Produced by David Widger
By John Galsworthy
"Je vous dirai que l'exces est toujours un mal."
—ANATOLE FRANCE
Under a burning blue sky, among the pine-trees and junipers, thecypresses and olives of that Odyssean coast, we came one afternoon on apink house bearing the legend: "Osteria di Tranquillita,"; and, partlybecause of the name, and partly because we did not expect to find a houseat all in those goat-haunted groves above the waves, we tarried forcontemplation. To the familiar simplicity of that Italian building therewere not lacking signs of a certain spiritual change, for out of theolive-grove which grew to its very doors a skittle-alley had been formed,and two baby cypress-trees were cut into the effigies of a cock and hen.The song of a gramophone, too, was breaking forth into the air, as itwere the presiding voice of a high and cosmopolitan mind. And, lost inadmiration, we became conscious of the odour of a full-flavoured cigar.Yes—in the skittle-alley a gentleman was standing who wore a bowler hat,a bright brown suit, pink tie, and very yellow boots. His head wasround, his cheeks fat and well-coloured, his lips red and full under ablack moustache, and he was regarding us through very thick andhalf-closed eyelids.
Perceiving him to be the proprietor of the high and cosmopolitan mind, weaccosted him.
"Good-day!" he replied: "I spik English. Been in Amurrica yes."
"You have a lovely place here."
Sweeping a glance over the skittle-alley, he sent forth a long puff ofsmoke; then, turning to my companion (of the politer sex) with the air ofone who has made himself perfect master of a foreign tongue, he smiled,and spoke.
"Too-quiet!"
"Precisely; the name of your inn, perhaps, suggests——"
"I change all that—soon I call it Anglo-American hotel."
"Ah! yes; you are very up-to-date already."
He closed one eye and smiled.
Having passed a few more compliments, we saluted and walked on; and,coming presently to the edge of the cliff, lay down on the thyme and thecrumbled leaf-dust. All the small singing birds had long been shot andeaten; there came to us no sound but that of the waves swimming in on agentle south wind. The wanton creatures seemed stretching out white armsto the land, flying desperately from a sea of such stupendous serenity;and over their bare shoulders their hair floated back, pale in thesunshine. If the air was void of sound, it was full of scent—thatdelicious and enlivening perfume of mingled gum, and herbs, and sweetwood being burned somewhere a long way off; and a silky, golden warmthslanted on to us through the olives and umbrella pines. Large wine-redviolets were growing near. On such a cliff might Theocritus have lain,spinning his songs; on that divine sea Odysseus should have passed. Andwe felt that presently the goat-god must put his head forth from behind arock.
It seemed a little queer that our friend in the bowler hat should moveand breathe wit