I was regretful at leaving the elastic Tuscan speech, canorous
in its vowels set in emphatic _l's_ and _m's_ and the vigorous soft
spring of the double consonants. But as the train arrived its noises
were drowned by a voice declaiming in the tongue I was not to hear again
for months--good Italian. The voice was so loud that one looked for the
audience: Whose ears was it seeking to reach by the violence done to
every syllable, and whose feelings would it touch by its insincerity? The
tones were insincere, but there was passion behind them; and most often
passion acts its own true character poorly, and consciously enough to
make good judges think it a mere counterfeit. Hamlet, being a little
mad, feigned madness. It is when I am angry that I pretend to be angry,
so as to present the truth in an obvious and intelligible form. Thus
even before the words were distinguishable it was manifest that they were
spoken by a man in serious trouble who had false ideas as to what is
convincing in elocution.
When the voice became audibly articulate, it proved to be shouting
blasphemies from the broad chest of a middle-aged man--an Italian of the
type that grows stout and wears whiskers. The man was in _bourgeois_
dress, and he stood with his hat off in front of the small station
building, shaking his thick fist at the sky.
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