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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/37206-8.txt b/37206-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e686b14 --- /dev/null +++ b/37206-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,8562 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Sea and Sardinia, by D. H. Lawrence + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Sea and Sardinia + +Author: D. H. Lawrence + +Illustrator: Jan Juta + +Release Date: August 26, 2011 [EBook #37206] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SEA AND SARDINIA *** + + + + +Produced by Charlene Taylor, Mary Meehan and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + + + + + + + + + + + SEA AND SARDINIA + + BY D. H. LAWRENCE + + + WITH EIGHT PICTURES + IN COLOR BY + Jan Juta + + [Illustration] + + NEW YORK + THOMAS SELTZER + 1921 + + COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY + THOMAS SELTZER, INC. + + _All rights reserved_ + + _Printed in the United States of America_ + + +[Illustration: OROSEI] + + + + +CONTENTS + + + I. AS FAR AS PALERMO 11 + + II. THE SEA 44 + + III. CAGLIARI 99 + + IV. MANDAS 127 + + V. TO SORGONO 154 + + VI. TO NUORO 212 + + VII. TO TERRANOVA AND THE STEAMER 260 + + VIII. BACK 312 + + + + +LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS + + + OROSEI _Frontispiece_ + + MAP--BY D. H. LAWRENCE 44 + + ISILI 100 + + TONARA 148 + + SORGONO 180 + + FONNI 204 + + GAVOI 236 + + NUORO 268 + + TERRANOVA 300 + + + + +SEA AND SARDINIA + + + + +I. + +AS FAR AS PALERMO. + + +Comes over one an absolute necessity to move. And what is more, to move +in some particular direction. A double necessity then: to get on the +move, and to know whither. + +Why can't one sit still? Here in Sicily it is so pleasant: the sunny +Ionian sea, the changing jewel of Calabria, like a fire-opal moved in +the light; Italy and the panorama of Christmas clouds, night with the +dog-star laying a long, luminous gleam across the sea, as if baying at +us, Orion marching above; how the dog-star Sirius looks at one, looks at +one! he is the hound of heaven, green, glamorous and fierce!--and then +oh regal evening star, hung westward flaring over the jagged dark +precipices of tall Sicily: then Etna, that wicked witch, resting her +thick white snow under heaven, and slowly, slowly rolling her +orange-coloured smoke. They called her the Pillar of Heaven, the +Greeks. It seems wrong at first, for she trails up in a long, magical, +flexible line from the sea's edge to her blunt cone, and does not seem +tall. She seems rather low, under heaven. But as one knows her better, +oh awe and wizardy! Remote under heaven, aloof, so near, yet never with +us. The painters try to paint her, and the photographers to photograph +her, in vain. Because why? Because the near ridges, with their olives +and white houses, these are with us. Because the river-bed, and Naxos +under the lemon groves, Greek Naxos deep under dark-leaved, many-fruited +lemon groves, Etna's skirts and skirt-bottoms, these still are our +world, our own world. Even the high villages among the oaks, on Etna. +But Etna herself, Etna of the snow and secret changing winds, she is +beyond a crystal wall. When I look at her, low, white, witch-like under +heaven, slowly rolling her orange smoke and giving sometimes a breath of +rose-red flame, then I must look away from earth, into the ether, into +the low empyrean. And there, in that remote region, Etna is alone. If +you would see her, you must slowly take off your eyes from the world and +go a naked seer to the strange chamber of the empyrean. Pedestal of +heaven! The Greeks had a sense of the magic truth of things. Thank +goodness one still knows enough about them to find one's kinship at +last. There are so many photographs, there are so infinitely many +water-colour drawings and oil paintings which purport to render Etna. +But pedestal of heaven! You must cross the invisible border. Between the +foreground, which is our own, and Etna, pivot of winds in lower heaven, +there is a dividing line. You must change your state of mind. A +metempsychosis. It is no use thinking you can see and behold Etna and +the foreground both at once. Never. One or the other. Foreground and a +transcribed Etna. Or Etna, pedestal of heaven. + +Why, then, must one go? Why not stay? Ah, what a mistress, this Etna! +with her strange winds prowling round her like Circe's panthers, some +black, some white. With her strange, remote communications and her +terrible dynamic exhalations. She makes men mad. Such terrible +vibrations of wicked and beautiful electricity she throws about her, +like a deadly net! Nay, sometimes, verily, one can feel a new current of +her demon magnetism seize one's living tissue and change the peaceful +life of one's active cells. She makes a storm in the living plasm and a +new adjustment. And sometimes it is like a madness. + +This timeless Grecian Etna, in her lower-heaven loveliness, so lovely, +so lovely, what a torturer! Not many men can really stand her, without +losing their souls. She is like Circe. Unless a man is very strong, she +takes his soul away from him and leaves him not a beast, but an +elemental creature, intelligent and soulless. Intelligent, almost +inspired, and soulless, like the Etna Sicilians. Intelligent daimons, +and humanly, according to us, the most stupid people on earth. Ach, +horror! How many men, how many races, has Etna put to flight? It was she +who broke the quick of the Greek soul. And after the Greeks, she gave +the Romans, the Normans, the Arabs, the Spaniards, the French, the +Italians, even the English, she gave them all their inspired hour and +broke their souls. + +Perhaps it is she one must flee from. At any rate, one must go: and at +once. After having come back only at the end of October, already one +must dash away. And it is only the third of January. And one cannot +afford to move. Yet there you are: at the Etna bidding one goes. + + * * * * * + +Where does one go? There is Girgenti by the south. There is Tunis at +hand. Girgenti, and the sulphur spirit and the Greek guarding temples, +to make one madder? Never. Neither Syracuse and the madness of its great +quarries. Tunis? Africa? Not yet, not yet. Not the Arabs, not yet. +Naples, Rome, Florence? No good at all. Where then? + +Where then? Spain or Sardinia. Spain or Sardinia. Sardinia, which is +like nowhere. Sardinia, which has no history, no date, no race, no +offering. Let it be Sardinia. They say neither Romans nor Phoenicians, +Greeks nor Arabs ever subdued Sardinia. It lies outside; outside the +circuit of civilisation. Like the Basque lands. Sure enough, it is +Italian now, with its railways and its motor-omnibuses. But there is an +uncaptured Sardinia still. It lies within the net of this European +civilisation, but it isn't landed yet. And the net is getting old and +tattered. A good many fish are slipping through the net of the old +European civilisation. Like that great whale of Russia. And probably +even Sardinia. Sardinia then. Let it be Sardinia. + + * * * * * + +There is a fortnightly boat sailing from Palermo--next Wednesday, three +days ahead. Let us go, then. Away from abhorred Etna, and the Ionian +sea, and these great stars in the water, and the almond trees in bud, +and the orange trees heavy with red fruit, and these maddening, +exasperating, impossible Sicilians, who never knew what truth was and +have long lost all notion of what a human being is. A sort of +sulphureous demons. _Andiamo!_ + +But let me confess, in parenthesis, that I am not at all sure whether I +don't really prefer these demons to our sanctified humanity. + +Why does one create such discomfort for oneself! To have to get up in +the middle of the night--half past one--to go and look at the clock. Of +course this fraud of an American watch has stopped, with its impudent +phosphorescent face. Half past one! Half past one, and a dark January +night. Ah, well! Half past one! And an uneasy sleep till at last it is +five o'clock. Then light a candle and get up. + +The dreary black morning, the candle-light, the house looking +night-dismal. Ah, well, one does all these things for one's pleasure. So +light the charcoal fire and put the kettle on. The queen bee shivering +round half dressed, fluttering her unhappy candle. + +"It's fun," she says, shuddering. + +"Great," say I, grim as death. + +First fill the thermos with hot tea. Then fry bacon--good English bacon +from Malta, a god-send, indeed--and make bacon sandwiches. Make also +sandwiches of scrambled eggs. Make also bread and butter. Also a little +toast for breakfast--and more tea. But ugh, who wants to eat at this +unearthly hour, especially when one is escaping from bewitched Sicily. + +Fill the little bag we call the kitchenino. Methylated spirit, a small +aluminium saucepan, a spirit-lamp, two spoons, two forks, a knife, two +aluminium plates, salt, sugar, tea--what else? The thermos flask, the +various sandwiches, four apples, and a little tin of butter. So much for +the kitchenino, for myself and the queen bee. Then my knapsack and the +q-b's handbag. + +Under the lid of the half-cloudy night sky, far away at the rim of the +Ionian sea, the first light, like metal fusing. So swallow the cup of +tea and the bit of toast. Hastily wash up, so that we can find the house +decent when we come back. Shut the door-windows of the upper terrace and +go down. Lock the door: the upper half of the house made fast. + +The sky and sea are parting like an oyster shell, with a low red gape. +Looking across from the veranda at it, one shivers. Not that it is cold. +The morning is not at all cold. But the ominousness of it: that long red +slit between a dark sky and a dark Ionian sea, terrible old bivalve +which has held life between its lips so long. And here, at this house, +we are ledged so awfully above the dawn, naked to it. + +Fasten the door-windows of the lower veranda. One won't fasten at all. +The summer heat warped it one way, the masses of autumn rain warped it +another. Put a chair against it. Lock the last door and hide the key. +Sling the knapsack on one's back, take the kitchenino in one's hand and +look round. The dawn-red widening, between the purpling sea and the +troubled sky. A light in the capucin convent across there. Cocks crowing +and the long, howling, hiccuping, melancholy bray of an ass. "All +females are dead, all females--och! och! och!--hoooo! Ahaa!--there's one +left." So he ends on a moaning grunt of consolation. This is what the +Arabs tell us an ass is howling when he brays. + + * * * * * + +Very dark under the great carob tree as we go down the steps. Dark still +the garden. Scent of mimosa, and then of jasmine. The lovely mimosa tree +invisible. Dark the stony path. The goat whinnies out of her shed. The +broken Roman tomb which lolls right over the garden track does not fall +on me as I slip under its massive tilt. Ah, dark garden, dark garden, +with your olives and your wine, your medlars and mulberries and many +almond trees, your steep terraces ledged high up above the sea, I am +leaving you, slinking out. Out between the rosemary hedges, out of the +tall gate, on to the cruel steep stony road. So under the dark, big +eucalyptus trees, over the stream, and up towards the village. There, I +have got so far. + + * * * * * + +It is full dawn--dawn, not morning, the sun will not have risen. The +village is nearly all dark in the red light, and asleep still. No one +at the fountain by the capucin gate: too dark still. One man leading a +horse round the corner of the Palazzo Corvaia. One or two dark men along +the Corso. And so over the brow, down the steep cobble-stone street +between the houses, and out to the naked hill front. This is the +dawn-coast of Sicily. Nay, the dawn-coast of Europe. Steep, like a vast +cliff, dawn-forward. A red dawn, with mingled curdling dark clouds, and +some gold. It must be seven o'clock. The station down below, by the sea. +And noise of a train. Yes, a train. And we still high on the steep +track, winding downwards. But it is the train from Messina to Catania, +half an hour before ours, which is from Catania to Messina. + + * * * * * + +So jolt, and drop, and jolt down the old road that winds on the cliff +face. Etna across there is smothered quite low, quite low in a dense +puther of ink-black clouds. Playing some devilry in private, no doubt. +The dawn is angry red, and yellow above, the sea takes strange colors. I +hate the station, pigmy, drawn out there beside the sea. On this steep +face, especially in the windless nooks, the almond blossom is already +out. In little puffs and specks and stars, it looks very like bits of +snow scattered by winter. Bits of snow, bits of blossom, fourth day of +the year 1921. Only blossom. And Etna indescribably cloaked and +secretive in her dense black clouds. She has wrapped them quite round +her, quite low round her skirts. + + * * * * * + +At last we are down. We pass the pits where men are burning +lime--red-hot, round pits--and are out on the high-way. Nothing can be +more depressing than an Italian high-road. From Syracuse to Airolo it is +the same: horrible, dreary, slummy high-roads the moment you approach a +village or any human habitation. Here there is an acrid smell of lemon +juice. There is a factory for making citrate. The houses flush on the +road, under the great lime-stone face of the hill, open their slummy +doors, and throw out dirty water and coffee dregs. We walk over the +dirty water and coffee dregs. Mules rattle past with carts. Other people +are going to the station. We pass the Dazio and are there. + + * * * * * + +Humanity is, externally, too much alike. Internally there are +insuperable differences. So one sits and thinks, watching the people on +the station: like a line of caricatures between oneself and the naked +sea and the uneasy, clouding