ON THE STEAMER

The blue water seems as thick as oil. The screw of the steamer works softly, almost silently. One can detect no trembling of the deck and the mast, pointing towards the clear sky, strains and quivers ever so slightly. The rigging, taut as the strings of an instrument, hums gently, but one has grown used to the vibration, and does not notice it, and it seems as if the steamer—white and graceful as a swan—were motionless on the smooth water. To perceive the motion one must look over the gunwale, where a greenish wave retreats from the white side of the steamer. It seems to fall away in broad soft folds, rolling and glistening like quicksilver and splashing dreamily.

It is morning. The sea seems half asleep. The rosy hues of sunrise have not yet disappeared from the sky. We have just passed the island of Gorgona, still slumbering. It is a stern, solitary rock, covered with woods and surmounted by a round grey tower; a cluster of little white houses can be seen at the edge of the sleepy water. A few small boats are moving rapidly on either side of the steamer, rowed by people from the island going to catch sardines. The measured splashing of the long oars and the slim figures of the fishermen linger in the memory. The men row standing and seem to be bowing to the sun.

Behind the ship’s stern is a broad streak of greenish foam. Above it seagulls soar lazily. Now and then a bird seems to come from nowhere. It flies noiselessly, stretched out like a cigar, and, after skimming the surface of the water, suddenly darts into it like an arrow.

In the distance, like a cloud from the sea, rises the coast-line of Liguria, with its violet mountains. In another two or three hours the steamer will enter the narrow harbour of the marble town of Genoa.

The sun climbs higher and higher, promising a hot day.

The stewards run up on to the deck; one of them is young, thin, and quick in his movements, like a Neapolitan, with an ever-changing expression on his mobile face; the other is a man of medium height, with a grey moustache, black eyebrows, and silvery bristles on his round skull. He has an aquiline nose and serious, intelligent eyes. Laughing and joking they quickly lay the table for breakfast and depart. Then one after another the passengers creep slowly from their cabins. First comes a fat man with a small head and red bloated face; he looks melancholy and his tired swollen red lips are half open. He is followed by a tall, sleek man with grey side-whiskers, eyes that cannot be seen, and a little nose that looks like a button on his flat yellow face. After them, leaping over the brass rail of the companion-way, comes a plump red-haired man, with a moustache curled in military fashion; he is dressed like an Alpine mountaineer, and wears a green feather in his hat. All three stop near the gunwale. The fat man, half-closing his sad eyes, remarks:

“How calm it is!”

The man with the side-whiskers put his hands into his pockets, spread out his legs, and stood there resembling a pair of open scissors. The red-haired man took out his large gold watch, which looked like the pendulum of a clock, looked at it, then at the sky and along the deck; then he began to whistle, swinging his watch and beating time with his foot.

Two ladies came up, the younger, embonpoint, with a porcelain face and amiable milky-blue eyes. Her dark brows seemed to have been pencilled and one was higher than the other. The other was older, sharp-featured, and her headdress of faded hair looked enormous. She had a large black mole on her left cheek, two gold chains round her neck, and a lorgnon and a number of trinkets hanging from the belt of her grey dress.

Coffee was served; the young lady sat down silently at the table and began to pour out the black liquid, affectedly curving her arms, which were bare to the elbow.

The men came to the table and sat down in silence. The fat man took a cup and said sighing:

“It is going to be hot.”

“You are spilling it on to your knees,” remarked the elder lady.

He looked down, his chin and cheeks became puffed out as they rested on his chest; he put his cup on the table, wiped drops of coffee off his grey trousers with a handkerchief, and then wiped his face, which was in a perspiration.

“Yes,” unexpectedly remarked the red-haired man in a loud voice, shuffling his short legs. “Yes, yes, even if the Parties of the Left have begun to complain about hooliganism it means——”

“Don’t chatter, John,” interrupted the elder lady. “Isn’t Lisa coming out?”

“She doesn’t feel well,” answered the younger lady in a sonorous voice.

“But the sea is quite calm.”

