Puslapio vaizdai
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You boys think you know everything. Why didn't you tell me you couldn't drive?

I am relieved to remember that probably Bobbie never heard a word I was saying, for to get angry when one is nervous is a most despicable fault, and not even uncommon.

Thank goodness, there is quite a steep bit of hill up to St George's Barracks, and the panting exhausted animal came suddenly to the conclusion that he could not cope with both Bobbie and the motor, so wisely gave it up, and stood still altogether. I got out, much relieved, and went to soothe the excited beast; but it was quite unnecessary he was almost asleep already! A very Napoleon among horses! He could snatch a little slumber at any odd moment apparently. We found out later he had been a racehorse in his far past youth, and that occasionally something would still remind him of the fact, and then he demonstrated his latent remnant of powers wherever he happened to be. We got to know him well, for Octavia and I decided to become carriage-folk in a ginger-beer fashion, and hired. Rip van Winkle, as we christened him, the dog-cart, and a Maltese groom for £3 a month!

These same St George's Barracks are unlike any military barracks I have ever seen at home, which always combine the security of prison and the melancholy monotony of town tenements with the architectural beauty of a factory. These

were long imposing buildings, built of the light-coloured limestone, with stately pillared verandahs and balconies, much ground round them, and a gorgeous view. Later on I visited an old servant who had married a man on the strength," and when I heard they were in Malta, of course I went to see them. I found her in the married quarters belonging to the artillerythis also a delightful two-storied, flat roofed

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building, and Janet's quarters, two rooms on the upper storey, opening off the long balcony, and overlooking Marsamuscetto Harbour. So light, so airy, so dignified! How indescribably better than the workman's house at home, to which they would have to retire! It seemed to me the contrast would be overpowering, in the squalid, huggermugger, crowded slums at home. But with the usualand in this instance perhaps blessed-perversity, Janet was only counting the months till she could exchange this beautiful but furrin place for the home that seemed to mean so much to her.

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I had said we would pick up Octavia and Miss Mason at Musta on the way back from Ghain Tuffeha. These church festas in Malta are picturesque but protracted affairs, so they would be there all afternoon. I knew by past experience exactly what it would be like. The ecclesiastics in their gorgeous vestments, the many coloured banners being carried

Here one gets real sea-sidey sea-shore, with a sloping beach and lovely sand. It is more fun in many ways, as there are big waves to be leapt over and dived through-altogether more like idealised home bathing.

with difficulty in the everlast- a very different amusement ing wind, and the sombre from what we have at Sliema. rows of monks, make together a most decorative frieze of colour against the pastel-coloured houses, with probably somewhere a vivid glimpse of the sea. But the pace is of a dreariness! At first this seems difficult to understand, but when the head of the procession is past, one understands why, for then follow the "setpieces," images from the churches-many more than lifesize-being carried along on heavy draped platforms by the staggering and perspiring devout. Their labour is not entirely disinterested, for it wipes out, with the sweat of the brow, many sins of the soul. Most of the laymen taking part in these processions are dressed in long gowns, with pointed hoods pulled over head and shoulders, having only eyeholes cut in the face. They have a weirdly medieval look, and remind me of the Vehmgericht, Inquisition, and Autosda-fé, and Octavia can't help believing that most of them would still derive a holy satisfaction from burning her at the stake.

Octavia, being statistically inclined, told us that Musta church had the third largest dome in the world, London's St Paul only coming in fourth; curiously enough, we had often heard about its enormous size, but never of Musta's bare existence.

The drive back to Musta began uneventfully, but pleasantly. Bobbie had given up feeling it is the necessary manly part to do the driving, and with my less ferocious handling, Van Winkle trots in his sleep. In a carrozza, the road to Musta would be dull, for it is inland, and therefore entirely amongst the endless stone walls, which are just high enough to prevent one seeing anywhere but straight ahead. Even ahead there is seldom much straight, so in a low vehicle one seems to be perpetually driving in a stone maze-perhaps this is one of the most reasonable excuses for P. and O. tourists thinking Malta dull when they try to see it in half a day between sailings. From our exalted perch on the dog-cart, the intermediate wall did not matter, but even then one drove in faith as to being on the right road, for the walls and perpetual turns hid the road road ahead completely and shut it up behind, and in scanning the countryside there was no other road visible but the quarter-mile stretch we were actually on.

Van Winkle's dreams had

Bathing at Ghain Tuffeha is evidently carried him back to

his happy childhood, and without warning he started to react some glorious race of the past. It was now Bobbie's turn to admire my driving! "As you call him Van Winkle," scoffed Bobbie, "I suppose that's why you let him rip!" There was no time for even a withering glance, for just then we were wheeling into Musta as if we were rounding Tattenham Corner. At the sight of natives and dogs scuttling from before me, my nerve gave way in a manner to horrify Octavia, and I implored Bobbie to "Take him! stop him!" for I couldn't hold on any longer. As Bobbie's large hands gathered up the reins, I saw Octavia, Miss Mason, and the Patapouffe offspring waving and shouting to us to stop. Stop! Like the express train, we did not even hesitate ! Bobbie was now exerting all his strength on one rein only, and Van Winkle, with his usual promptness of decision, agreed to stop rather than crick his neck, and almost at once fell back into a gently ambling jog-trot, and meekly returned to Musta to pick up our nearly marooned passengers.