dawn. + +You would look in vain this morning for the swarthy feline southerner of +romance. It might, as far as features are concerned, be an early morning +crowd waiting for the train on a north London suburb station. As far as +features go. For some are fair and some colorless and none racially +typical. The only one that is absolutely like a race caricature is a +tall stout elderly fellow with spectacles and a short nose and a +bristling moustache, and he is the German of the comic papers of twenty +years ago. But he is pure Sicilian. + +They are mostly young fellows going up the line to Messina to their job: +not artizans, lower middle class. And externally, so like any other +clerks and shop-men, only rather more shabby, much less _socially_ +self-conscious. They are lively, they throw their arms round one +another's necks, they all but kiss. One poor chap has had earache, so a +black kerchief is tied round his face, and his black hat is perched +above, and a comic sight he looks. No one seems to think so, however. +Yet they view my arrival with a knapsack on my back with cold +disapprobation, as unseemly as if I had arrived riding on a pig. I ought +to be in a carriage, and the knapsack ought to be a new suit-case. I +know it, but am inflexible. + +That is how they are. Each one thinks he is as handsome as Adonis, and +as "fetching" as Don Juan. Extraordinary! At the same time, all flesh is +grass, and if a few trouser-buttons are missing or if a black hat +perches above a thick black face-muffle and a long excruciated face, it +is all in the course of nature. They seize the black-edged one by the +arm, and in profound commiseration: "Do you suffer? Are you suffering?" +they ask. + +And that also is how they are. So terribly physically all over one +another. They pour themselves one over the other like so much melted +butter over parsnips. They catch each other under the chin, with a +tender caress of the hand, and they smile with sunny melting tenderness +into each other's face. Never in the world have I seen such melting gay +tenderness as between casual Sicilians on railway platforms, whether +they be young lean-cheeked Sicilians or huge stout Sicilians. + +There must be something curious about the proximity of a volcano. Naples +and Catania alike, the men are hugely fat, with great macaroni paunches, +they are expansive and in a perfect drip of casual affection and love. +But the Sicilians are even more wildly exuberant and fat and all over +one another than the Neapolitans. They never leave off being amorously +friendly with almost everybody, emitting a relentless physical +familiarity that is quite bewildering to one not brought up near a +volcano. + +This is more true of the middle classes than of the lower. The working +men are perforce thinner and less exuberant. But they hang together in +clusters, and can never be physically near enough. + + * * * * * + +It is only thirty miles to Messina, but the train takes two hours. It +winds and hurries and stops beside the lavender grey morning sea. A +flock of goats trail over the beach near the lapping wave's edge, +dismally. Great wide deserts of stony river-beds run down to the sea, +and men on asses are picking their way across, and women are kneeling by +the small stream-channel washing clothes. The lemons hang pale and +innumerable in the thick lemon groves. Lemon trees, like Italians, seem +to be happiest when they are touching one another all round. Solid +forests of not very tall lemon trees lie between the steep mountains and +the sea, on the strip of plain. Women, vague in the orchard +under-shadow, are picking the lemons, lurking as if in the undersea. +There are heaps of pale yellow lemons under the trees. They look like +pale, primrose-smouldering fires. Curious how like fires the heaps of +lemons look, under the shadow of foliage, seeming to give off a pallid +burning amid the suave, naked, greenish trunks. When there comes a +cluster of orange trees, the oranges are red like coals among the darker +leaves. But lemons, lemons, innumerable, speckled like innumerable tiny +stars in the green firmament of leaves. So many lemons! Think of all +the lemonade crystals they will be reduced to! Think of America drinking +them up next summer. + + * * * * * + +I always wonder why such vast wide river-beds of pale boulders come out +of the heart of the high-rearing, dramatic stone mountains, a few miles +to the sea. A few miles only: and never more than a few threading +water-trickles in river-beds wide enough for the Rhine. But that is how +it is. The landscape is ancient, and classic--romantic, as if it had +known far-off days and fiercer rivers and more verdure. Steep, craggy, +wild, the land goes up to its points and precipices, a tangle of +heights. But all jammed on top of one another. And in old landscapes, as +in old people, the flesh wears away, and the bones become prominent. +Rock sticks up fantastically. The jungle of peaks in this old Sicily. + + * * * * * + +The sky is all grey. The Straits are grey. Reggio, just across the +water, is white looking, under the great dark toe of Calabria, the toe +of Italy. On Aspromonte there is grey cloud. It is going to rain. After +such marvelous ringing blue days, it is going to rain. What luck! + + * * * * * + +Aspromonte! Garibaldi! I could always cover my face when I see it, +Aspromonte. I wish Garibaldi had been prouder. Why did he go off so +humbly, with his bag of seed-corn and a flea in his ear, when His +Majesty King Victor Emmanuel arrived with his little short legs on the +scene. Poor Garibaldi! He wanted to be a hero and a dictator of free +Sicily. Well, one can't be a dictator and humble at the same time. One +must be a hero, which he was, and proud, which he wasn't. Besides people +don't nowadays choose proud heroes for governors. Anything but. They +prefer constitutional monarchs, who are paid servants and who know it. +That is democracy. Democracy admires its own servants and nothing else. +And you couldn't make a real servant even of Garibaldi. Only of His +Majesty King Victor Emmanuel. So Italy chose Victor Emmanuel, and +Garibaldi went off with a corn bag and a whack on the behind like a +humble ass. + + * * * * * + +It is raining--dismally, dismally raining. And this is Messina coming. +Oh horrible Messina, earthquake-shattered and renewing your youth like a +vast mining settlement, with rows and streets and miles of concrete +shanties, squalor and a big street with shops and gaps and broken houses +still, just back of the tram-lines, and a dreary squalid +earthquake-hopeless port in a lovely harbor. People don't forget and +don't recover. The people of Messina seem to be today what they were +nearly twenty years ago, after the earthquake: people who have had a +terrible shock, and for whom all life's institutions are really nothing, +neither civilization nor purpose. The meaning of everything all came +down with a smash in that shuddering earthquake, and nothing remains but +money and the throes of some sort of sensation. Messina between the +volcanoes, Etna and Stromboli, having known the death-agony's terror. I +always dread coming near the awful place, yet I have found the people +kind, almost feverishly so, as if they knew the awful need for kindness. + + * * * * * + +Raining, raining hard. Clambering down on to the wet platform and +walking across the wet lines to the cover. Many human beings scurrying +across the wet lines, among the wet trains, to get out into the ghastly +town beyond. Thank heaven one need not go out into the town. Two +convicts chained together among the crowd--and two soldiers. The +prisoners wear fawny homespun clothes, of cloth such as the peasants +weave, with irregularly occurring brown stripes. Rather nice handmade +rough stuff. But linked together, dear God! And those horrid caps on +their hairless foreheads. No hair. Probably they are going to a convict +station on the Lipari islands. The people take no notice. + +No, but convicts are horrible creatures: at least, the old one is, with +his long, nasty face: his long, clean-shaven, horrible face, without +emotions, or with emotions one cannot follow. Something cold, sightless. +A sightless, ugly look. I should loathe to have to touch him. Of the +other I am not so sure. He is younger, and with dark eyebrows. But a +roundish, softish face, with a sort of leer. No, evil is horrible. I +used to think there was no absolute evil. Now I know there is a great +deal. So much that it threatens life altogether. That ghastly +abstractness of criminals. They don't _know_ any more what other people +feel. Yet some horrible force drives them. + +It is a great mistake to abolish the death penalty. If I were dictator, +I should order the old one to be hung at once. I should have judges with +sensitive, living hearts: not abstract intellects. And because the +instinctive heart recognised a man as evil, I would have that man +destroyed. Quickly. Because good warm life is now in danger. + + * * * * * + +Standing on Messina station--dreary, dreary hole--and watching the +winter rain and seeing the pair of convicts, I must remember again Oscar +Wilde on Reading platform, a convict. What a terrible mistake, to let +oneself be martyred by a lot of canaille. A man must say his say. But +_noli me tangere_. + +Curious these people are. Up and down, up and down go a pair of +officials. The young one in a black gold-laced cap talks to the elder in +a scarlet gold-laced cap. And he walks, the young one, with a mad little +hop, and his fingers fly as if he wanted to scatter them to the four +winds of heaven, and his words go off like fireworks, with more than +Sicilian speed. On and on, up and down, and his eye is dark and excited +and unseeing, like the eye of a fleeing rabbit. Strange and beside +itself is humanity. + + * * * * * + +What a lot of officials! You know them by their caps. Elegant tubby +little officials in kid-and-patent boots and gold-laced caps, tall +long-nosed ones in more gold-laced caps, like angels in and out of the +gates of heaven they thread in and out of the various doors. As far as I +can see, there are three scarlet station-masters, five black-and-gold +substation-masters, and a countless number of principalities and powers +in more or less broken boots and official caps. They are like bees round +a hive, humming in an important _conversazione_, and occasionally +looking at some paper or other, and extracting a little official honey. +But the _conversazione_ is the affair of affairs. To an Italian +official, life seems to be one long and animated conversation--the +Italian word is better--interrupted by casual trains and telephones. And +besides the angels of heaven's gates, there are the mere ministers, +porters, lamp-cleaners, etc. These stand in groups and talk socialism. A +lamp-man slashes along, swinging a couple of lamps. Bashes one against a +barrow. Smash goes the glass. Looks down as if to say, What do you mean +by it? Glances over his shoulder to see if any member of the higher +hierarchies is looking. Seven members of higher hierarchies are +assiduously not looking. On goes the minister with the lamp, blithely. +Another pane or two gone. _Vogue la galère._ + +Passengers have gathered again, some in hoods, some in nothing. Youths +in thin, paltry clothes stand out in the pouring rain as if they did not +know it was raining. One sees their coat-shoulders soaked. And yet they +do not trouble to keep under shelter. Two large station dogs run about +and trot through the standing trains, just like officials. They climb up +the footboard, hop into a train and hop out casually when they feel like +it. Two or three port-porters, in canvas hats as big as umbrellas, +literally, spreading like huge fins over their shoulders, are looking +into more empty trains. More and more people appear. More and more +official caps stand about. It rains and rains. The train for Palermo +and the train for Syracuse are both an hour late already, coming from +the port. Flea-bite. Though these are the great connections from Rome. + +Loose locomotives trundle back and forth, vaguely, like black dogs +running and turning back. The port is only four minutes' walk. If it +were not raining so hard, we would go down, walk along the lines and get +into the waiting train down there. Anybody may please himself. There is +the funnel of the great unwieldy ferry-object--she is just edging in. +That means the connection from the mainland at last. But it is cold, +standing here. We eat a bit of bread and butter from the kitchenino in +resignation. After all, what is an hour and a half? It might just as +easily be five hours, as it was the last time we came down from Rome. +And the _wagon-lit_, booked to Syracuse, calmly left stranded in the +station of Messina, to go no further. All get out and find yourselves +rooms for the night in vile Messina. Syracuse or no Syracuse, Malta boat +or no Malta boat. We are the _Ferrovia dello Stato_. + +But there, why grumble. Noi Italiani siamo così buoni. Take it from +their own mouth. + + * * * * * + +Ecco! Finalmente! The crowd is quite joyful as the two express trains +surge proudly in, after their half-a-mile creep. Plenty of room, for +once. Though the carriage floor is a puddle, and the roof leaks. This +is second class. + + * * * * * + +Slowly, with two engines, we grunt and chuff and twist to get over the +break-neck heights that shut Messina in from the north coast. The +windows are opaque with steam and drops of rain. No matter--tea from the +thermos flask, to the great interest of the other two passengers who had +nervously contemplated the unknown object. + +"Ha!" says he with joy, seeing the hot tea come out. "It has the +appearance of a bomb." + +"Beautiful hot!" says she, with real admiration. All apprehension at +once dissipated, peace reigns in the wet, mist-hidden compartment. We +run through miles and miles of tunnel. The Italians have made wonderful +roads and railways. + + * * * * * + +If one rubs the window and looks out, lemon groves with many wet-white +lemons, earthquake-broken houses, new shanties, a grey weary sea on the +right hand, and on the left the dim, grey complication of steep heights +from which issue stone river-beds of inordinate width, and sometimes a +road, a man on a mule. Sometimes near at hand, long-haired, melancholy +goats leaning sideways like tilted ships under the eaves of some scabby +house. They call the house-eaves the dogs' umbrellas. In town you see +the dogs trotting close under the wall out of the wet. Here the goats +lean like rock, listing inwards to the plaster wall. Why look out? + +Sicilian railways are all single line. Hence, the _coincidenza_. A +_coincidenza_ is where two trains meet in a loop. You sit in a world of +rain and waiting until some silly engine with four trucks puffs +alongside. Ecco la coincidenza! Then after a brief _conversazione_ +between the two trains, _diretto_ and _merce_, express and goods, the +tin horn sounds and away we go, happily, towards the next coincidence. +Clerks away ahead joyfully chalk up our hours of lateness on the +announcement slate. All adds to the adventurous flavour of the journey, +dear heart. We come to a station where we find the other diretto, the +express from the other direction, awaiting our coincidential arrival. +The two trains run alongside one another, like two dogs meeting in the +street and snuffing one another. Every official rushes to greet every +other official, as if they were all David and Jonathan meeting after a +crisis. They rush into each other's arms and exchange cigarettes. And +the trains can't bear to part. And the station can't bear to part with +us. The officials tease themselves and us with the word _pronto_, +meaning _ready!