“Oh, but when a woman is in her condition.”

The red-haired man smiled voluptuously and closed his eyes.

Beyond the gunwale, breaking the calm expanse of the sea, porpoises were making a commotion. The man with the side-whiskers, watching them attentively, said:

“The porpoises look like pigs.”

The red-haired man chimed in:

“There is plenty of piggery here.”

The colourless lady raised a cup to her lips, smelt the coffee and made a grimace.

“It is disgusting.”

“And the milk, eh?” said the fat man, blinking and seeming ill at ease.

The lady with the porcelain face said in a sing-song voice: “Everything is very dirty, and they all look very much like Jews.”

The red-haired man was rapidly whispering something into the ear of the man with the side-whiskers, as if he were giving replies to his teacher, proud of having learnt his lesson well. His listener seemed tickled, and betrayed curiosity. He wagged his head slightly from side to side, and, in his fat face, his wide-open mouth looked like a hole in a dried-up board. At times he seemed to want to say something and began in a strange, hoarse voice:

“In our province——”

But without continuing he again attentively inclined his head to the lips of the red-haired man.

The fat man sighed heavily, saying:

“How you buzz, John!”

“Well, give me some coffee.”

He drew up to the table, causing a clatter, and his companion said impressively:

“John has ideas——”

“You have not had enough sleep,” said the elder lady, looking through her lorgnon at the man with the side-whiskers. The latter passed his hand over his face, then looked at his palm.

“I seem to have got some powder on my face. Do you notice it?”

“Oh, uncle,” exclaimed the younger lady, “that is a peculiarity of beautiful Italy! One’s skin dries here so terribly!” The elder lady inquired:

“Do you notice, Lydia, how bad the sugar is here?”

A man of large proportions came on deck. His grey, curly hair looked like a cap. He had a big nose, merry eyes and a cigar between his lips. The stewards who stood near the gunwale bowed reverently to him.

“Good-morning, boys, good-morning,” said he, in a loud, hoarse voice, benevolently nodding his head.

The Russians became silent, looking askance at the new-comer from time to time. John of the military moustache said in a low voice:

“A retired military man, one can see at once——”

Noticing that he was being observed the grey-haired man took the cigar from his mouth and bowed pleasantly to the Russians. The elder lady threw back her head and, raising her lorgnon to her nose, looked at him defiantly. The man with the moustache was embarrassed and, turning away, took out his watch and began to swing it in the air. Only the fat man acknowledged the greeting, pressing his chin against his chest. The Italian became embarrassed in his turn. He pushed his cigar nervously into a corner of his mouth and asked the middle-aged steward in a low tone:

“Are those Russians?”

“Yes, sir: a Russian Governor and his family.”

“What kind faces they always have.” “Very nice people.”

“The best of the Slavs of course.”

“They are a trifle careless I should say.”

“Careless? Why?”

“It seems so to me—they are careless in their treatment of people.”

The fat Russian blushed and, smiling broadly, said in a subdued tone:

“They are speaking about us.”

“What?” asked the elder lady, with a disdainful grimace.

“They are saying we are the best of the Slavs,” answered the fat man, with a giggle.

“They are such flatterers,” declared the lady, but red-haired John put away his watch and, twisting his moustache with both hands, said, in an off-hand way:

“They are all amazingly ignorant about everything that concerns us.”

“You are being praised,” said the fat man, “and you say it is due to ignorance.” “Nonsense! That is not what I mean, but generally speaking.… I know myself that we are the best of Slavs.”

The man with the side-whiskers, who for some time had been attentively watching the porpoises at play, sighed and, shaking his head, remarked:

“What a stupid fish!”

Two more persons joined the greyhaired Italian: an old bespectacled man in a black frock-coat and a pale youth with long hair, a high forehead and dark eyebrows. They all stood at the gunwale about five yards from the Russians; the grey-haired man said quietly:

“When I see Russians I think of Messina.”

“Do you remember how we met the sailors at Naples?” asked the youth.

“Yes, they will never forget that day in their forests!”

