It is out of the question
nowadays. You must do as the Romans do - walk slowly and use the tram
whenever possible.
That is what I purpose to do. There is a line which will take me direct
to the Milvian bridge, where I mean to have a bathe, and then a lunch at
the restaurant across the water. Its proprietor is something of a
brigand; so am I, at a pinch. It is "honour among thieves," or "diamond
cut diamond."
Already a few enthusiasts are gathered here, on the glowing sands. But
the water is still cold; indeed, the Tiber is never too warm for me. If
you like it yet more chill, you must walk up to where the Aniene
discharges its waves whose temperature, at this season, is of a kind to
tickle up a walrus.
Whether it be due to the medley of races or to some other cause, there
is a singular variety of flesh-tints among the bathers here. I wish my
old friend Dr. Bowles could have seen it; we used to be deeply immersed,
both of us, in the question of the chromatophores, I observing their
freakish behaviour in the epidermis of certain frogs, while he studied
their action on the human skin and wrote an excellent little paper on
sunburn - a darker problem than it seems to be. [20]
These men and boys do not grow uniformly sunburnt. They display so many
different colour-shades on their bodies that an artist would be
delighted with the effect. From that peculiar milky hue which, by reason
of some pigment, contrives to resist the rays, the tints diverge; the
reds, the scarcer group, traversing every gradation from pale rose to
the ruddiest of copper - not excluding that strange marbled complexion
concerning which I cannot make up my mind whether it be a beauty or a
defect; while the xanthous tones, the yellows, pass through silvery gold
and apricot and cafe au lait to a duskiness approaching that of the
negro. At this season the skins are still white. Your artist must come
later - not later, however, than the end of August, for on the first of
September the bathing, be the weather never so warm, is officially, and
quite suddenly, at an end. Tiber water is declared to be "unhealthy"
after that date, and liable to give you fever; a relic of the days when
the true origin of malaria was unknown.
A glance at the papers is sufficient to prove that bathing has not yet
begun in earnest. No drowning accidents, up to the present. Later on
they come thick and fast. For this river, with its rapid current and
vindictive swirling eddies, is dangerous to young swimmers; it grips
them in its tawny coils and holds them fast, often within a few yards of
friend or parent who listens, powerless to help, to the victim's cries
of anguish and sees his arm raised imploringly out of that serpent-like
embrace. So it hurries him to destruction, only to be fished up later in
a state, as the newspapers will be careful to inform us, of "incipient
putrefaction."
A murderous flood....
That hoary, trickling structure - that fountain which has forgotten to be
a fountain, so dreamily does the water ooze through obstructive mosses
and emerald growths that dangle in drowsy pendants, like wet beards,
from its venerable lips - that fountain un-trimmed, harmonious, overhung
by ancient ilexes: where shall a more reposeful spot be found? Doubly
delicious, after the turmoil and glistening sheen by the river-bank. For
the foliage of the oaks and sycamores is such that it creates a kind of
twilight, and all around lies the tranquillity of noon. Here, on the
encircling stone bench, you may idle through the sultry hours conversing
with some favourite disciple while the cows trample up to drink amid
moist gurglings and tail-swishings. They gaze at you with gentle eyes,
they blow their sweet breath upon your cheek, and move sedately onward.
The Villa Borghese can be hushed, at such times, in a kind of
enchantment.
"You never told me why you come to Italy."
"In order," I reply, "to enjoy places like this."
"But listen. Surely you have fountains in your own country?"
"None quite so golden-green."
"Ah, it wants cleaning, doesn't it?"
"Lord, no!" I say; but only to myself. One should never pass for an
imbecile, if one can help it.
Aloud I remark: -
"Let me try to set forth, however droll it may sound, the point of view
of a certain class of people, supposing they exist, who might think that
this particular fountain ought never to be cleaned" - and there ensued a
discussion, lasting about half an hour, in the course of which I
elaborated, artfully and progressively, my own thesis, and forged, in
the teeth of some lively opposition, what struck me as a convincing
argument in favour of leaving the fountain alone.
"Then that is why you come to Italy. On account of a certain fountain,
which ought never to be cleaned."
"I said on account of places like this. And I ought to have added, on
account of moments such as these."
"Are those your two reasons?"
"Those are my two reasons."
"Then you have thought about it before?"
"Often."
One should never pass for an imbecile, if one can help it.
"But listen. Surely it is sometimes two o'clock in the afternoon, in
your country?"
"I used that word moment in a pregnant sense," I reply. "Pregnant: when
something is concealed or enclosed within. What is enclosed within this
moment?
