Page:Harper's New Monthly Magazine - v109.djvu/1002

930 of guide-book leaves while they vainly searched it out.

Honestly, though, if the Italian doctor had failed me, I might have been a little bit discouraged. I suppose Vespucius, de Soto, and all those other fellows felt that way occasionally.

But the Italian doctor was all right. I thought he was going to give me the rock story at first, and longed to have one in my hand, but he only spoke of it incidentally. He is of the royal Italian navy, and at one time was stationed on a cruiser in the harbor of Terranova, within five miles of the island of my dreams. "Very beautiful," he said, "from a distance. Oh no, signore, no one ever goes there. It's just an island. People? Perhaps, but it must be a stupid life. Self-governed! My dear sir, what have you been reading?"

He gave me other pointers. The mosquitoes were so bad and the malaria so dangerous that every one wore long gloves, high shoes, and masks. I saw myself going about in a mosquito-net, and feared it would detract from my dignity. I should have preferred the Tavolarian exploring expedition in a sort of black affair like a bandit's, but, on the other hand, that would have been dangerously misleading. Sardinia has been overwhelmed for years by systematized raids on villages, he told me, in which members of the leading families join. An official sent from Rome to check these depredations requested a list of suspected persons from the chief of police, but was told that it would be impossible to give him one, as the first on the list would be that of the district member of Parliament. Another sleuth, who came over from Italy to investigate a very daring robbery of family plate, was dined by the most powerful gentleman of the village, and found the stolen silverware on the table. The doctor thinks they do it because they are bored, and spoke quite feelingly on the subject. Seemed a decent chap, too;—not that I believe—you see, he had to stay on his ship.

I took quinine, but did not lose heart, and by the 4th of July reached Rome. It was a busy day (without a fire-cracker in the schedule), spent in preparing a medicine-chest, banking my valuable papers, and buying heavy gauntlets and an automobile-mask with goggles. I had grown rather nervous over the idea of a mosquito-net drapery—thought it might be too "dressy." The greatest difficulty was in getting away. The steamship line that ran from Civita Vecchia to Sardinia wouldn't sell its own tickets—ashamed to, probably,—and "Monsieur Cook" parted with them like a man washing his hands of the entire affair. I found the Minister of Agriculture towards evening, after unrolling several bolts of red tape—not that he was in any one of them; he had a very handsome office, full of books, several of which he took down, and read fragments therefrom. I gathered that the wheat crop had failed in Sardinia, and that Tavolara was a barren waste. As to my hint of a possible self-government, "Non è vero, non è vero!" he exclaimed, and bowed me out stiffly, as though I had suggested it to him as a possible plan for our own aggrandizement.

The trip down to Civita Vecchia was hot and dusty, and the famous seaport from which the Roman legions sailed to conquer other lands, though picturesque in its filth, has probably changed a bit since then. I couldn't find the slightest resemblance between my sketch of the harbor and the famous painting by Turner, but I didn't attempt the sunset. It was quite after the great master's style—the sunset, I mean,—and the other passenger and I found ourselves forgetful of the excellent dinner as the glory of the dying rays streamed through the saloon port-holes. The other passenger was presumably deaf, but he need not have feared molestation. From the Minister of Agriculture on, the Tavolarian exploring expedition discovered for itself, alone, unaided, with a handful of Italian verbs in its head, quinine in its stomach, and a singleness of purpose in its heart.

It is a tedious business to retail my prosaic awakening in the very early morning as the Enna dropped anchor in the Golfo Aranci. I remember a steward shaking me into sensibility and haranguing me into my clothes, and I hated exploring from the bottom of my heart. From the dock there came the sound of the snuffing from an Italian locomotive,