“Have you seen the medal struck in their honour?”

“I do not think much of the workmanship.”

“They are talking about Messina,” the fat man informed his companions.

“And they laugh!” exclaimed the younger lady. “It is amazing!”

Seagulls overtook the steamer, and one of them, beating its crooked wings, seemed to hang in the air over the gunwale; the younger lady began to throw biscuits to it. The birds, in catching the pieces, disappeared below the gunwale and then, shrieking greedily, rose again in the blue void above the sea. Some coffee was brought to the Italians: they also began to feed the birds, tossing up pieces of biscuits. The lady raised her brows and said:

“Look at the monkeys.”

The fat man continued to listen to the animated talk of the Italians and presently said:

“He is not a military man, he is a merchant. He talks about trading in corn with us, and about being able to buy petroleum, timber and coal from us.”

“I noticed at once that he was not a military man,” said the elder lady.

The red-haired man began again to speak into the ear of the man with side-whiskers. The latter screwed up his mouth sceptically as he listened to him. The young Italian, glancing sideways at the Russians, said:

“What a pity it is that we know so little about this country of big, blue-eyed people!”

The sun was now high in the sky and burning hotly; the sea glistened and dazzled one. In the distance, on the port side, mountains and clouds appeared out of the water.

“Annette,” said the man with the side-whiskers, his smile reaching his ears, “just think what an idea has struck funny John! He has hit upon the best way of ridding the villages of malcontents. It is very ingenious.”

And rolling in his chair he related in a slow and halting manner, as if he were translating from another language: “The idea is that on holidays and market-days the local ‘district chief’ should get together, at the public expense, a great quantity of stakes and stones; and should then set out before the peasants, also at the public expense, thirty, sixty, a hundred and fifty gallons of vodka, according to the number of people. That is all that is wanted!”

“I don’t understand,” declared the elder lady. “Is it a joke?”

The red-haired man answered quickly:

“No, it is quite serious. Just think of it, ma tante.”

The younger lady opened her eyes wide, and shrugged her shoulders.

“What nonsense to let them drink Government vodka when they already.

“No, wait a bit, Lydia,” exclaimed the red-haired man, jumping up from his chair. The man with the side-whiskers rocked from side to side, laughing noiselessly with his mouth wide open.

“Just think of it! The hooligans who don’t succeed in getting dead drunk will kill one another with the sticks and stones. Don’t you see?”

“Why one another?” asked the fat man.

“Is it a joke?” inquired the elder lady again.

The red-haired man waved his short arms excitedly and tried to explain.

“When the authorities pacify them, the Parties of the Left cry out about cruelty and atrocities. That means that a way must be found by which they can pacify themselves. Don’t you agree?” The steamer gave a lurch and the crockery rattled. The plump lady was alarmed and caught hold of the table; and the elder lady, laying her hand on the fat man’s shoulder, asked sharply:

“What’s that?”

“We are turning.”

The coast, rising out of the water, becomes higher and more defined. One can see the gardens on the slopes of the mist-enveloped hills and mountains. Bluish boulders peep out from among the vineyards; white houses appear through the haze. The window-panes glisten in the sun and patches of bright colour greet the eye. Right on the water’s edge, at the foot of the cliffs, a little house faces the sea; it is overhung with a thick mass of bright violet flowers. Above it, pouring like a broad red stream over the stones of the terraces, is a profusion of red geraniums. The colours are gay, the coast-line looks amiable and hospitable. The soft contours of the mountains seem to entice one into the shade of the gardens.

“How small everything is here!” said the fat man, with a sigh. The elder lady looked at him sharply; then, compressing her thin lips and throwing back her head, gazed through her lorgnon at the coast.

A number of dark-complexioned people in light costumes are now on deck, talking loudly. The Russian ladies look at them disdainfully, as queens on their subjects.

“How they wave their arms,” said the younger lady, and the fat man, catching his breath, explained:

“It is the fault of their language. It is poor and requires gestures.”

“O Lord!” said the elder lady, with a deep sigh. Then after a pause she inquired:

“Are there many museums in Genoa?”

