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Inquiries at the booking-office showed, however, that no passengers had booked direct to Rome by the train in question. To Grossetto, Cecina, Campiglia, and the other places in the Maremma, passengers had taken tickets, but not one had been booked to any of the great towns.
I imagine that Grossetto is not a town much known to travel, for it is absent from all the guide-books I have looked at. However, it is chief in the Maremma, where sweet Pia de' Tolommei languished and perished of the poisonous air and her love's cruelty, and where, so many mute centuries since, the Etrurian cities flourished and fell.
"If he gets left on the Grossetto line, he can go back and come up by Orvieto, no?" "He can, if he isn't in a hurry," Hinkle assented. "It's a good way, if you've got time to burn." Belsky did not attempt to explore the American's meaning. "Do you know," he asked, "whether Mrs. Lander and her young friend are still in Florence? "I guess they are."
We dined in Grossetto at an inn of the Larthian period, a cold inn and a damp, which seemed never to have been swept since the broom dropped from the grasp of the last Etrurian chambermaid, and we ate with the two-pronged iron forks of an extinct civilization.
"'If they keep on at that pace, they'll soon be at Grossetto, said the captain laughing." This is the unfortunate musician's first essay in horsemanship, and when, after twelve hours' march across the country, with his bass strapped upon his shoulders, he halts at the inn at Chianciano, he is more dead than alive. He remembers, however, to read Mademoiselle Rina's note.
Besides the social charms of her piazza, Grossetto put forth others of an artistic nature. The cathedral was very old and very beautiful, built of alternate lines of red and white marble, and lately restored in the best spirit of fidelity and reverence.
In the mean time the Portland man exchanges with them the assurances of personal and national esteem, which that mighty bond of friendship, the language of Shakespeare and Milton, enables us to offer so idiomatically to our transatlantic cousins. What Grossetto was like, as we first rode through it, we scarcely looked to see.
On the third day after our return to Grossetto, we gathered together our damaged effects, and packed them into refractory trunks. Then we held the customary discussion with the landlord concerning the effrontery of his account, and drove off once more toward Follonica.
When we ordered it, he assumed to be perfectly conversant with it, started to bring it, paused, turned, and, with a great sacrifice of personal dignity, demanded, "Bifsteca di manzo, o bifsteca di motone?" "Beefsteak of beef, or beefsteak of mutton?" Of Grossetto proper, this is all I remember, if I except a boy whom I heard singing after dark in the streets, "Camicia rossa, O Garibaldi!"
We were a band of brothers and sisters, as we all crowded into one diligence and returned to Grossetto.
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