laugh. I suppose it's because I come from
a country where we think houses aged at fifty, and antique at a hundred;
but these old fortified towns and ruined castles frowning down from
rocky heights give me the kind of eerie thrill one might have if one had
just died and was being introduced to scenery and society on the fixed
stars or planets.
At home it had always seemed so useless to know which was which, Guelfs
or Ghibellines, when I was studying history, that I made no effort to
fix them in my mind; but now, when I caught snatches of talk between
Maida and the Chauffeulier, to whom the Guelfs and Ghibellines are still
apparently as real as Republicans and Democrats were to Papa, I wished
that I knew a little more about them. But how could I tell in those days
that I would ever be darting about in a country where George Washington
and Abraham Lincoln would seem more unreal than the Swabian Emperors,
the Marquesses of Montferrat, and the Princes of Savoie ever did to me
in Denver?
I envied Maida when I heard her say that the House of Savoie had been
like Goethe's star, "unhasting and unresting" in its absorption of
other principalities, marquisates, counties, duchies, and provinces,
which it had matched into one great mosaic, at last, making the kingdom
of Italy. Mr. Barrymore loves Italy so much that he likes her for
knowing these things, and I think I shall steal that book she bought at
Nice, and is always reading--Hallam's "Middle Ages."
The effect of the grim old gateways, even upon me, is a little marred by
the fact that from out of their shadows usually jump small
blue-uniformed Octroi men like Jacks from a box. At Asti there was a
particularly fussy one, who wouldn't take Mr. Barrymore's word that we'd
nothing to declare, but poked and prodded at our hold-alls and bags, and
even sniffed as if he suspected us of spirits, tobacco, or onions. He
looked so comic as he did this that Maida laughed, which appeared to
overwhelm him with remorse, as if an angel had had hysterics. He
flushed, bowed, motioned for us to pass on, and we sailed into a wide,
rather stately old street.
"Oh, look!" Maida cried out, pointing, and the Chauffeulier slowed down
before a house with a marble tablet on it. It was almost a palace; and
Mamma began to feel some respect for Vittorio Alfieri when she read on
the slab of marble that he had been born there. "Why, he must have been
a gentleman!" she exclaimed.
Maida and Mr. Barrymore laughed at that, and Sir Ralph said that
evidently the Countess had a small opinion of poets.
"Another Countess loved Alfieri," remarked Mr. Barrymore; and when Mamma
heard that, she made a note to buy his poems. But I don't believe she
knew who the Countess of Albany was, though she was able to join feebly
in the conversation about the Young Pretender.
We went into the house, and wandered about some cold, gloomy rooms, in
one of which Vittorio had happened to be born. We saw his portrait, and
a sonnet in his own handwriting, which Mr. Barrymore translated for
Maida, and would for me, perhaps, only I was too proud to interrupt.
Altogether I should have felt quite out of it if it hadn't been for
Sir Ralph. After our talk about the worm and other things, he couldn't
help guessing what my feelings were, and he did his best to make me
forget my sorrow. He said that he didn't know anything about the Italian
poets except the really necessary ones, such as Dante and Petrarch, and
as little as possible of them. Then he asked about the American ones,
and seemed interested in Walt Whitman and Eugene Field and James
Whitcomb Riley, all of whom I can recite by the yard.
When we had scraped up every item of interest about Alfieri, as Papa
used to scrape up butter for his bread rather than take a fresh bit, we
spun on again to an old-fashioned hotel, where everybody rushed to meet
us, bowing, and looked ready to cry when they found we didn't want
rooms.
"Perhaps the Countess would absolve you from your vow of temperance,
Terry, that you may have the exquisite delight of quaffing a little Asti
Spumante," said Sir Ralph to Mr. Barrymore, when we were at a table in a
large, cool dining-room.
"Why, of course," replied Mamma, and then opened her eyes wide when both
men laughed, and Mr. Barrymore intimated that Sir Ralph's head would be
improved by punching. Neither of them would take any of the wine when it
came, though it looked fascinating, fizzling out of beautiful bottles
decked with gold and silver foil, like champagne. It tasted like
champagne too, so far as I could tell; but perhaps I'm not a judge, as
there was never any wine except elderberry at home, and I've only had
champagne twice since I've been the child of a Countess. The Asti was
nice and sweet. I loved it, and so did Mamma, who said she would have
it, torrents of it, at the next dinner party she gave. But when Sir
Ralph hurried to tell her that it was cheap, she vacillated, worrying
lest it shouldn't be worthy to go with her crowns.
I don't know whether it was the Spumante, or the sunshine, as golden as
the wine, but I felt quite happy again when we drove out of Asti. I
didn't care at all that I wasn't sitting beside Mr. Barrymore, though I
thought that I probably should care again by and by. Mamma was happy,
too, and Sir Ralph amused us by planning a book to be called "Motoring
for Experts, by Experts." There were a good many Rules for
Automobilists, such as:--
No. 1. Never believe you have got money enough with you when you start.
Whatever you think will be right, be sure you will want exactly twice as
much.
No. 2. Never suppose you have plenty of time, or plenty of room for your
luggage. Never get up in the morning at the time your chauffeur (not Mr.
Barrymore, but others) tells you he will have the car ready. Do not
leave your bed till the automobile is under your window, and do not pack
the things you have used for the night until the chauffeur has started
your motor for the third time.
No. 3. All invalids, except those suffering from pessimism, may hope to
be benefited by motoring; but pessimism in a mild form often becomes
fatally exaggerated by experience with automobiles, especially in
chauffeurs.
No. 4. Hoping that things which have begun to go wrong with a motor will
mend, should be like an atheist's definition of faith: "believing what
you know isn't true." If you _think_ a bearing is hot, but hope against
hope it 's only oil you smell, make up your mind that it _is_ the
bearing.
No. 5. Never dream that you'll get anywhere sooner than you thought you
would, for it will always be later; or that a road may improve, for it
is sure to grow worse; or that your chauffeur, or anyone you meet, knows
anything about the country through which you are to pass, for every one
will direct you the wrong way.
No. 6. If your chauffeur tells you that your car will be ready in an
hour, it will be three, if not four; if he says that you can start on
again that afternoon, it will be to-morrow before lunch.
No. 7. Put not your trust in Princes, nor in the motor-cars of Princes.
No. 8. Cultivate your bump of presence of mind, and the automobile will
see that you have plenty of other bumps.
We hadn't got half to the end of the rules we had thought of, when