An Idyll
The train had just left Genoa, in the direction of Marseilles, and was following the rocky and sinuous coast, gliding like an iron serpent between the sea and the mountains, creeping over the yellow sand edged with silver waves and entering into the black-mouthed tunnels like a beast into its lair.
In the last carriage, a stout woman and a young man sat opposite each other. They did not speak, but occasionally they would glance at each other. She was about twenty-five years old. Seated by the window, she silently gazed at the passing landscape. She was from Piedmont, a peasant, with large black eyes, a full bust and fat cheeks. She had deposited several parcels on the wooden seat and she held a basket on her knees.
The man might have been twenty years old. He was thin and sunburned, with the dark complexion that denotes work in the open. Tied up in a handkerchief was his whole fortune; a pair of heavy boots, a pair of trousers, a shirt and a coat. Hidden under the seat were a shovel and a pickaxe tied together with a rope.
He was going to France to seek work.
The sun, rising in the sky, spread a fiery light over the coast; it was toward the end of May and delightful odours entered into the railway carriage.
The blooming orange and lemon-trees exhaled a heavy, sweet perfume that mingled with the breath of the roses which grew in profusion along the railroad track, as well as in the gardens of the wealthy and the humble homes of the peasants.
Roses are so completely at home along this coast! They fill the whole region with their dainty and powerful fragrance and make the atmosphere taste like a delicacy, something better than wine, and as intoxicating.
The train was going at slow speed as if loath to leave behind this wonderful garden! It stopped every few minutes at small stations, at clusters of white houses, then went on again leisurely, emitting long whistles. Nobody got in. One would have thought that all the world had gone to sleep and made up its mind not to travel on that sultry spring morning. The plump peasant woman from time to time closed her eyes, but she would open them suddenly whenever her basket slid from her lap. She would catch it, replace it, look out of the window a little while and then doze off again. Tiny beads of perspiration covered her brow and she breathed with difficulty, as if suffering from a painful oppression.
The young man had let his head fall on his breast and was sleeping the sound sleep of the labouring man.
All of a sudden, just as the train left a small station, the peasant woman woke up and opening her basket, drew forth a piece of bread, some hard-boiled eggs, and a flask of wine and some fine, red plums. She began to munch contentedly.
The man had also wakened and he watched the woman, watched every morsel that travelled from her knees to her lips. He sat with his arms folded, his eyes set and his lips tightly compressed.
The woman ate like a glutton, with relish. Every little while she would take a swallow of wine to wash down the eggs and then she would stop for breath.
Everything vanished, the bread, the eggs, the plums and the wine. As soon as she finished her meal, the man closed his eyes. Then, feeling ill at ease, she loosened her blouse and the man suddenly looked at her again.
She did not seem to mind and continued to unbutton her dress.
The pressure of her flesh causing the opening to gape, she revealed a portion of white linen chemise and a portion of her skin.
As soon as she felt more comfortable, she turned to her fellow-traveller and remarked in Italian: “It’s fine weather for travelling.”
“Are you from Piedmont?” he asked. “I’m from Asti.”
“And I’m from Casale.”
They were neighbours and they began to talk. They exchanged the commonplace remarks that working people repeat over and over and which are all-sufficient for their slow-working and narrow minds. They spoke of their homes and found out that they had a number of mutual acquaintances.
They quoted names and became more and more friendly as they discovered more and more people they knew. Short, rapid words, with sonorous endings and the Italian cadence, gushed from their lips.
After that, they talked about themselves. She was married and had three children whom she had left with her sister, for she had found a situation as nurse, a good situation with a French lady at Marseilles.
He was going to look for work.
He had been told that he would be able to find it in France, for they were building a great deal, he had heard.
They found nothing to talk about after that.
The heat was becoming terrible; it beat down like fire on the roof of the railway carriage. A cloud of dust flew behind the train and entered through the window, and the fragrance of the roses and orange-blossoms had become stronger, heavier and more penetrating.
The two travellers went to sleep again.
They awakened almost at the same time. The sun was nearing the edge of the horizon and shed its glorious light on the