_ Pronto! And again Pronto! And shrill whistles. +Anywhere else a train would go off its tormented head. But no! Here only +that angel's trump of an official little horn will do the business. And +get them to blow that horn if you can. They can't bear to part. + + * * * * * + +Rain, continual rain, a level grey wet sky, a level grey wet sea, a wet +and misty train winding round and round the little bays, diving through +tunnels. Ghosts of the unpleasant-looking Lipari islands standing a +little way out to sea, heaps of shadow deposited like rubbish heaps in +the universal greyness. + + * * * * * + +Enter more passengers. An enormously large woman with an extraordinarily +handsome face: an extraordinarily large man, quite young: and a +diminutive servant, a little girl-child of about thirteen, with a +beautiful face.--But the Juno--it is she who takes my breath away. She +is quite young, in her thirties still. She has that queenly stupid +beauty of a classic Hera: a pure brow with level dark brows, large, +dark, bridling eyes, a straight nose, a chiselled mouth, an air of +remote self-consciousness. She sends one's heart straight back to pagan +days. And--and--she is simply enormous, like a house. She wears a black +toque with sticking-up wings, and a black rabbit fur spread on her +shoulders. She edges her way in carefully: and once seated, is +terrified to rise to her feet. She sits with that motionlessness of her +type, closed lips, face muted and expressionless. And she expects me to +admire her: I can see that. She expects me to pay homage to her beauty: +just to that: not homage to herself, but to her as a _bel pezzo_. She +casts little aloof glances at me under her eyelids. + +It is evident she is a country beauty become a _bourgeoise_. She speaks +unwillingly to the other squint-eyed passenger, a young woman who also +wears a black-rabbit fur, but without pretensions. + +The husband of Juno is a fresh-faced bourgeois young fellow, and he also +is simply huge. His waistcoat would almost make the overcoat of the +fourth passenger, the unshaven companion of the squinting young woman. +The young Jupiter wears kid gloves: a significant fact here. He, too, +has pretensions. But he is quite affable with the unshaven one, and +speaks Italian unaffectedly. Whereas Juno speaks the dialect with +affectation. + +No one takes any notice of the little maid. She has a gentle, virgin +moon-face, and those lovely grey Sicilian eyes that are translucent, and +into which the light sinks and becomes black sometimes, sometimes dark +blue. She carries the bag and the extra coat of the huge Juno, and sits +on the edge of the seat between me and the unshaven, Juno having +motioned her there with a regal inclination of the head. + +The little maid is rather frightened. Perhaps she is an orphan +child--probably. Her nut-brown hair is smoothly parted and done in two +pigtails. She wears no hat, as is proper for her class. On her shoulders +one of those little knitted grey shoulder-capes that one associates with +orphanages. Her stuff dress is dark grey, her boots are strong. + +The smooth, moon-like, expressionless virgin face, rather pale and +touching, rather frightened, of the girl-child. A perfect face from a +mediaeval picture. It moves one strangely. Why? It is so unconscious, as +we are conscious. Like a little muted animal it sits there, in distress. +She is going to be sick. She goes into the corridor and is sick--very +sick, leaning her head like a sick dog on the window-ledge. Jupiter +towers above her--not unkind, and apparently feeling no repugnance. The +physical convulsion of the girl does not affect him as it affects us. He +looks on unmoved, merely venturing to remark that she had eaten too much +before coming on to the train. An obviously true remark. After which he +comes and talks a few common-places to me. By and by the girl-child +creeps in again and sits on the edge of the seat facing Juno. But no, +says Juno, if she is sick she will be sick over me. So Jupiter +accommodatingly changes places with the girl-child, who is thus next to +me. She sits on the edge of the seat with folded little red hands, her +face pale and expressionless. Beautiful the thin line of her nut-brown +eyebrows, the dark lashes of the silent, pellucid dark eyes. Silent, +motionless, like a sick animal. + +But Juno tells her to wipe her splashed boots. The child gropes for a +piece of paper. Juno tells her to take her pocket handkerchief. Feebly +the sick girl-child wipes her boots, then leans back. But no good. She +has to go in the corridor and be sick again. + +After a while they all get out. Queer to see people so natural. Neither +Juno nor Jupiter is in the least unkind. He even seems kind. But they +are just not upset. Not half as upset as we are--the q-b wanting to +administer tea, and so on. We should have to hold the child's head. They +just quite naturally leave it alone to its convulsions, and are neither +distressed nor repelled. It just is so. + +Their naturalness seems unnatural to us. Yet I am sure it is best. +Sympathy would only complicate matters, and spoil that strange, remote +virginal quality. The q-b says it is largely stupidity. + + * * * * * + +Nobody washes out the corner of the corridor, though we stop at +stations long enough, and there are two more hours journey. Train +officials go by and stare, passengers step over and stare, new-comers +stare and step over. Somebody asks _who_? Nobody thinks of just throwing +a pail of water. Why should they? It is all in the course of +nature.--One begins to be a bit chary of this same "nature", in the +south. + + * * * * * + +Enter two fresh passengers: a black-eyed, round-faced, bright-sharp man +in corduroys and with a gun, and a long-faced, fresh-colored man with +thick snowy hair, and a new hat and a long black overcoat of smooth +black cloth, lined with rather ancient, once expensive fur. He is +extremely proud of this long black coat and ancient fur lining. +Childishly proud he wraps it again over his knee, and gloats. The beady +black-eyes of the hunter look round with pleased alertness. He sits +facing the one in the overcoat, who looks like the last sprout of some +Norman blood. The hunter in corduroys beams abroad, with beady black +eyes in a round red face, curious. And the other tucks his fur-lined +long coat between his legs and gloats to himself: all to himself +gloating, and looking as if he were deaf. But no, he's not. He wears +muddy high-low boots. + +At Termini it is already lamp-light. Business men crowd in. We get five +business men: all stout, respected Palermitans. The one opposite me has +whiskers, and a many-colored, patched traveling rug over his fat knees. +Queer how they bring that feeling of physical intimacy with them. You +are never surprised if they begin to take off their boots, or their +collar-and-tie. The whole world is a sort of bedroom to them. One +shrinks, but in vain. + +There is some conversation between the black-eyed, beady hunter and the +business men. Also the young white-haired one, the aristocrat, tries to +stammer out, at great length, a few words. As far as I can gather the +young one is mad--or deranged--and the other, the hunter, is his keeper. +They are traveling over Europe together. There is some talk of "the +Count". And the hunter says the unfortunate "has had an accident." But +that is a southern gentleness presumably, a form of speech. Anyhow it is +queer: and the hunter in his corduroys, with his round, ruddy face and +strange black-bright eyes and thin black hair is a puzzle to me, even +more than the albino, long-coated, long-faced, fresh-complexioned, queer +last remnant of a baron as he is. They are both muddy from the land, and +pleased in a little mad way of their own. + +But it is half-past six. We are at Palermo, capital of Sicily. The +hunter slings his gun over his shoulder, I my knapsack, and in the +throng we all disappear, into the Via Maqueda. + + * * * * * + +Palermo has two great streets, the Via Maqueda, and the Corso, which +cross each other at right-angles. The Via Maqueda is narrow, with narrow +little pavements, and is always choked with carriages and +foot-passengers. + +It had ceased raining. But the narrow road was paved with large, convex +slabs of hard stone, inexpressibly greasy. To cross the Via Maqueda +therefore was a feat. However, once accomplished, it was done. The near +end of the street was rather dark, and had mostly vegetable shops. +Abundance of vegetables--piles of white-and-green fennel, like celery, +and great sheaves of young, purplish, sea-dust-colored artichokes, +nodding their buds, piles of big radishes, scarlet and bluey purple, +carrots, long strings of dried figs, mountains of big oranges, scarlet +large peppers, a last slice of pumpkin, a great mass of colors and +vegetable freshnesses. A mountain of black-purple cauliflowers, like +niggers' heads, and a mountain of snow-white ones next to them. How the +dark, greasy, night-stricken street seems to beam with these vegetables, +all this fresh delicate flesh of luminous vegetables piled there in the +air, and in the recesses of the windowless little caverns of the shops, +and gleaming forth on the dark air, under the lamps. The q-b at once +wants to buy vegetables. "Look! Look at the snow-white broccoli. Look at +the huge finocchi. Why don't we get them? I _must_ have some. Look at +those great clusters of dates--ten francs a kilo, and we pay sixteen. +It's monstrous. Our place is simply monstrous." + +For all that, one doesn't buy vegetables to take to Sardinia. + +Cross the Corso at that decorated maelstrom and death-trap of the +Quattro Canti. I, of course, am nearly knocked down and killed. Somebody +is nearly knocked down and killed every two minutes. But there--the +carriages are light, and the horses curiously aware creatures. They +would never tread on one. + +The second part of the Via Maqueda is the swell part: silks and plumes, +and an infinite number of shirts and ties and cuff-links and mufflers +and men's fancies. One realises here that man-drapery and man-underwear +is quite as important as woman's, if not more. + +I, of course, in a rage. The q-b stares at every rag and stitch, and +crosses and re-crosses this infernal dark stream of a Via Maqueda, +which, as I have said, is choked solid with strollers and carriages. Be +it remembered that I have on my back the brown knapsack, and the q-b +carries the kitchenino. This is enough to make a travelling menagerie +of us. If I had my shirt sticking out behind, and if the q-b had +happened merely to catch up the table-cloth and wrap it round her as she +came out, all well and good. But a big brown knapsack! And a basket with +thermos flask, etc! No, one could not expect such things to pass in a +southern capital. + +But I am case-hardened. And I am sick of shops. True, we have not been +in a town for three months. But _can_ I care for the innumerable +_fantasias_ in the drapery line? Every wretched bit of would-be-extra +chic is called a fantasia. The word goes lugubriously to my bowels. + +Suddenly I am aware of the q-b darting past me like a storm. Suddenly I +see her pouncing on three giggling young hussies just in front--the +inevitable black velveteen tam, the inevitable white curly muffler, the +inevitable lower-class flappers. "Did you want something? Have you +something to say? Is there something that amuses you? Oh-h! You must +laugh, must you? Oh--laugh! Oh-h! Why? Why? You ask why? Haven't I heard +you! Oh--you spik Ingleesh! You spik Ingleesh! Yes--why! That's why! +Yes, that's why." + +The three giggling young hussies shrink together as if they would all +hide behind one another, after a vain uprearing and a demand why? Madam +tells them why. So they uncomfortably squeeze together under the +unexpected strokes of the q-b's sledge-hammer Italian and more than +sledge-hammer retaliation, there full in the Via Maqueda. They edge +round one another, each attempting to get back of the other, away from +the looming q-b. I perceive that this rotary motion is equivalent to a +standstill, so feel called upon to say something in the manly line. + +"Beastly Palermo bad-manners," I say, and throw a nonchalant "Ignoranti" +at the end, in a tone of dismissal. + +Which does it. Off they go down-stream, still huddling and shrinking +like boats that are taking sails in, and peeping to see if we are +coming. Yes, my dears, we are coming. + +"Why do you bother?" say I to the q-b, who is towering with rage. + +"They've followed us the whole length of the street--with their _sacco +militario_ and their _parlano inglese_ and their _you spik Ingleesh_, +and their jeering insolence. But the English are fools. They always put +up with this Italian impudence." + +Which is perhaps true.