Part 7 (1/2)
Denis had rushed through the twilight vivid like a flame--he had lit it for a moment and left it grey. Peter knew that.
”But he hasn't,” Rodney maintained, ”got the key of the thing. If he did take his clothes off, it would be a toss-up whether he found more life or lost what he's got. That's all wrong, don't you see. That's what ails all these delightful, prosperous people. They're swimming with life-belts.”
”You'll be saying next,” said Peter, disgusted, ”that you admire Savonarola and his bonfire.”
”I do, of course. But he'd only got hold of half of it--half the gospel of the empty-handed. The point is to lose and laugh.” For a moment Rodney had a vision of Peter standing bare-headed in the dust and smiling. ”To drop all the trappings and still find life jolly--just because it _is_ life, not because of what it brings. That's what St. Francis did. That's where Italy scores over England. I remember at Lerici the beggars laughing on the sh.o.r.e, with a little maccaroni to last them the day.
There was a man all done up in bandages, hopping about on crutches and grinning. Smashed to bits, and his bones sticking out of his skin for hunger, but there was the sun and the sea and the game he was playing with dice, and he looked as if he was saying, '_Nihil habentes, omnia possidentes_; isn't it a jolly day?' When Denis says that, I shall begin to have hopes for him. At present he thinks it's a jolly day because he's got money to throw about and a hundred and one games to play at and friends to play them with, and everything his own way, and a new motor.... Well, but look at that now. Isn't it bare and splendid--all clean lines--no messing and softness; it might be cut out of rock. Oh, I like Tuscany.”
They had rounded a bend, and a s.p.a.cious country lay there stretched to the morning, and over it the marvel of the dawn opened and blossomed like a flower. From the basin of the s.h.i.+ning river the hills stood back, and up their steep sides the vine-hung mulberries and close-trimmed olives climbed (olives south of the Serchio are diligently pruned, and lack the generous luxuriance of the north), and against the silver background the sentinel cypresses stood black, like sharp music notes striking abruptly into a vague symphony; and among the mulberry gardens and the olives and the cypresses white roads climbed and spiralled up to little cresting cities that took the rosy dawn. Tuscany emerging out of the dim mystery of night had a splendid clarity, an unblurred cleanness of line, an austere fineness, as of a land hewn sharply out of rock.
Peter would not have that fine bareness used as ill.u.s.tration; it was too good a thing in itself. Rodney the symbolist saw the vision of life in it, Peter the joy of self-sufficient beauty.
The quiet road bore them through the hushed translucence of the dawn-clear land. Everything was silent in this limpid hour; the little wind that had whitened the olives and set the sea-waves whispering there had dropped now and lay very still.
The road ran level through the river basin. Far ahead they could see it now, a white ribbon laid beside a long golden gleam that wound and wound.
Peter sighed, seeing so much of it all at once, and stopped to rest on the low white wall, but instead of sitting on it he swayed suddenly forward, and the hill cities circled close about him, and darkened and shut out the dawn.
The smell of the dust, when one was close to it, was bitter and odd.
Somewhere in the further darkness a voice was muttering mild and perplexed imprecations. Peter moved on the strong arm that was supporting him and opened his eyes and looked on the world again. Between him and the rosy morning, Rodney loomed large, pouring whisky into a flask.
It all seemed a very old and often-repeated tale. One could not do anything; one could not even go a walking-tour: one could not (of this one was quite sure) take whisky at this juncture without feeling horribly sick. The only thing that occurred to Peter, in the face of the dominant Rodney, was to say, ”I'm a teetotaller.” Rodney nodded and held the flask to his lips. Rodney was looking rather worried.
Peter said presently, still at length in the dust, ”I'm frightfully sorry. I suppose I'm tired. Didn't we get up rather early and walk rather fast?”
”I suppose,” said Rodney, ”you oughtn't to have come. What's wrong, you rotter?”
Peter sat up, and there lay the road again, stretching and stretching into the pink morning.
”Thirty kilometres to breakfast,” murmured Peter. ”And I don't know that I want any, even then. Wrong?... Oh ... well, I suppose it's heart. I have one, you know, of a sort. A nuisance, it's always been. Not dangerous, but just in the way. I'm sorry, Rodney--I really am.”
Rodney said again, ”You absolute rotter. Why didn't you tell me? What in the name of anything induced you to walk at all? You needn't have.”
Peter looked down the long road that wound and wound into the morning land. ”I wanted to,” he said. ”I wanted to most awfully.... I wanted to try it.... I thought perhaps it was the one thing.... Football's off for me, you know--and most other things.... Only diabolo left ... and ping-pong ... and jig-saw. I'm quite good at those ... but oh, I did want to be able to walk. Horribly I wanted it.”
”Well,” said Rodney practically, ”it's extremely obvious that you aren't.
You ought to have got into that thing, of course. Only then, as you remarked, you would have felt sick. Really, Margery....”
”Oh, I know,” Peter stopped him hastily. ”_Don't_ say the usual things; I really feel too unwell to bear them. I know I'm made in Germany and all that--I've been hearing so all my life. And now I should like you to go on to Florence, and I'll follow, very slow. It's all very well, Rodney, but you were going at about seven miles an hour. Talk of motors--I couldn't see the scenery as we rushed by. That's such a Vandal-like way of crossing Tuscany.”
”Well, you can cross the rest of Tuscany by train. There's a station at Montelupo; we shall be there directly.”
Peter, abruptly renouncing his intention of getting up, lay back giddily.
The marvellous morning was splendid on the mountains.
”How extremely lucky,” remarked Peter weakly, ”that I wasn't in this position when Denis came by. Denis usually does come by at these crucial moments you know--always has. He probably thinks by now that I am an escaped inhabitant of the Permanent Casualty Ward. Bother. I wish he didn't.”
”Since it's obvious,” said Rodney, ”that you can't stand, let alone walk, I had better go on to Montelupo and fetch a carriage of sorts. I wonder if you can lie there quietly till I come back, or if you'll be having seizures and things? Well, I can't help it. I must go, anyhow. There's the whisky on your left.”