Pictures and the Picturegoer (Jan-Dec 1925)

22 P/cfvres and Pichurepoer MARCH 1925 Castellaneta, September 20th. l_Jome again ! The town that I was born in ! The place that is fabled, storied, sung, sentimentalised over, revered and poked fun at ! As a matter of fact, T do suppose that the town one is born in is largely a sentimental matter. The sentiment of tradition. For, in many cases, as in my own, only the 'earliest years are lived in the town one is born in, and all of the really important and significant events of one's life take place -very far from the natal spot. Well, it may be all " hokum." There may be " nothing to it." And I may be only a " victim " of past scenes and memories. But I know that a lump rose in my throat and a film crossed my eyes as I pointed out to Auntie the square, flat-roofed farmhouse built of heavy white stone — the house where I Rudy with his nephew, Jean Guglielmi leave one's windows open to the night. But I am getting miles ahead of myself. While we were in Tarento (though I was born in Castellaneta. I lived in town a great deal), our cousin met me. I was much surprised to see how the town had changed. Somehow I had not expected it to. That is another curious psychological or egotistical fact about the traveller. One subconsciously or unconsciously believes that v |^»< was born. I was even guilty of showing her the shuttered windows of the very room wherein the epochal event had miraculously taken place ! I can laugh at it, but the laughter is not altogether free of a softer sentiment. I am not ashamed of it. He who cannot be stirred is in process of dying, emotionally, if no other way. I remembered so well the ceremony of closing those casement windows and barring them at night. The spot where I spent my childhood was not policed as are the suburbs of America, making it neither feasible, nor entirely safe, to everything will be quite the same as it was when one left. Many and many a time I have heard a person say, upon returning home after a long absence, "Why, how changed it all is !" almost in tones of disapproval, a s though things should have been left just as they were until that particular person came back again. We only believe in the changes we see and we scarcely realise them half of the time. During the war, this town was an important military base. The troops went to Salonica, the Balkans — the French, English and Italian troops leaving from Tarento, one of the biggest Italian naval bases. I was especially surprised to see that they are so modern as to have an electric street car line, because, up to the time of the war, they only had an omnibus, very creaky and antique, drawn by two horses. However, that one line was all the traffic. You saw cabs, but the regular service was done by these horse carriages and now they've become so modern as to have a street car line. Also, the roads are improved and they have put in electric lights. ^* W<J ^T Above : The famous Neptune fountain at Bologna. I exclaimed over each and every detail, and my cousin was amazed that I remembered so much, and so much in detail. As a matter of fact, I went through a very introspective period of my young life while I went to school at Tarento. We owned a house here at that time and came here to live when I was nine years old, after w.hich we never went back to Castellaneta to live for any length of time. It was while I was here at school that I became to myself an imaginary figure of great excellence, daring and glamorous. The deficiencies of my every day life and my every day studies (which were neither brilliant nor promising), I compensated for by the stories I secretly wove about my Other Self. The imaginary Me. The gallant and dashing figure I dreamed myself to be. Perhaps the inception of my screen life took place then and there. No doubt Professor Freud would find it so. For certainly I walked myself through stories, legends, crusades and battles of the most rich and intricate material. My favourite work of literature at the time was "The Adventure of India." but even the author of that volume could not rival me in my inner imaginings. I grew to seem quiet and visionary on the outside, but innerly I was seething with desperate adventures. I was in turn desperado, explorer, chivalrous knight and the warriorrescuer of scores of beleaguered and beautiful ladies in distress. In my more martial and more valiant moments, I saw myself stained with the blood of hardily won battles, maimed, but triumphant after perils the like of which have probably never taken place on land or sea. I was knighted and acclaimed by the King and Queen. (Continued on page!4).