--But this knapsack! It might be full of +bronze-roaring geese, it would not attract more attention! + +However, and however, it is seven o'clock, and the shops are beginning +to shut. No more shop-gazing. Only one lovely place: raw ham, boiled +ham, chickens in aspic, chicken vol-au-vents, sweet curds, curd-cheese, +rustic cheese-cake, smoked sausages, beautiful fresh mortadella, huge +Mediterranean red lobsters, and those lobsters without claws. "So good! +So good!" We stand and cry it aloud. + +But this shop too is shutting. I ask a man for the Hotel Pantechnico. +And treating me in that gentle, strangely tender southern manner, he +takes me and shows me. He makes me feel such a poor, frail, helpless +leaf. A foreigner, you know. A bit of an imbecile, poor dear. Hold his +hand and show him the way. + + * * * * * + +To sit in the room of this young American woman, with its blue hangings, +and talk and drink tea till midnght! Ah these naïve Americans--they are +a good deal older and shrewder than we, once it nears the point. And +they all seem to feel as if the world were coming to an end. And they +are so truly generous of their hospitality, in this cold world. + + + + +II. + +THE SEA. + + +The fat old porter knocks. Ah me, once more it is dark. Get up again +before dawn. A dark sky outside, cloudy. The thrilling tinkle of +innumerable goat-bells as the first flock enters the city, such a +rippling sound. Well, it must be morning, even if one shivers at it. And +at least it does not rain. + + * * * * * + +That pale, bluish, theatrical light outside, of the first dawn. And a +cold wind. We come on to the wide, desolate quay, the curve of the +harbour Panormus. That horrible dawn-pallor of a cold sea out there. And +here, port mud, greasy: and fish: and refuse. The American girl is with +us, wrapped in her sweater. A coarse, cold, black-slimy world, she seems +as if she would melt away before it. But these frail creatures, what a +lot they can go through! + +[Illustration: MAP FOR SEA AND SARDINIA] + +Across the great, wide, badly paved, mud-greasy, despairing road of the +quay side, and to the sea. There lies our steamer, over there in the +dawn-dusk of the basin, half visible. "That one who is smoking her +cigarette," says the porter. She looks little, beside the huge _City of +Trieste_ who is lying up next her. + + * * * * * + +Our row-boat is hemmed in by many empty boats, huddled to the side of +the quay. She works her way out like a sheepdog working his way out of a +flock of sheep, or like a boat through pack-ice. We are on the open +basin. The rower stands up and pushes the oars from him. He gives a +long, melancholy cry to someone on the quay. The water goes chock-chock +against the urging bows. The wind is chill. The fantastic peaks behind +Palermo show half-ghostly in a half-dark sky. The dawn seems reluctant +to come. Our steamer still smokes her cigarette--meaning the +funnel-smoke--across there. So, one sits still, and crosses the level +space of half-dark water. Masts of sailing-ships, and spars, cluster on +the left, on the undarkening sky. + + * * * * * + +Climb up, climb up, this is our ship. Up we go, up the ladder. "Oh but!" +says the American girl. "Isn't she small! Isn't she impossibly small! Oh +my, will you go in such a little thing? Oh dear! Thirty two hours in +such a little boat? Why no, I wouldn't care for it at all." + +A bunch of stewards, cooks, waiters, engineers, pan-cleaners and +what-not, mostly in black canvas jackets. Nobody else on the ship. A +little black bunch of loutish crew with nothing to do, and we the first +passengers served up to be jeered at. There you are, in the grey light. + +"Who is going?" + +"We two--the signorina is not going." + +"Tickets!" + +These are casual proletarian manners. + +We are taken into the one long room with a long table and many +maple-golden doors, alternate panels having a wedge-wood blue-and-white +picture inserted--a would-be Goddess of white marble on a blue ground, +like a health-salts Hygeia advertisement. One of the plain panels +opens--our cabin. + +"Oh dear! Why it isn't as big as a china-closet. However will you get +in!" cries the American girl. + +"One at a time," say I. + +"But it's the tiniest place I _ever_ saw." + +It really was tiny. One had to get into a bunk to shut the door. That +did not matter to me, I am no Titanic American. I pitched the knapsack +on one bunk, the kitchenino on the other, and we shut the door. The +cabin disappeared into a maple-wood panel of the long, subterranean +state-room. + +"Why, is this the only place you've got to sit in?" cried the American +girl. "But how perfectly awful! No air, and so dark, and smelly. Why I +never saw such a boat! Will you really go? Will you really!" + +The state-room was truly rather subterranean and stuffy, with nothing +but a long table and an uncanny company of screw-pin chairs seated +thereat, and no outlet to the air at all, but it was not so bad +otherwise, to me who have never been out of Europe. Those maple-wood +panels and ebony curves--and those Hygeias! They went all round, even +round the curve at the dim, distant end, and back up the near side. Yet +how beautiful old, gold-coloured maple-wood is! how very lovely, with +the ebony curves of the door arch! There was a wonderful old-fashioned, +Victorian glow in it, and a certain splendour. Even one could bear the +Hygeias let in under glass--the colour was right, that wedge-wood and +white, in such lovely gold lustre. There was a certain homely grandeur +still in the days when this ship was built: a richness of choice +material. And health-salts Hygeias, wedge-wood Greek goddesses on +advertisement placards! Yet they _weren't_ advertisements. That was +what really worried me. They never had been. Perhaps Weego's Health +Salts stole her later. + + * * * * * + +We have no coffee--that goes without saying. Nothing doing so early. The +crew still stands in a gang, exactly like a gang of louts at a +street-corner. And they've got the street all to themselves--this ship. +We climb to the upper deck. + + * * * * * + +She is a long, slender, old steamer with one little funnel. And she +seems so deserted, now that one can't see the street-corner gang of the +casual crew. They are just below. Our ship is deserted. + +The dawn is wanly blueing. The sky is a curdle of cloud, there is a bit +of pale gold eastwards, beyond Monte Pellegrino. The wind blows across +the harbour. The hills behind Palermo prick up their ears on the +sky-line. The city lies unseen, near us and level. There--a big ship is +coming in: the Naples boat. + +And the little boats keep putting off from the near quay, and coming to +us. We watch. A stout officer, cavalry, in grayey-green, with a big +dark-blue cloak lined with scarlet. The scarlet lining keeps flashing. +He has a little beard, and his uniform is not quite clean. He has big +wooden chests, tied with rope, for luggage. Poor and of no class. Yet +that scarlet, splendid lining, and the spurs. It seems a pity they must +go second-class. Yet so it is, he goes forward when the dock porter has +hoisted those wooden boxes. No fellow-passenger yet. + +Boats still keep coming. Ha-ha! Here is the commissariat! Various sides +of kid, ready for roasting: various chickens: fennel like celery: wine +in a bottiglione: new bread: packages! Hand them up, hand them up. "Good +food!" cries the q-b in anticipation. + +It must be getting near time to go. Two more passengers--young thick men +in black broad-cloth standing up in the stern of a little boat, their +hands in their pockets, looking a little cold about the chin. Not quite +Italian, too sturdy and manly. Sardinians from Cagliari, as a matter of +fact. + + * * * * * + +We go down from the chill upper-deck. It is growing full day. Bits of +pale gold are flying among delicate but cold flakes of cloud from the +east, over Monte Pellegrino, bits of very new turquoise sky come out. +Palermo on the left crouches upon her all-harbour--a little desolate, +disorderly, end-of-the-world, end-of-the-sea, along her quay front. Even +from here we can see the yellow carts rattling slowly, the mules +nodding their high weird plumes of scarlet along the broad weary +harbour-side. Oh painted carts of Sicily, with all history on your +panels! + + * * * * * + +Arrives an individual at our side. "The captain fears it will not be +possible to start. There is much wind outside. Much wind!" + +How they _love_ to come up with alarming, disquieting, or annoying news! +The joy it gives them. What satisfaction on all the faces: of course all +the other loafers are watching us, the street-corner loungers of this +deck. But we have been many times bitten. + +"Ah ma!" say I, looking at the sky, "not so much wind as all that." + +An air of quiet, shrugging indifference is most effectual: as if you +knew all about it, a good deal more than they knew. + +"Ah si! Molto vento! Molto vento! Outside! Outside!" + +With a long face and a dramatic gesture he points out of the harbour, to +the grey sea. I too look out of the harbour at the pale line of sea +beyond the mole. But I do not trouble to answer, and my eye is calm. So +he goes away, only half triumphant. + + * * * * * + +"Things seem to get worse and worse!" cries the American friend. "What +will you do on such a boat if you have an awful time out in the +Mediterranean here? Oh no--will you risk it, really? Won't you go from +Cività Vecchia?" + +"How awful it will be!" cries the q-b, looking round the grey harbour, +the many masts clustering in the grey sky on the right: the big Naples +boat turning her posterior to the quay-side a little way off, and +cautiously budging backwards: the almost entirely shut-in harbour: the +bits of blue and flying white cloud overhead: the little boats like +beetles scuttling hither and thither across the basin: the thick crowd +on the quay come to meet the Naples boat. + + * * * * * + +Time! Time! The American friend must go. She bids us goodbye, more than +sympathetically. + +"I shall be awfully interested to hear how you get on." + +So down the side she goes. The boatman wants twenty francs--wants +more--but doesn't get it. He gets ten, which is five too much. And so, +sitting rather small and pinched and cold-looking, huddled in her +sweater, she bibbles over the ripply water to the distant stone steps. +We wave farewell. But other traffic comes between us. And the q-b, +feeling nervous, is rather cross because the American friend's ideas of +luxury have put us in such a poor light. We feel like the poorest of +poor sea-faring relations. + + * * * * * + +Our ship is hooting for all she's worth. An important last-minuter comes +surging up. The rope hawsers are being wound clankily in. Seagulls--they +are never very many in the Mediterranean--seagulls whirl like a few +flakes of snow in the upper chill air. Clouds spin. And without knowing +it we are evaporating away from the shore, from our mooring, between the +great _City of Trieste_ and another big black steamer that lies like a +wall. We breathe towards this second black wall of steamer: distinctly. +And of course an individual in an official cap is standing on the bottom +of our departure ladder just above the water, yelling Barca! +Barca!