Letters from Italy/Chapter 10

It is always said: if you travel anywhere learn the local language so as better to penetrate the soul of the people, and things of that kind. Well, in such a case you can penetrate the soul of the people if you go to Novy Bydžov^[1]; you will understand all the stupidities folks utter and put them superfluous questions, e.g. what is the name of that mountain, or how many minutes is that train late?

I travel through the land of Italy unburdened by such interests: my capacity and time suffice only to learn Italian numerals (of course only the lowest), and this acquisition vexes me at times as it disturbs peaceful resignation to the will of fate. Undoubtedly in international hotels you can always make yourself understood in French: but there are places more interesting than all the hotels in the world, and there you have such a cosmopolitan babel that you cannot inquire or make yourself comprehensible or ask anyone for anything; there you rely upon people to provide you with food, drink, and lodgings and take you somewhere—how and where, that is of course in their powers and not yours, but you trust ​yourself to them as a dumb, helpless creature incapable of choice, self-defence, or insult. And so they give you food and drink, protection and lodging: you accept everything with a thousand-fold more gratitude than if you ordered it in a lordly, comprehensive way.

You travel with the simplicity of St. Francis. Because you cannot speak you cannot desire anything from people. It is true, to desire the least is real resignation and humility of life; to demand no more than a mouthful and lodgings, to accept everything they provide, and trust that all mean well by you—that is modest freedom from anxiety which evokes a whole series of virtues. You are modest and thankful, unassuming and quiet, satisfied and confident; vanished is all your arrogance, elation, impatience, complicated and selfish fastidiousness; you are in the power of others and consequently in the hand of fate. You cannot ask whether this railway carriage goes only to Caldare or Xirbi or Bicocca because you do not know how to express it; so you sit and rely that “they” know better than you and will take you to charming and important places. You do not choose food or lodgings: you accept what others give you, and behold, they give you the best they can. You want to pay, and they name an incomprehensible sum: you do not know if they say 1 lira 50 or 50 lire, so you give them all your money and they take what they know is proper. They are very ​trustworthy: they take out only 1.50. Apart from the cab-driver at Posilippo really no one cheated me, but immediately the population of Bagnoli collected round this rascal and upbraided him, seeing that I myself simply had no power of abuse.

There are indeed complicated situations, e.g. if at Salerno one wants to know whether the steamer goes to-day. On my inquiry, the waiter at the café did not know the particulars: he called to people in the street, they came and sat round me, ordered café noir and deliberated as to what I wanted. I said I wanted to go to Naples they nodded and consulted, and then accompanied me in a body to the train, where I had to distribute visiting cards by way of mementoes. Sometimes they looked after me as if I were a small boy, like that old lady at Siena who spoke to me in baby language, with infinitives and vigorous gestures. My relations with them were extraordinarily good: I never disputed with them nor they with me.

Believe me in this: with a little simplicity and patience one may go through the whole world. On the whole—with exceptions—it is possible to trust folks: nothing strengthens optimism more than this experience. Had I known Italian I should have been delighted with this fact; of course I should have seen less, because I should have wandered about less and not lingered in regions of which Baedeker says ​nothing. One takes a tram, which goes in a contrary direction, and instead of arriving at some dull park with a magnificent view he finds himself in the commercial quarter and lands in some unutterable mass of dirt like Arenella, more astonished than if he contemplated the subtropical vegetation of Palermo gardens. Aye, to roam about and be dumb and helpless in the hand of fate is a great delight and a great benefit.