“I understand there are three,” answered the fat man.

“And a cemetery?” asked the younger lady.

“Campo Santo? And churches, of course.”

“Are the cabmen as bad as in Naples?” “As bad as in Moscow.”

The red-haired man and the man with the side-whiskers rose and moved away from the gunwale, talking together earnestly and interrupting one another.

“What is the Italian saying?” asked the lady, adjusting her gorgeous headdress. Her elbows were pointed, her ears large and yellow, like faded leaves. The fat man listened attentively and obediently to the animated talk of the curly-headed Italian.

“It seems that there is a very old law which forbids the Jews to enter Moscow. It is no doubt a relic of former despotism, you know, of John the Terrible. Even in England there are many obsolete laws unrepealed even to this day. It may be that the Jew was trying to mislead me; anyhow, for some reason or other he was not allowed to enter Moscow, the ancient city of the Tsars, of sacred things.”

“But here in Rome the Mayor is a Jew—in Rome, which is more ancient and more sacred than Moscow,” said the youth, smiling.

“And he gives the Pope some very shrewd knocks—the little tailor. Let us wish him success in that,” put in the old man in spectacles, clapping his hands.

“What is the old man saying?” asked the lady.

“Just a minute! Some nonsense. They speak the Neapolitan dialect.”

“This Jew went to Moscow, however—they must have blood—and there he goes to the house of a prostitute. It was the only place he could go to, so he said.”

“A fairy tale!” said the old man decisively; and he waved his arm as if brushing the tale aside.

“To tell you the truth, I am of the same opinion.”

“Of course, it’s a fable!”

“And what was the sequel?” asked the youth.

“He was betrayed by her to the police; but she took his money first.”

“What baseness,” said the old man. “He is a man with a dirty imagination, that’s all. I know some Russians who were with me at the University; they are fine fellows.”

“But listen to me. The strange thing was…”

“I have heard it said…”

The fat Russian, wiping his perspiring face with a handkerchief, said to the ladies in an idle, indifferent tone:

“He is telling a Jewish anecdote.”

“With such animation?” smiled the young lady; and the other remarked:

“In these people, with their gestures and their noise, there is a lack of variety.” A town grows on the coast, houses rise from beyond the hills and huddle close together, until they form a solid wall of buildings which reflect the sunlight and look as if they were carved out of ivory.

“It is like Yalta,” remarked the young lady, rising up. “I will go to Lisa.”

She ambled her portly body, which was clothed in some bluish material, slowly along the deck. As she passed the group of Italians the grey-haired man interrupted his speech and said quietly:

“What fine eyes!”

“Yes,” nodded the old man in spectacles. “Basilida, I imagine, must have looked like that.”

“Basilida, the Byzantine?”

“I picture her as a Slav woman.”

“They are saying something about Lydia,” said the fat man.

“What?” asked the lady. “No doubt some low jokes?”

“About her eyes. They admire——”

The lady made a grimace.

The brasswork on the steamer glistened as, gently and rapidly, she neared the shore. The black walls of the pier came in sight and, beyond them, rising into the sky, a forest of masts. Here and there bright coloured flags hung motionless; dark smoke ascended and seemed to melt in the air; there was a smell of oil and coal dust; the noise of work proceeding in the harbour and the complex bourdon note of a large town reached the ear.

The fat man suddenly burst out laughing.

“What’s the matter?” asked the lady, half-closing her grey, faded eyes.

“The Germans will smash them up, by Jove! You will see it!”

“Why should you rejoice at that?”

“Just so.”

The man with the side-whiskers, examining the soles of his boots, asked the red-haired man, speaking deliberately and in a loud voice:

“Were you satisfied with this surprise or not?”

The red-haired man twisted his moustache fiercely, and made no reply.

The steamer slowed down. The green water splashed against the white sides of the ship, as if in protest. It gave no reflection of the marble houses, the high towers and the azure terraces. The black jaws of the harbour opened, disclosing a thick scattering of ships.