--shouting for a boat. And an old man on the sea stands up to his +oars and comes pushing his clumsy boat with gathering speed between us +and the other black wall. There he stands away below there, small, +firing his clumsy boat along, remote as if in a picture on the dark +green water. And our black side insidiously and evilly aspires to the +other huge black wall. He rows in the canyon between, and is nearly +here. + +When lo, the individual on the bottom step turns in the other direction. +Another boat from the open basin is sweeping up: it is a race: she is +near, she is nearer, she is up. With a curvet the boat from the open +rounds up at the ladder. The boat between the gulf backs its oars. The +official individual shouts and waves, the old man backing his oars in +the gulf below yells expostulation, the boat from the open carries off +its prey, our ship begins slowly to puddle-puddle-puddle, working her +screw, the man in the gulf of green water rows for his life--we are +floating into the open basin. + +Slowly, slowly we turn round: and as the ship turns, our hearts turn. +Palermo fades from our consciousness: the Naples boat, the disembarking +crowds, the rattling carriages to the land--the great _City of +Trieste_--all fades from our heart. We see only the open gap of the +harbour entrance, and the level, pale-grey void of the sea beyond. There +are wisps of gleamy light--out there. + +And out there our heart watches--though Palermo is near us, just behind. +We look round, and see it all behind us--but already it is gone, gone +from our heart. The fresh wind, the gleamy wisps of light, the running, +open sea beyond the harbour bars. + + * * * * * + +And so we steam out. And almost at once the ship begins to take a long, +slow, dizzy dip, and a fainting swoon upwards, and a long, slow, dizzy +dip, slipping away from beneath one. The q-b turns pale. Up comes the +deck in that fainting swoon backwards--then down it fades in that +indescribable slither forwards. It is all quite gentle--quite, quite +gentle. But oh, so long, and so slow, and so dizzy. + +"Rather pleasant!" say I to the q-b. + +"Yes. Rather lovely _really_," she answers wistfully. To tell the truth +there is something in the long, slow lift of the ship, and her long, +slow slide forwards which makes my heart beat with joy. It is the motion +of freedom. To feel her come up--then slide slowly forward, with a sound +of the smashing of waters, is like the magic gallop of the sky, the +magic gallop of elemental space. That long, slow, waveringly rhythmic +rise and fall of the ship, with waters snorting as it were from her +nostrils, oh God what a joy it is to the wild innermost soul. One is +free at last--and lilting in a slow flight of the elements, winging +outwards. Oh God, to be free of all the hemmed-in life--the horror of +human tension, the absolute insanity of machine persistence. The agony +which a train is to me, really. And the long-drawn-out agony of a life +among tense, resistant people on land. And then to feel the long, slow +lift and drop of this almost empty ship, as she took the waters. Ah God, +liberty, liberty, elemental liberty. I wished in my soul the voyage +might last forever, that the sea had no end, that one might float in +this wavering, tremulous, yet long and surging pulsation while ever time +lasted: space never exhausted, and no turning back, no looking back, +even. + + * * * * * + +The ship was almost empty--save of course for the street-corner louts +who hung about just below, on the deck itself. We stood alone on the +weather-faded little promenade deck, which has old oak seats with old, +carved little lions at the ends, for arm-rests--and a little cabin +mysteriously shut, which much peeping determined as the wireless office +and the operator's little curtained bed-niche. + + * * * * * + +Cold, fresh wind, a black-blue, translucent, rolling sea on which the +wake rose in snapping foam, and Sicily on the left: Monte Pellegrino, a +huge, inordinate mass of pinkish rock, hardly crisped with the faintest +vegetation, looming up to heaven from the sea. Strangely large in mass +and bulk Monte Pellegrino looks: and bare, like a Sahara in heaven: and +old-looking. These coasts of Sicily are very imposing, terrific, +fortifying the interior. And again one gets the feeling that age has +worn them bare: as if old, old civilisations had worn away and exhausted +the soil, leaving a terrifying blankness of rock, as at Syracuse in +plateaus, and here in a great mass. + + * * * * * + +There seems hardly any one on board but ourselves: we alone on the +little promenade deck. Strangely lonely, floating on a bare old ship +past the great bare shores, on a rolling sea, stooping and rising in the +wind. The wood of the fittings is all bare and weather-silvered, the +cabin, the seats, even the little lions of the seats. The paint wore +away long ago: and this timber will never see paint any more. Strange to +put one's hand on the old oaken wood, so sea-fibred. Good old +delicate-threaded oak: I swear it grew in England. And everything so +carefully done, so solidly and everlastingly. I look at the lions, with +the perfect-fitting oaken pins through their paws clinching them down, +and their little mouths open. They are as solid as they were in +Victorian days, as immovable. They will never wear away. What a joy in +the careful, thorough, manly, everlasting work put into a ship: at least +into this sixty-year-old vessel. Every bit of this old oak wood so +sound, so beautiful: and the whole welded together with joints and +wooden pins far more beautifully and livingly than iron welds. Rustless, +life-born, living-tissued old wood: rustless as flesh is rustless, and +happy-seeming as iron never can be. She rides so well, she takes the +sea so beautifully, as a matter of course. + + * * * * * + +Various members of the crew wander past to look at us. This little +promenade deck is over the first-class quarters, full in the stern. So +we see first one head then another come up the ladder--mostly bare +heads: and one figure after another slouches past, smoking a cigarette. +All crew. At last the q-b stops one of them--it is what they are all +waiting for, an opportunity to talk--and asks if the weird object on the +top of Pellegrino is a ruin. Could there be a more touristy question! +No, it is the semaphore station. Slap in the eye for the q-b! She +doesn't mind, however, and the member of the crew proceeds to converse. +He is a weedy, hollow-cheeked town-product: a Palermitan. He wears faded +blue over-alls and informs us he is the ship's carpenter: happily +unemployed for the rest of his life, apparently, and taking it as rather +less than his dues. The ship once did the Naples-Palermo course--a very +important course--in the old days of the General Navigation Company. The +General Navigation Company sold her for eighty thousand liras years ago, +and now she was worth two million. We pretend to believe: but I make a +poor show. I am thoroughly sick to death of the sound of liras. No man +can overhear ten words of Italian today without two thousand or two +million or ten or twenty or two liras flying like venomous mosquitoes +round his ears. Liras--liras--liras--nothing else. Romantic, poetic, +cypress-and-orange-tree Italy is gone. Remains an Italy smothered in the +filthy smother of innumerable Lira notes: ragged, unsavoury paper money +so thick upon the air that one breathes it like some greasy fog. Behind +this greasy fog some people may still see the Italian sun. I find it +hard work. Through this murk of Liras you peer at Michael Angelo and at +Botticelli and the rest, and see them all as through a glass, darkly. +For heavy around you is Italy's after-the-war atmosphere, darkly +pressing you, squeezing you, milling you into dirty paper notes. King +Harry was lucky that they only wanted to coin him into gold. Italy wants +to mill you into filthy paper Liras. + + * * * * * + +Another head--and a black alpaca jacket and a serviette this time--to +tell us coffee is ready. Not before it is time, too. We go down into the +subterranean state-room and sit on the screw-pin chairs, while the ship +does the slide-and-slope trot under us, and we drink a couple of cups of +coffee-and-milk, and eat a piece of bread and butter. At least one of +the innumerable members of the crew gives me one cup, then casts me +off. It is most obviously his intention that I shall get no more: +because of course the innumerable members of the crew could all just do +with another coffee and milk. However, though the ship heaves and the +alpaca coats cluster menacingly in the doorway, I balance my way to the +tin buffet and seize the coffee pot and the milk pot, and am quite +successful in administering to the q-b and myself. Having restored the +said vessels to their tin altar, I resume my spin chair at the long and +desert board. The q-b and I are alone--save that in the distance a very +fat back with gold-braid collar sits sideways and a fat hand disposes of +various papers--he is part of the one-and-only table, of course. The +tall lean alpaca jacket, with a face of yellow stone and a big black +moustache moves from the outer doorway, glowers at our filled cups, and +goes to the tin altar and touches the handles of the two vessels: just +touches them to an arrangement: as one who should say: These are mine. +What dirty foreigner dares help himself! + + * * * * * + +As quickly as possible we stagger up from the long dungeon where the +alpaca jackets are swooping like blue-bottles upon the coffee pots, into +the air. There the carpenter is waiting for us, like a spider. + +"Isn't the sea a little quieter?" says the q-b wistfully. She is growing +paler. + +"No, Signora--how should it be?" says the gaunt-faced carpenter. "The +wind is waiting for us behind Cape Gallo. You see that cape?" he points +to a tall black cliff-front in the sea ahead. "When we get to that cape +we get the wind and the sea. Here--" he makes a gesture--"it is +moderate." + +"Ugh!" says the q-b, turning paler. "I'm going to lie down." + +She disappears. The carpenter, finding me stony ground, goes forward, +and I see him melting into the crowd of the innumerable crew, that +hovers on the lower-deck passage by the kitchen and the engines. + + * * * * * + +The clouds are flying fast overhead: and sharp and isolated come drops +of rain, so that one thinks it must be spray. But no, it is a handful of +rain. The ship swishes and sinks forward, gives a hollow thudding and +rears slowly backward, along this pinkish lofty coast of Sicily that is +just retreating into a bay. From the open sea comes the rain, come the +long waves. + + * * * * * + +No shelter. One must go down. The q-b lies quietly in her bunk. The +state-room is stale like a passage on the underground railway. No +shelter, save near the kitchen and the engines, where there is a bit of +warmth. The cook is busy cleaning fish, making the whiting bite their +tails venomously at a little board just outside his kitchen-hole. A slow +stream of kitchen-filth swilkers back and forth along the ship's side. A +gang of the crew leans near me--a larger gang further down. Heaven knows +what they can all be--but they never do anything but stand in gangs and +talk and eat and smoke cigarettes. They are mostly young--mostly +Palermitan--with a couple of unmistakable Neapolitans, having the +peculiar Neapolitan hang-dog good looks, the chiselled cheek, the little +black moustache, the large eyes. But they chew with their cheeks bulged +out, and laugh with their fine, semi-sarcastic noses. The whole gang +looks continually sideways. Nobody ever commands them--there seems to be +absolutely no control. Only the fat engineer in grey linen looks as +clean and as competent as his own machinery. Queer how machine-control +puts the pride and self-respect into a man. + + * * * * * + +The rain over, I go and squat against the canvas that is spread over the +arched sky-lights on the small promenade deck, sitting on the seat that +is fixed to the sky-light sides. The wind is cold: there are snatches of +sun and spits of rain. The big cape has come and is being left behind: +we are heading for a far-off cape like a cloud in the grey air. A +dimness comes over one's mind: a sort of stupefaction owing to the wind +and the relentless slither-and-rearing of the ship. Not a sickness, but +a sort of dim faintness. So much motion, such moving, powerful air. And +withal a constant triumph in the long, slow sea-gallop of the ship. + + * * * * * + +A great loud bell: midday and the crew going to eat, rushing to eat. +After some time we are summoned. "The Signora isn't eating?" asks the +waiter eagerly: hoping she is not. "Yes, she is eating," say I. I fetch +the q-b from her berth. Rather wanly she comes and gets into her spin +chair. Bash comes a huge plate of thick, oily cabbage soup, very full, +swilkering over the sides. We do what we can with it. So does the third +passenger: a young woman who never wears a hat, thereby admitting +herself simply as one of "the people," but who has an expensive +complicated dress, nigger-coloured thin silk stockings, and suede +high-heeled shoes. She is handsome, sturdy, with large dark eyes and a +robust, frank manner: far too robustly downright for Italy. She is from +Cagliari--and can't do much with the cabbage soup: and tells the waiter +so, in her deep, hail-fellow-well-met voice. In the doorway hovers a +little cloud of alpaca jackets grinning faintly with malignant +anticipation of food, hoping, like blow-flies, we shall be too ill to +eat. Away goes the soup and appears a massive yellow omelette, like some +log of bilious wood. It is hard, and heavy, and cooked in the usual +rank-tasting olive oil. The young woman doesn't have much truck with it: +neither do we. To the triumph of the blow-flies, who see the yellow +monster borne to their altar. After which a long long slab of the +inevitable meat cut into innumerable slices, tasting of dead nothingness +and having a thick sauce of brown neutrality: sufficient for twelve +people at least. This, with masses of strong-tasting greenish +cauliflower liberally weighted with oil, on a ship that was already +heaving its heart out, made up the dinner. Accumulating malevolent +triumph among the blow-flies in the passage. So on to a dessert of +oranges, pears with wooden hearts and thick yellowish wash-leather +flesh, and apples. Then coffee. + +And we had sat through it, which is something. The alpaca blue-bottles +buzzed over the masses of food that went back on the dishes to the tin +altar. Surely it had been made deliberately so that we should not eat +it! The Cagliarese young woman talked to us. Yes, she broke into that +awful language which the Italians--the quite ordinary ones--call +French, and which they insist on speaking for their own glorification: +yea, when they get to heaven's gate they will ask St. Peter for: + +"OOn bigliay pour ung--trozzième classe." + +Fortunately or unfortunately her inquisitiveness got the better of her, +and she fell into her native Italian. What were we, where did we come +from, where were we going, _why_ were we going, had we any children, did +we want any, etc. After every answer she nodded her head and said Ahu! +and watched us with energetic dark eyes. Then she ruminated over our +nationalities and said, to the unseeing witnesses: Una bella coppia, a +fine couple. As at the moment we felt neither beautiful nor coupled, we +only looked greener. The grim man-at-arms coming up to ask us again if +we weren't going to have a little wine, she lapsed into her ten-pounder +French, which was most difficult to follow. And she said that on a +sea-voyage one must eat, one must eat, if only a little. But--and she +lapsed into Italian--one must by no means drink wine--no--no! One