They were about replete with procession gazing, and both superiorly amusing about

were

the extraordinary statues that were carried laboriously along. I was looking at a MalteseEnglish dictionary in the library one day, and I found a word: "tkandel-to carry anything from one place to another frequently and with difficulty." At the moment I wondered why they had thought of combining all that in one verb, but, of course, it must be to express the frequent and laborious business connected with their Church functions.

The next time I met Miss Mason, she confided to me how extraordinarily ignorant most English people were about Scotland (being partly Scotch myself, I am not in the indictment).

"At Musta the other day, Miss Fanning said to me, 'I suppose all this shocks you even more than me, for you Scotch people are Lutherans, aren't you ?

I grinned, and admitted that was rather a slip-up on Anglican Octavia's part, and asked, "What did you say to that?'

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Miss Mason, with an expression of outraged sanctimoniousness, replied: "I said, 'Oh dear, no! we are Presbyterians. Lutherans? I never even heard of them."

Honours easy!

Housekeeping under Dolores was delightfully easy, if occasionally unexpected. For example, when she came to us at

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breakfast-time, and asked if we would like a rabbit, we assented, and went on with our meal. But Dolores did not set

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about the buying of it, but And the moral of that is, as said to Octavia, Signora the Red Queen would say, how choose rabbit?" and Octavia, unimaginative one is about who doesn't know a rabbit housekeeping and other everyfrom a hare, but has her dig- day affairs, accepting rabbits nity to consider, followed from the butchers as though Dolores to the front door. I they were the result of sponwent too, just to see Octavia taneous generation, or fell from impressing Dolores. How does heaven like the dew. one choose a rabbit? See if the fur pulls out easily, or if the tail springs back quickly, or what? As it turned out, neither of these methods were practicable, for the rabbits were alive! They looked all the more alive, as they were all white, or black, or half and half, not brown, like a decent dead rabbit. Octavia recoiled in horror, and refused to have one at all. That struck me as sheer sentimentality-shooting a wild rabbit who is quite happy in the woods is surely more barbarous than killing a poor little beast who is living miserably in a cage. I rather wanted to buy and kill the lot-but that would have been equally sentimental and more expensive. So while Octavia moaned over my lack of heart, I stoically pointed out the victim, choosing the smallest, most miserable-looking one, and so falling from whatever place I held in Dolores' esteem. We should not have been surprised at this tame-rabbit trade-it would really have been much more surprising had it been otherwise, for there are no wild uncultivated parts in Malta, and the ground is much too valuable to be handed over to the depredations of rabbits.

At first we were horribly worried by dreadful old hags, who, seeing us at the drawingroom window, would come up the steps and stand outside on the verandah, insisting on our buying oranges and onions, or objects more unknown. Mere waves of the hand, shakes of the head, and other efforts of inarticulate denial were quite without effect, and the unintelligible patter went on, the toothless grin came nearer, and the vended article finally brandished in our outraged faces. One day, after bearing with one old beldam to the point of exasperation, I went and fetched Carmèla. A few guttural words from her acted as an incantation, and our verandah was vacated, the hag vanishing, never to return. I asked Carmèla what she had said, but a shy smile was all the translation she gave. Then I induced her to teach me the spell, which she did, much against her will, and I became sound-perfect in her Abracadabra remark. Octavia, for once impressed by my superior knowledge, sat silently, watching the result. I had occasion to test its efficacy a day or two later, when a cheerful but villainous native took up her

I could have frightened myself into nocturnal shivers, thinking of the Black Arrow or the murder of Rizzio. Octavia, having ascertained that the door below and the one on the roof was locked, slept undisturbed by historical or hysterical ghosts.

stance at the open window. I tried a polite but forceful "lé" several times, but it seemed merely to encourage her, for the bunch of oranges was finally deposited on my lap. Then I used my incantation slowly and conscientiously, and rather loudly, for I was somewhat annoyed. Just as I was reciting, Mr Frendo-Falzon and the Capitano came out on to their adjoining verandah. I finished the spell, and turned to greet my neighbours, but the spell was more potent than I had expected, for I had cleared both verandahs! When the Capitano anon emerged timidly, I asked him what I had said to produce so much effect; but he took refuge in his linguistic difficulties, first not understanding what I was ask-like cakes at Blackley's, the ing, and then maintaining he did not know Maltese very well. When I meet the Chocolate Soldier again, I shall ask him he is less mealy-mouthed in English than our polite Italian.

The part of the house where I really loved best to sit was the roof. There is a little spiral stone stair that goes up the back of the house, from the kitchen to the roof, with a door half-way into a bedroom, and the back balcony. It was the very stair for conspirators and assassins, and I don't believe I should quite have enjoyed sleeping in that back roomthe low door and small secret stair were horribly reminiscent of "tushery romances, and

We meant to see and do everything possible, but somehow one can't sight-see every day, and life fell into an almost home-like regularity, though in every way so unlike home life. For the first few weeks, at least, the morning's shopping was in itself a joyous "out"! For although Dolores did the literally-common or garden marketing, we were expected to do the more fanciful parts

English baker, and special
groceries from either the Army
and Navy Stores, or a similar,
but more essentially Maltese,
establishment, Mortimer's. Im-
ported goods of all kinds are
as dear as the local produce is
cheap, so those who will live
upon tinned tongue instead of
goat, and tinned peas instead
of pumpkin, must find living
in Malta as dear as in England.
Our chief item of expense in.
this line was tinned milk and
soda-water. We had been im-
pressed with the fact that we
must not touch goats' milk,
especially when we heard that
it was against the regulations
for both Services; and as for
the soda-water, that was to
escape drinking boiled water,
which was the alternative. I

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