Europe in the Looking Glass by Robert Byron Jan Morris

expressing the once rather shocking philosophy of the author, should have received such unanimous acclaim at the hands of the past generation, is an instructive commentary on the Edwardian struggle against Victorian hypocrisy. The antithesis, of course, is to be found in Chekov, whose edifices do not show their girders. For some reason, however, he is frequently described by the London Press as ‘the Russian Shaw’. By the same process of thought we have always regarded EI Greco as ‘the Spanish Millais’.
    As we sat about the cafés of the town we made various friends. I discovered Simon one afternoon talking unconcernedly in English to a man who could speak not a word of any language but Italian. He appeared to be a retired engine-driver living on twenty-five lire a day, who would be pleased to start work again if we could get him a job in England. Providence momentarilyloosed my tongue to dilate on the prevalence of unemployment in that country, but I was cut short by his remarking that he knew some ladies whom he particularly wanted us to meet that evening. Simon also picked up with an Egyptian commercial traveller in cotton, who wore a red fez. He was much impressed by our acquaintanceship with a former ornament of Balliol College, Oxford, a countryman of his, whose brain after the Gordon legend, is said to be the greatest thing that Egypt has produced of late years. For Bologna, he seemed strangely ignorant of the whereabouts of the other sex. On the other hand, David, sitting by himself in a café, was suddenly joined by one of the Bersaglieri, who spoke a kind of lingua franca. At first they chatted, discussed barrack life and the origin of the cock’s feathers that adorned his hat. He then announced that David must meet a certain lady – with her mother – whom he was entertaining tomorrow, Sunday evening. What the presence of the mother portended, David was unable to fathom.
    One of the first things that we had noticed upon our arrival in the town was the quantity of posters on the hoardings displaying in large capitals the words
    ALBA
V
BOLOGNA
    Upon close inspection this legend, dated for Sunday, August 16th, resolved itself into an announcement for the Cup Final of all Italy. We ordered the hotel to procure us the best seats that were to be had, and were drinking vermouth prior to setting out for the field in the Via Toscana, when the engine-driver , whom we had re-encountered, hailed a friend of his. The friend was going to the match also. He refused a drink, but stood in a statuesque pose until we had finished ours. He then accompanied us. A party of four, we stepped into a taxi and joined the Derby Day crowd that was streaming out of the town to the scene of the match.
    ‘Alba v. Bologna’. The affect of those three words upon the Latin temperament can scarcely be exaggerated. Imagine all the football crowds and Cup Final crowds that the world has ever seen; the queues outside the Ring; the downs at Epsom; the stands at Aintree. Multiply the checks, friz the hair, impressionize the neckwear and point the tan and chocolate brogues; accelerate the voices and the movements; cover the whole with a cloud of dust; and that will convey some impression of the voluble multitude with whom we pushed through the gates and into the stands. The field itself was small and, where there were no stands, surrounded by palings over which peeped tin advertisements and villa residences of red brick. For some reason it was marked out as for hockey.
    The sun, now half-way down the heavens, seemed to suck away the little air that was left. Five o’clock arrived. The two teams ran sportingly on to the field at a gymnastic double, the captains of each bearing bouquets of tuberoses and pink carnations. The home team was champion of the north, and her captain had skippered Italy’s international team last year. Alba was a Roman team, champion of the south. As the opposing sides lined up, the spectators became almost silent, so