didn't +want to, said I sadly. Whereupon the grim man-at-arms, whom, of course, +we had cheated out of the bottle we refused to have opened for us, said +with a lost sarcasm that wine made a man of a man, etc., etc. I was too +weary of that underground, however. All I knew was that he wanted wine, +wine, wine, and we hadn't ordered any. He didn't care for food. + +The Cagliarese told us she came now from Naples, and her husband was +following in a few days. He was doing business in Naples. I nearly asked +if he was a little dog-fish--this being the Italian for profiteer, but +refrained in time. So the two ladies retired to lie down, I went and sat +under my tarpaulin. + + * * * * * + +I felt very dim, and only a bit of myself. And I dozed blankly. The +afternoon grew more sunny. The ship turned southwards, and with the wind +and waves behind, it became much warmer, much smoother. The sun had the +lovely strong winey warmth, golden over the dark-blue sea. The old +oak-wood looked almost white, the afternoon was sweet upon the sea. And +in the sunshine and the swishing of the sea, the speedier running of the +empty ship, I slept a warm, sweet hour away, and awoke new. To see ahead +pale, uplooming islands upon the right: the windy Egades: and on the +right a mountain or high conical hill, with buildings on the summit: and +in front against the sea, still rather far away, buildings rising upon a +quay, within a harbor: and a mole, and a castle forward to sea, all +small and far away, like a view. The buildings were square and fine. +There was something impressive--magical under the far sunshine and the +keen wind, the square and well-proportioned buildings waiting far off, +waiting like a lost city in a story, a Rip van Winkle city. I knew it +was Trapani, the western port of Sicily, under the western sun. + + * * * * * + +And the hill near us was Mount Eryx. I had never seen it before. So I +had imagined a mountain in the sky. But it was only a hill, with +undistinguishable cluster of a village on the summit, where even now +cold wisps of vapour caught. They say it is 2,500 feet high. Still it +looks only a hill. + +But why in the name of heaven should my heart stand still as I watch +that hill which rises above the sea? It is the Etna of the west: but +only a town-crowned hill. To men it must have had a magic almost greater +than Etna's. Watching Africa! Africa, showing her coast on clear days. +Africa the dreaded. And the great watch-temple of the summit, +world-sacred, world-mystic in the world that was. Venus of the +aborigines, older than Greek Aphrodite. Venus of the aborigines, from +her watch-temple looking at Africa, beyond the Egatian isles. The +world-mystery, the smiling Astarte. This, one of the world centres, +older than old! and the woman-goddess watching Africa! _Erycina +ridens._ Laughing, the woman-goddess, at this centre of an ancient, +quite-lost world. + +I confess my heart stood still. But is mere historical fact so strong, +that what one learns in bits from books can move one so? Or does the +very word call an echo out of the dark blood? It seems so to me. It +seems to me from the darkest recesses of my blood comes a terrible echo +at the name of Mount Eryx: something quite unaccountable. The name of +Athens hardly moves me. At Eryx--my darkness quivers. Eryx, looking west +into Africa's sunset. _Erycina ridens._ + +There is a tick-tocking in the little cabin against which I lean. The +wireless operator is busy communicating with Trapani, no doubt. He is a +fat young man with fairish curly hair and an important bearing. Give a +man control of some machine, and at once his air of importance and +more-than-human dignity develops. One of the unaccountable members of +the crew lounges in the little doorway, like a chicken on one foot, +having nothing to do. The girl from Cagliari comes up with two young +men--also Sardinians by their thick-set, independent look, and the touch +of pride in their dark eyes. She has no wraps at all: just her elegant +fine-cloth dress, her bare head from which the wisps of hair blow across +her brow, and the transparent "nigger" silk stockings. Yet she does not +seem cold. She talks with great animation, sitting between the two +young men. And she holds the hand of the one in the overcoat +affectionately. She is always holding the hand of one or other of the +two young men: and wiping wisps of wind-blown hair from her brow: and +talking in her strong, nonchalant voice, rapidly, ceaselessly, with +massive energy. Heaven knows if the two young men--they are third-class +passengers--were previous acquaintances. But they hold her hand like +brothers--quite simply and nicely, not at all sticky and libidinous. It +all has an air of "Why not?" + +She shouts at me as I pass, in her powerful, extraordinary French: + +"Madame votre femme, elle est au lit?" + +I say she is lying down. + +"Ah!" she nods. "Elle a le mal de mer?" + +No, she is not sea-sick, just lying down. + +The two young men, between whom she is sitting as between two pillows, +watch with the curious Sardinian dark eyes that seem alert and show the +white all round. They are pleasant--a bit like seals. And they have a +numb look for the moment, impressed by this strange language. She +proceeds energetically to translate into Sardinian, as I pass on. + +We do not seem to be going to Trapani. There lies the town on the left, +under the hill, the square buildings that suggest to me the factories +of the East India Company shining in the sun along the curious, +closed-in harbour, beyond the running, dark blue sea. We seem to be +making for the island bulk of Levanzo. Perhaps we shall steer away to +Sardinia without putting in to Trapani. + +On and on we run--and always as if we were going to steer between the +pale blue, heaped-up islands, leaving Trapani behind us on our left. The +town has been in sight for an hour or more: and still we run out to sea +towards Levanzo. And the wireless-operator busily tick-tocks and throbs +in his little cabin on this upper deck. Peeping in, one sees his bed and +chair behind a curtain, screened off from his little office. And all so +tidy and pleased-looking. + +From the islands one of the Mediterranean sailing ships is beating her +way, across our track, to Trapani. I don't know the name of ships but +the carpenter says she is a schooner: he says it with that Italian +misgiving which doesn't really know but which can't bear not to know. +Anyhow on she comes, with her tall ladder of square sails white in the +afternoon light, and her lovely prow, curved in with a perfect hollow, +running like a wild animal on a scent across the waters. There--the +scent leads her north again. She changes her tack from the harbour +mouth, and goes coursing away, passing behind us. Lovely she is, nimble +and quick and palpitating, with all her sails white and bright and +eager. + +We are changing our course. We have all the time been heading for the +south of Levanzo. Now I see the island slowly edging back, as if +clearing out of the way for us, like a man in the street. The island +edges and turns aside: and walks away. And clearly we are making for the +harbour mouth. We have all this time been running, out at sea, round the +back of the harbour. Now I see the fortress-castle, an old thing, out +forward to sea: and a little lighthouse and the way in. And beyond, the +town-front with great palm trees and other curious dark trees, and +behind these the large square buildings of the south rising imposingly, +as if severe, big palaces upon the promenade. It all has a stately, +southern, imposing appearance, withal remote from our modern centuries: +standing back from the tides of our industrial life. + +I remember the Crusaders, how they called here so often on their way to +the East. And Trapani seems waiting for them still, with its palm trees +and its silence, full in the afternoon sun. It has not much to do but +wait, apparently. + +The q-b emerges into the sun, crying out how lovely! And the sea is +quieter: we are already in the lea of the harbour-curve. From the north +the many-sailed ship from the islands is running down towards us, with +the wind. And away on the south, on the sea-level, numerous short +windmills are turning their sails briskly, windmill after windmill, +rather stumpy, spinning gaily in the blue, silent afternoon, among the +salt-lagoons stretching away towards Marsala. But there is a whole +legion of windmills, and Don Quixote would have gone off his head. There +they spin, hither and thither, upon the pale-blue sea-levels. And +perhaps one catches a glitter of white salt-heaps. For these are the +great salt-lagoons which make Trapani rich. + + * * * * * + +We are entering the harbour-basin, however, past the old castle out on +the spit, past the little lighthouse, then through the entrance, +slipping quietly on the now tranquil water. Oh, and how pleasant the +fulness of the afternoon sun flooding this round, fast-sleeping harbour, +along whose side the tall palms drowse, and whose waters are fast +asleep. It seems quite a small, cosy harbour, with the great buildings +warm-colored in the sun behind the dark tree-avenue of the marina. The +same silent, sleeping, endlessly sun-warmed stateliness. + +In the midst of this tranquillity we slowly turn round upon the shining +water, and in a few moments are moored. There are other ships moored +away to the right: all asleep, apparently, in the flooding of the +afternoon sun. Beyond the harbour entrance runs the great sea and the +wind. Here all is still and hot and forgotten. + +"Vous descendez en terre?" shouts the young woman, in her energetic +French--she leaves off holding the young men's hands for the moment. We +are not quite sure: and we don't want her to come with us, anyhow, for +her French is not our French. + +The land sleeps on: nobody takes any notice of us: but just one boat +paddles out the dozen yards to our side. We decide to set foot on shore. + + * * * * * + +One should not, and we knew it. One should never enter into these +southern towns that look so nice, so lovely, from the outside. However, +we thought we would buy some cakes. So we crossed the avenue which looks +so beautiful from the sea, and which, when you get into it, is a cross +between an outside place where you throw rubbish and a humpy unmade road +in a raw suburb, with a few iron seats, and litter of old straw and rag. +Indescribably dreary in itself: yet with noble trees, and lovely +sunshine, and the sea and the islands gleaming magic beyond the harbour +mouth, and the sun, the eternal sun full focussed. A few mangy, +nothing-to-do people stand disconsolately about, in southern fashion, +as if they had been left there, water-logged, by the last flood, and +were waiting for the next flood to wash them further. Round the corner +along the quay a Norwegian steamer dreams that she is being loaded, in +the muddle of the small port. + + * * * * * + +We looked at the cakes--heavy and wan they appeared to our sea-rolled +stomachs. So we strolled into a main street, dark and dank like a sewer. +A tram bumped to a standstill, as if now at last was the end of the +world. Children coming from school ecstatically ran at our heels, with +bated breath, to hear the vocal horrors of our foreign speech. We turned +down a dark side alley, about forty paces deep: and were on the northern +bay, and on a black stench that seemed like the perpetual sewer, a bank +of mud. + +So we got to the end of the black main street, and turned in haste to +the sun. Ah--in a moment we were in it. There rose the palms, there lay +our ship in the shining, curving basin--and there focussed the sun, so +that in a moment we were drunk or dazed by it. Dazed. We sat on an iron +seat in the rubbish-desolate, sun-stricken avenue. + +A ragged and dirty girl was nursing a fat and moist and immovable baby +and tending to a grimy fat infant boy. She stood a yard away and gazed +at us as one would gaze at a pig one was going to buy. She came nearer, +and examined the q-b. I had my big hat down over my eyes. But no, she +had taken her seat at my side, and poked her face right under my hat +brim, so that her towzled hair touched me, and I thought she would kiss +me. But again no. With her breath on my cheek she only gazed on my face +as if it were a wax mystery. I got up hastily. + +"Too much for me," said I to the q-b. + +She laughed, and asked what the baby was called. The baby was called +Beppina, as most babies are. + +Driven forth, we wandered down the desolate avenue of shade and sun +towards the ship, and turned once more into the town. We had not been on +shore more than ten minutes. This time we went to the right, and found +more shops. The streets were dark and sunless and cold. And Trapani +seemed to me to sell only two commodities: cured rabbit skins and +cat-skins, and great, hideous, modern bed-spread arrangements of heavy +flowered silk and fabulous price. They seem to think nothing of +thousands of liras, in Trapani. + +But most remarkable was bunny and pussy. Bunny and pussy, flattened out +like pressed leaves, dangling in clusters everywhere. Furs! white bunny, +black bunny in great abundance, piebald bunny, grey bunny:--then pussy, +tabby pussy, and tortoiseshell pussy, but mostly black pussy, in a +ghastly semblance of life, all flat, of course. Just single furs. +Clusters, bunches, heaps, and dangling arrays of plain-superficies puss +and bun-bun! Puss and bun by the dozen and the twenty, like dried +leaves, for your choice. If a cat from a ship should chance to find +itself in Trapani streets, it would give a mortal yell, and go mad, I am +sure. + +We strolled for ten more minutes in this narrow, tortuous, unreal town, +that seemed to have plenty of flourishing inhabitants, and a fair number +of Socialists, if one was to judge by the great scrawlings on the walls: +W. LENIN and ABASSO LA