Pictures and the Picturegoer (Jan-Dec 1925)

20 Pict\jrQS ar\d PicfrjreOuer JANUARY 1925 very scene of my birth and boyhood, little memories shall come crowding that now I can glimpse in retrospect. This digression began through my anxiety for Natacha. I fear that she is not as strong as she might be and that perhaps this trip is going to be too much for her. At first I had hoped (tried to believe), that her nervousness was a purely feminine thing, a whim of dust and discomfort, but I feel now A snapshot of Rudy and Natacha taken before an historic Florentine ruin. that I should have known Natacha better than to suppose she would indulge herself in anything only of the imagination. I shall watch her more carefully from this time forth. Does one ever know women? One learns the ways of their hearts and finds that after all one has learned only a part. I think 1 shall profess ignorance, which will doubtless be the beginning of my real knowledge. Ignorance so often is, when we acknowledge it . . . Dut to go back and take up my story where I left it last night, at that first Italian luncheon table. I was about to recount an amusing incident that happened to us there : You see, I had been away ten years. I didn't know whether the cigarettes were as good as they had used to be. and they used to be, I thought, very good indeed. Since I landed at Cherbourg, I have learned how many American things are superior to European ones; the chorus girls, the women in toto, the theatre, the food, etcetera. I have come to be prepared for disappointment. And this philosophy of disappointment included cigarettes, which are so much a part of the smaller pleasures of my daily life. Well, we had brought with us some cigarettes. As I crossed the frontier, I of course, declared them — and the duty is something frightful. I paid 600 lire for 600 cigarettes — a lire apiece. At the rate of 24 lire for one dollar this would figure out about five cents apiece. Of course the Macedonian tobacco sold in Italy is marvellous. The best tobacco in France is Egyptian, Maryland or Virginian. The Maryland brand is terrifically strong. For people not used to it, it all but chokes you. Very strong. But Italy has this marvellous Turkish tobacco. It is a Government monopoly, and, like all monopolies — American jewels and gowns, for instance — is taxed. Well, at luncheon I ordered some Italian cigarettes just for the curiosity of the thing, and when I started smoking them, I found them even better than before. Oh, much better ! Really very much better than my favourite cigarette I had so precariously and so expensively procured for my consumption. Natacha had a marvellous time kidding me about my bringing them into tune and so you have come home now !" " No," I said, getting " on " to him, " not quite what you think, my friend. I work for my money." He looked kindly, but scarcely convinced. Wasn't Natacha sitting by me, beautifully dressed, an American ! Hadn't I been away for ten years? Wasn't I returning in a partially triumphal and luxurious manner? What more did he need to know? Hadn't he seen " this sort of thing " before? 1WTY name meant nothing to him. Less than nothing. A rural rarabhrere. He wouldn't have seen my pictures. Hardly any of the pictures in which I have appeared have been shown in Italy. I knew that much before I arrived here, but so great and widespread is picture publicity in America yes, and in London, too, that while I knew the facts of the case, it seemed hard to believe that no word of it all had reached parts of Italy. Well, it was six o'clock when we got through with the authorities. We were fairly near Genoa : had only 250 kilometres still to go. But the 250 kilometres were over a tortuous road following the coast. Gorgeous road in the matter of scenery, but terrible to drive through. The road seemed to be the only factor of the landscape unaware of the glory of the season. Dirt ! Dirt ! Dirt ! We thought we had come through dust and the country ! Another funny incident occurred as we crossed the frontier. ""The first thing I had to do was to have my passport locked over by a carabiniere, then by the Custom House Guard, who in Italy belongs to a unit of the Regular Militia. When the carabiniere had look at my papers he asked me in Italian how long it was since I had been in Italy. I told him ten years. " You married an American," he said, with a very knowing look, as if quite accustomed and slightly amused at this order of things, " you made your for dirt before. but now that we are in Italy, we realise that we were but amateurs before. When we finally got into Genoa, it was midnight. And here in Genoa, at midnight, Natacha had a nervous breakdown. Between the dust, the rumbling of the motor, the sense of impending and immediate danger, she was absolutely