of the Second Army, but the morale of the Italian people.  For a moment they seemed to have succeeded.  In the darkest days I talked with many whose stuffing seemed all gone.  But then, with the promise of Allied help, with the sight of even a handful of new French and British uniforms, and under the spell of the oratory of their statesmen and their journalists, things began to change and Italian hearts grew brave again.

The Italians are a mercurial people.  If they are more easily cast down by defeat than we British, they are more easily encouraged by even the distant prospect of victory, and they react to influences that would leave us unmoved.  The coarse insults of the enemy press were everywhere angrily quoted, and the national spirit rose to a red glow of passion.  The Socialists Turati and Treves,—­the latter the author of the famous phrase, “nessuno in trincee quest’ inverno,"[1]—­who before Caporetto had criticised the war as aggressive, imperialist and unnecessary, said now that all Italians must unite and fight on to drive back the invader from Italian soil.  And cool brains, such as Nitti and Einaudi, reinforced all this with logical demonstrations of the economic impossibility of a separate peace, with the enemy Powers strained to the utmost by the blockade and Italy dependent on the Allies for shipping, food and coal.  The Germans would have done far more wisely, if, instead of attacking, they had aimed only at holding the Italian Army along its old line.

[Footnote 1:  “No one in the trenches this winter.”]

I walked on from Quarto to Nervi and, as it was getting dark, I decided to take a tram for the last few kilometres.  But all the trams were standing still, the current having been switched off for several hours.  So I stood on the step of a tram and talked to the conductor about the war, and tried to cheer him up by telling him that the Germans were on their last legs, and were making their last great effort, and that the Allies had only to hold together a little longer, and throw sufficient force against the enemy here in Italy, in order to see a far bigger and more precipitate and disastrous retreat than Caporetto, and next time in the other direction.  All this I not only said, but firmly believed (and it all came true within a year).  At first he was very despondent, but he warmed up as I proceeded, and began to gesticulate again and regain animation and compliment me on my Italian.  And then the current also was restored, and the tram moved on, and we came to Nervi, where I dined well and slept at the Albergo Cristoforo Colombo.  I am not in general an admirer of palm trees, but they are sometimes impressive in the dusk, towering over one’s head, as they do at Nervi, in the long mixed avenue of palms and orange trees which leads down to the station from the town.

Next morning I got up early and walked back towards Genoa along the Via Marina.  The sun was shining on the sea and the dark rocks, the stone pines and the great aloes and the brightly coloured villas.  There was an exhilaration in the air and I was in the midst of beauty, and, for the first time for many days, I was for a little while really happy.  Later on I took a tram back to Genoa, and walked up to the tall lighthouse on the further side of the town, and looked westward at the great curve of the shore, beyond the breakwater and the sands.