BORGHESIA. Don't imagine, by the way, that Lenin +is another Wille on the list. The apparent initial stands for _Evviva_, +the double V. + + * * * * * + +Cakes one dared not buy, after looking at them. But we found macaroon +biscuits, and a sort of flat plaster-casts of the Infant Jesus under a +dove, of which we bought two. The q-b ate her macaroon biscuits all +through the streets, and we went towards the ship. The fat boatman +hailed us to take us back. It was just about eight yards of water to +row, the ship being moored on the quay: one could have jumped it. I gave +the fat boatman two liras, two francs. He immediately put on the +socialist-workman indignation, and thrust the note back at me. Sixty +centimes more! The fee was thirteen sous each way! In Venice or Syracuse +it would be two sous. I looked at him and gave him the money and said: +"Per Dio, we are in Trapani!" He muttered back something about +foreigners. But the hateful, unmanly insolence of these lords of toil, +now they have their various "unions" behind them and their "rights" as +working men, sends my blood black. They are ordinary men no more: the +human, happy Italian is most marvellously vanished. New honors come upon +them, etc. The dignity of human labour is on its hind legs, busy giving +every poor innocent who isn't ready for it a kick in the mouth. + + * * * * * + +But, once more in parenthesis, let me remind myself that it is our own +English fault. We have slobbered about the nobility of toil, till at +last the nobles naturally insist on eating the cake. And more than that, +we have set forth, politically, on such a high and Galahad quest of holy +liberty, and been caught so shamelessly filling our pockets, that no +wonder the naïve and idealistic south turns us down with a bang. + + * * * * * + +Well, we are back on the ship. And we want tea. On the list by the door +it says we are to have coffee, milk and butter at 8.30: luncheon at +11.30: tea, coffee or chocolate at 3.00: and dinner at 6.30. And +moreover: "The company will feed the passengers for the normal duration +of the voyage only." Very well--very well. Then where is tea? Not any +signs! and the alpaca jackets giving us a wide berth. But we find our +man, and demand our rights: at least the q-b does. + +The tickets from Palermo to Cagliari cost, together, 583 liras. Of this, +250 liras was for the ticket, and 40 liras each for the food. This, for +two tickets, would make 580 liras. The odd three for usual stamps. The +voyage was supposed to last about thirty or thirty-two hours: from eight +of the morning of departure to two or four of the following afternoon. +Surely we pay for our tea. + +The other passengers have emerged: a large, pale, fat, "handsome" +Palermitan who is going to be professor at Cagliari: his large, fat, but +high-coloured wife: and three children, a boy of fourteen like a thin, +frail, fatherly girl, a little boy in a rabbit-skin overcoat, coming +rather unfluffed, and a girl-child on the mother's knee. The +one-year-old girl-child being, of course, the only man in the party. + +They have all been sick all day, and look washed out. We sympathise. +They lament the cruelties of the journey--and _senza servizio! senza +servizio!_ without any maid servant. The mother asks for coffee, and a +cup of milk for the children: then, seeing our tea with lemon, and +knowing it by repute, she will have tea. But the rabbit-boy will have +coffee--coffee and milk--and nothing else. And an orange. And the baby +will have lemon, pieces of lemon. And the fatherly young "miss" of an +adolescent brother laughs indulgently at all the whims of these two +young ones: the father laughs and thinks it all adorable and expects us +to adore. He is almost too washed-out to attend properly, to give the +full body of his attention. + +So the mother gets her cup of tea--and puts a piece of lemon in--and +then milk on top of that. The rabbit boy sucks an orange, slobbers in +the tea, insists on coffee and milk, tries a piece of lemon, and gets a +biscuit. The baby, with weird faces, chews pieces of lemon: and drops +them in the family cup: and fishes them out with a little sugar, and +dribbles them across the table to her mouth, throws them away and +reaches for a new sour piece. They all think it humorous and adorable. +Arrives the milk, to be treated as another loving cup, mingled with +orange, lemon, sugar, tea, biscuit, chocolate, and cake. Father, +mother, and elder brother partake of nothing, they haven't the +stomach. But they are charmed, of course, by the pretty pranks and +messes of the infants. They have extraordinary amiable patience, +and find the young ones a perpetual source of charming amusement. +They look at one another, the elder ones, and laugh and comment, +while the two young ones mix themselves and the table into a +lemon-milk-orange-tea-sugar-biscuit-cake-chocolate mess. This inordinate +Italian amiable patience with their young monkeys is astonishing. It +makes the monkeys more monkey-like, and self-conscious incredibly, so +that a baby has all the tricks of a Babylonian harlot, making eyes and +trying new pranks. Till at last one sees the southern Holy Family as an +unholy triad of imbecility. + +Meanwhile I munched my Infant-Jesus-and-Dove arrangement, which was +rather like eating thin glass, so hard and sharp. It was made of almond +and white of egg presumably, and was not so bad if you could eat it at +all. It was a Christmas relic.--And I watched the Holy Family across the +narrow board, and tried not to look all I felt. + + * * * * * + +Going on deck as soon as possible, we watched the loading of barrels of +wine into the hold--a mild and happy-go-lucky process. The ship seemed +to be almost as empty of cargo as of passengers. Of the latter, we were +apparently twelve adults, all told, and the three children. And as for +cargo, there were the wooden chests of the officer, and these fourteen +barrels of wine from Trapani. The last were at length settled more or +less firm, the owner, or the responsible landsman seeing to it. No one +on the ship seemed to be responsible for anything. And four of the +innumerable crew were replacing the big planks over the hold. It was +curious how forlorn the ship seemed to feel, now she was ready for sea +again. Her innumerable crew did not succeed in making her alive. She ran +her course like a lost soul across the Mid-Mediterranean. + + * * * * * + +Outside the harbour the sun was sinking, gorgeous gold and red the sky, +and vast, beyond the darkening islands of the Egades group. Coming as we +did from the east side of the island, where dawn beyond the Ionian sea +is the day's great and familiar event: so decisive an event, that as the +light appears along the sea's rim, so do my eyes invariably open and +look at it, and know it is dawn, and as the night-purple is fused back, +and a little scarlet thrills towards the zenith, invariably, day by day, +I feel I must get up: coming from the east, shut off hermetically from +the west by the steep spikes of the mountains at our back, we felt this +sunset in the African sea terrible and dramatic. It seemed much more +magnificent and tragic than our Ionian dawn, which has always a +suggestion of a flower opening. But this great red, trumpet-flaring +sunset had something African, half-sinister, upon the sea: and it seemed +so far off, in an unknown land. Whereas our Ionian dawn always seems +near and familiar and happy. + +A different goddess the Eryx Astarte, the woman Ashtaroth, _Erycina +ridens_ must have been, in her prehstoric dark smiling, watching the +fearful sunsets beyond the Egades, from our gold-lighted Apollo of the +Ionian east. She is a strange goddess to me, this Erycina Venus, and the +west is strange and unfamiliar and a little fearful, be it Africa or be +it America. + +Slowly at sunset we moved out of the harbour. And almost as we passed +the bar, away in front we saw, among the islands, the pricking of a +quick pointed light. Looking back, we saw the light at the harbour +entrance twitching: and the remote, lost town beginning to glimmer. And +night was settling down upon the sea, through the crimsoned purple of +the last afterglow. + +The islands loomed big as we drew nearer, dark in the thickening +darkness. Overhead a magnificent evening-star blazed above the open sea, +giving me a pang at the heart, for I was so used to see her hang just +above the spikes of the mountains, that I felt she might fall, having +the space beneath. + +Levanzo and the other large island were quite dark: absolutely dark, +save for one beam of a lighthouse low down in the distance. The wind was +again strong and cold: the ship had commenced her old slither and heave, +slither and heave, which mercifully we had forgotten. Overhead were +innumerable great stars active as if they were alive in the sky. I saw +Orion high behind us, and the dog-star glaring. And _swish!_ went the +sea as we took the waves, then after a long trough, _swish!_ This +curious rhythmic swishing and hollow drumming of a steamer at sea has a +narcotic, almost maddening effect on the spirit, a long, hissing burst +of waters, then the hollow roll, and again the upheaval to a sudden +hiss-ss-ss! + +A bell had clanged and we knew the crew were once more feeding. At every +moment of the day and presumably of the night, feeding was going on--or +coffee-drinking. + + * * * * * + +We were summoned to dinner. Our young woman was already seated: and a +fat uniformed mate or purser or official of some sort was finishing off +in the distance. The pale professor also appeared: and at a certain +distance down the table sat a little hard-headed grey man in a long grey +alpaca travelling coat. Appeared the beloved macaroni with tomato sauce: +no food for the sea. I put my hopes on the fish. Had I not seen the +cook making whiting bite their own tails viciously?--The fish appeared. +And what was it? Fried ink-pots. A _calamaio_ is an ink-pot: also it is +a polyp, a little octopus which, alas, frequents the Mediterranean and +squirts ink if offended. This polyp with its tentacles is cut up and +fried, and reduced to the consistency of boiled celluloid. It is +esteemed a delicacy: but is tougher than indiarubber, gristly through +and through. + +I have a peculiar aversion to these ink-pots. Once in Liguria we had a +boat of our own and paddled with the peasant paddlers. Alessandro caught +ink-pots: and like this. He tied up a female by a string in a cave--the +string going through a convenient hole in her end. There she lived, like +an Amphitrite's wire-haired terrier tied up, till Alessandro went +a-fishing. Then he towed her, like a poodle behind. And thus, like a +poodly-bitch, she attracted hangers-on in the briny seas. And these poor +polyp inamorati were the victims. They were lifted as prey on board, +where I looked with horror on their grey, translucent tentacles and +large, cold, stony eyes. The she-polyp was towed behind again. But after +a few days she died. + +And I think, even for creatures so awful-looking, this method is +indescribably base, and shows how much lower than an octopus even, is +lordly man. + +Well, we chewed a few ends of oil-fried ink-pots, and gave it up. The +Cagliari girl gave up too: the professor had not even tried. Only the +hard-headed grey man in the alpaca coat chewed animatedly, with bouncing +jaws. Mountains of calamaio remained for the joyous blue-bottles. + +Arrived the inevitable meat--this long piece of completely tasteless +undercut in innumerable grey-brown slices. Oh, Italy! The professor +fled. + +Arrived the wash-leather pears, the apples, the oranges--we saved an +apple for a happier hour. + +Arrived coffee, and, as a magnificent treat, a few well-known pastries. +They all taste wearily alike. The young woman shakes her head. I shake +mine, but the q-b, like a child, is pleased. Most pleased of all, +however, are the blue-bottles, who dart in a black-alpaca bunch to the +tin altar, and there loudly buzz, wildly, above the sallow cakes. + +The citron-cheeked, dry one, however, cares darkly nothing for cakes. He +comes once more to twit us about wine. So much so that the Cagliari girl +orders a glass of Marsala: and I must second her. So there we are, three +little glasses of brown liquid. The Cagliari girl sips hers and suddenly +flees. The q-b sips hers with infinite caution, and quietly retires. I +finish the q-b's little glass, and my own, and the voracious blow-flies +buzz derisively and excited. The yellow-cheeked one has disappeared with +the bottle. + +From the professorial cabin faint wails, sometimes almost fierce, as one +or another is going to be ill. Only a thin door is between this +state-room and them. The most down-trodden frayed ancient rag of a man +goes discreetly with basins, trying not to let out glimpses of the awful +within. I climb up to look at the vivid, drenching stars, to breathe the +cold wind, to see the dark sea sliding. Then I too go to the cabin, and +watch the sea run past the porthole for a minute, and insert myself like +the meat in a sandwich into the tight lower bunk. Oh, infinitesimal +cabin, where we sway like two matches in a match box! Oh strange, but +even yet excellent gallop of a ship at sea. + + * * * * * + +I slept not so badly through the stifled, rolling night--in fact later +on slept soundly. And the day was growing bright when I peered through +the porthle, the sea was much smoother. It was a brilliant clear +morning. I made haste and washed myself cursorily in the saucer that +dribbled into a pail in a corner: there was not space even for one +chair, this saucer was by my bunk-head. And I went on deck. + +Ah the lovely morning! Away behind us the sun was just coming above the +sea's horizon, and the sky all golden, all a joyous, fire-heated gold, +and the sea was glassy bright, the wind gone still, the waves sunk into +long, low undulations, the foam of the wake was pale ice-blue in the +yellow air. Sweet, sweet wide morning on the sea, with the sun coming, +swimming up, and a tall sailing bark, with her flat fore-ladder of sails +delicately across the light, and a far-far steamer on the electric vivid +morning horizon. + +The lovely dawn: the lovely pure, wide morning in the mid-sea, so +golden-aired and delighted, with the sea like sequins shaking, and the +sky far, far, far above, unfathomably clear. How glad to be on a ship! +What a golden hour for the heart of man! Ah if one could sail for ever, +on a small quiet, lonely ship, from land to land and isle to isle, and +saunter through the spaces of this lovely world, always through the +spaces of this lovely world. Sweet it would be sometimes to come to the +opaque earth, to block oneself against the stiff land, to annul the +vibration of one's flight against the inertia of our _terra firma!