l snow, beautiful and
fresh, glistening in the afternoon light all down the mountain
slopes, on the railway track, almost seeming to touch the train. And
twilight was falling. And at the stations people crowded in once
more.

It had been dark a long time when they reached Turin. Many people
alighted from the train, many surged to get in. But Ciccio and
Alvina had seats side by side. They were becoming tired now. But
they were in Italy. Once more they went down for a meal. And then
the train set off again in the night for Alessandria and Genoa, Pisa
and Rome.

It was night, the train ran better, there was a more easy sense in
Italy. Ciccio talked a little with other travelling companions. And
Alvina settled her cushion, and slept more or less till Genoa. After
the long wait at Genoa she dozed off again. She woke to see the sea
in the moonlight beneath her--a lovely silvery sea, coming right to
the carriage. The train seemed to be tripping on the edge of the
Mediterranean, round bays, and between dark rocks and under castles,
a night-time fairy-land, for hours. She watched spell-bound:
spell-bound by the magic of the world itself. And she thought to
herself: "Whatever life may be, and whatever horror men have made
of it, the world is a lovely place, a magic place, something to
marvel over. The world is an amazing place."

This thought dozed her off again. Yet she had a consciousness of
tunnels and hills and of broad marshes pallid under a moon and a
coming dawn. And in the dawn there was Pisa. She watched the word
hanging in the station in the dimness: "Pisa." Ciccio told her
people were changing for Florence. It all seemed wonderful to
her--wonderful. She sat and watched the black station--then she
heard the sound of the child's trumpet. And it did not occur to her
to connect the train's moving on with the sound of the trumpet.

But she saw the golden dawn, a golden sun coming out of level
country. She loved it. She loved being in Italy. She loved the
lounging carelessness of the train, she liked having Italian money,
hearing the Italians round her--though they were neither as
beautiful nor as melodious as she expected. She loved watching the
glowing antique landscape. She read and read again: "E pericoloso
sporgersi," and "E vietato fumare," and the other little magical
notices on the carriages. Ciccio told her what they meant, and how
to say them. And sympathetic Italians opposite at once asked him if
they were