_ but +life itself would be in the flight, the tremble of space. Ah the +trembling of never-ended space, as one moves in flight! Space, and the +frail vibration of space, the glad lonely wringing of the heart. Not to +be clogged to the land any more. Not to be any more like a donkey with a +log on its leg, fastened to weary earth that has no answer now. But to +be off. + +To find three masculine, world-lost souls, and world-lost saunter, and +saunter on along with them, across the dithering space, as long as life +lasts! Why come to anchor? There is nothing to anchor for. Land has no +answer to the soul any more. It has gone inert. Give me a little ship, +kind gods, and three world-lost comrades. Hear me! And let me wander +aimless across this vivid outer world, the world empty of man, where +space flies happily. + + * * * * * + +The lovely, celandine-yellow morning of the open sea, paling towards a +rare, sweet blue! The sun stood above the horizon, like the great +burning stigma of the sacred flower of day. Mediterranean sailing-ships, +so mediaeval, hovered on the faint morning wind, as if uncertain which +way to go, curious, odd-winged insects of the flower. The steamer, +hull-down, was sinking towards Spain. Space rang clear about us: the +level sea! + +Appeared the Cagliari young woman and her two friends. She was looking +handsome and restored now the sea was easy. Her two male friends stood +touching her, one at either shoulder. + +"Bonjour, Monsieur!" she barked across at me. "Vous avez pris le café?" + +"Pas encore. Et vous?" + +"Non! Madame votre femme...." + +She roared like a mastiff dog: and then translated with unction to her +two uninitiated friends. How it was they did not understand her French I +do not know, it was so like travestied Italian. + +I went below to find the q-b. + + * * * * * + +When we came up, the faint shape of land appeared ahead, more +transparent than thin pearl. Already Sardinia. Magic are high lands seen +from the sea, when they are far, far off, and ghostly translucent like +ice-bergs. This was Sardinia, looming like fascinating shadows in +mid-sea. And the sailing ships, as if cut out of frailest pearl +translucency, were wafting away towards Naples. I wanted to count their +sails--five square ones which I call the ladder, one above the +other--but how many wing-blades? That remained yet to be seen. + + * * * * * + +Our friend the carpenter spied us out: at least, he was not my friend. +He didn't find me _simpatico_, I am sure. But up he came, and proceeded +to entertain us with weary banality. Again the young woman called, had +we had coffee? We said we were just going down. And then she said that +whatever we had today we had to pay for: our food ended with the one +day. At which the q-b was angry, feeling swindled. But I had known +before. + + * * * * * + +We went down and had our coffee notwithstanding. The young woman came +down, and made eyes at one of the alpaca blue-bottles. After which we +saw a cup of coffee and milk and two biscuits being taken to her into +her cabin, discreetly. When Italians are being discreet and on the sly, +the very air about them becomes tell-tale, and seems to shout with a +thousand tongues. So with a thousand invisible tongues clamouring the +fact, the young woman had her coffee secretly and _gratis_, in her +cabin. + + * * * * * + +But the morning was lovely. The q-b and I crept round the bench at the +very stern of the ship and sat out of the wind and out of sight, just +above the foaming of the wake. Before us was the open morning--and the +glisten of our ship's track, like a snail's path, trailing across the +sea: straight for a little while, then giving a bend to the left, always +a bend towards the left: and coming at us from the pure horizon, like a +bright snail-path. Happy it was to sit there in the stillness, with +nothing but the humanless sea to shine about us. + +But no, we were found out. Arrived the carpenter. + +"Ah, you have found a fine place--!" + +"Molto bello!" This from the q-b. I could not bear the irruption. + +He proceeded to talk--and as is inevitable, the war. Ah, the war--it was +a terrible thing. He had become ill--very ill. Because, you see, not +only do you go without proper food, without proper rest and warmth, but, +you see, you are in an agony of fear for your life all the time. An +agony of fear for your life. And that's what does it. Six months in +hospital--! The q-b, of course, was sympathetic. + +The Sicilians are quite simple about it. They just tell you they were +frightened to death, and it made them ill. The q-b, woman-like, loves +them for being so simple about it. I feel angry somewhere. For they +_expect_ a full-blown sympathy. And however the great god Mars may have +shrunk and gone wizened in the world, it still annoys me to hear him +_so_ blasphemed. + + * * * * * + +Near us the automatic log was spinning, the thin rope trailing behind us +in the sea. Erratically it jerked and spun, with spasmodic torsion. He +explained that the little screw at the end of the line spun to the +speed of travelling. We were going from ten to twelve Italian miles to +the hour. Ah, yes, we _could_ go twenty. But we went no faster than ten +or twelve, to save the coal. + +The coal--il carbone! I knew we were in for it. England--l'Inghilterra +she has the coal. And what does she do? She sells it very dear. +Particularly to Italy. Italy won the war and now can't even have coal. +Because why! The price. The exchange! _Il cambio._ Now I am doubly in +for it. Two countries had been able to keep their money high--England +and America. The English sovereign--la sterlina--and the American +dollar--_sa_, these were money. The English and the Americans flocked to +Italy, with their _sterline_ and their _dollari_, and they bought what +they wanted for nothing, for nothing. Ecco! Whereas we poor Italians--we +are in a state of ruination--proper ruination. The allies, etc., etc. + +I am so used to it--I am so wearily used to it. I can't walk a stride +without having this wretched _cambio_, the exchange, thrown at my head. +And this with an injured petulant spitefulness which turns my blood. For +I assure them, whatever I have in Italy I pay for: and I am not England. +I am not the British Isles on two legs. + +Germany--La Germania--she did wrong to make the war. But--there you +are, that was war. Italy and Germany--l'Italia e la Germania--they had +always been friends. In Palermo.... + +My God, I felt I could not stand it another second. To sit above the +foam and have this miserable creature stuffing wads of chewed newspaper +into my ear--no, I could not bear it. In Italy, there is no escape. Say +two words, and the individual starts chewing old newspaper and stuffing +it into you. No escape. You become--if you are English--_l'Inghilterra_, +_il carbone_, and _il cambio_; and as England, coal and exchange you are +treated. It is more than useless to try to be human about it. You are a +State usury system, a coal fiend and an exchange thief. Every Englishman +has disappeared into this triple abstraction, in the eyes of the +Italian, of the proletariat particularly. Try and get them to be human, +try and get them to see that you are simply an individual, if you can. +After all, I am no more than a single human man wandering my lonely way +across these years. But no--to an Italian I am a perfected abstraction, +England--coal--exchange. The Germans were once devils for inhuman +theoretic abstracting of living beings. But now the Italians beat them. +I am a walking column of statistics, which adds up badly for Italy. +Only this and nothing more. Which being so, I shut my mouth and walk +away. + + * * * * * + +For the moment the carpenter is shaken off. But I am in a rage, fool +that I am. It is like being pestered by their mosquitoes. The sailing +ships are near--and I count fifteen sails. Beautiful they look! Yet if I +were on board somebody would be chewing newspaper at me, and addressing +me as England--coal--exchange. + +The mosquito hovers--and hovers. But the stony blank of the side of my +cheek keeps him away. Yet he hovers. And the q-b feels sympathetic +towards him: quite sympathetic. Because of course he treats her--a _bel +pezzo_--as if he would lick her boots, or anything else that she would +let him lick. + + * * * * * + +Meanwhile we eat the apples from yesterday's dessert, and the remains of +the q-b's Infant-Jesus-and-dove cake. The land is drawing nearer--we can +see the shape of the end promontory and peninsula--and a white speck +like a church. The bulk of the land is forlorn and rather shapeless, +coming towards us: but attractive. + +Looking ahead towards the land gives us away. The mosquito swoops on us. +Yes--he is not sure--he thinks the white speck is a church--or a +lighthouse. When you pass the cape on the right, and enter the wide bay +between Cape Spartivento and Cape Carbonara, then you have two hours +sail to Cagliari. We shall arrive between two and three o'clock. It is +now eleven. + +Yes, the sailing ships are probably going to Naples. There is not much +wind for them now. When there is wind they go fast, faster than our +steamer. Ah Naples--bella, bella, eh? A little dirty, say I. But what do +you want? says he. A great city! Palermo of course is better. + +Ah--the Neapolitan women--he says, à propos or not. They do their hair +so fine, so neat and beautiful--but underneath--sotto--sotto--they are +dirty. This being received in cold silence, he continues: _Noi giriamo +il mondo! Noi, chi giriamo, conosciamo il mondo._ _We_ travel about, +and _we_ know the world. Who _we_ are, I do not know: his highness the +Palermitan carpenter lout, no doubt. But _we_, who travel, know the +world. He is preparing his shot. The Neapolitan women, and the English +women, in this are equal: that they are dirty underneath. Underneath, +they are dirty. The women of London-- + +But it is getting too much for me. + +"You who look for dirty women," say I, "find dirty women everywhere." + +He stops short and watches me. + +"No! No! You have not understood me. No! I don't mean that. I mean that +the Neapolitan women and the English women have dirty underclothing--" + +To which he gets no answer but a cold look and a cold cheek. Whereupon +he turns to the q-b, and proceeds to be _simpatica_. And after a few +moments he turns again to me: + +"Il signore is offended! He is offended with me." + +But I turn the other way. And at last he clears out: in triumph, I must +admit: like a mosquito that has bitten one in the neck. As a matter of +fact one should _never_ let these fellows get into conversation +nowadays. They are no longer human beings. They hate one's Englishness, +and leave out the individual. + + * * * * * + +We walk forward, towards the fore-deck, where the captain's lookout +cabin is. The captain is an elderly man, silent and crushed: with the +look of a gentleman. But he looks beaten down. Another, still another +member of the tray-carrying department is just creeping up his ladder +with a cup of black coffee. Returning, we peep down the sky-light into +the kitchen. And there we see roast chicken and sausages--roast chicken +and sausages! Ah, this is where the sides of kid and the chickens and +the good things go: all down the throats of the crew. There is no more +food for us, until we land. + + * * * * * + +We have passed the cape--and the white thing is a lighthouse. And the +fattish, handsome professor has come up carrying the little girl-child, +while the femalish elder brother leads the rabbit-fluffy small boy by +the hand. So _en famille_: so terribly _en famille_. They deposit +themselves near us, and it threatens another conversation. But not for +anything, my dears! + +The sailors--not sailors, some of the street-corner loafers, are +hoisting the flag, the red-white-and-green Italian tricolor. It floats +at the mast-head, and the femalish brother, in a fine burst of feeling, +takes off his funny hat with a flourish and cries: + +"Ecco la bandiera italiana!" + +Ach, the hateful sentimentalism of these days. + +The land passes slowly, very slowly. It is hilly, but barren looking, +with few trees. And it is not spikey and rather splendid, like Sicily. +Sicily has style. We keep along the east side of the bay--away in the +west is Cape Spartivento. And still no sight of Cagliari. + +"Two hours yet!" cries the Cagliari girl. "Two hours before we eat. Ah, +when I get on land, what a good meal I shall eat." + +The men haul in the automatic log. The sky is clouding over with that +icy curd which comes after midday when the bitter north wind is blowing. +It is no longer warm. + + * * * * * + +Slowly, slowly we creep along the formless shore. An hour passes. We see +a little fort ahead, done in enormous black-and-white checks, like a +fragment of gigantic chess-board. It stands at the end of a long spit of +land--a long, barish peninsula that has no houses and looks as if it +might be golf-links. But it is not golf-links. + +And suddenly there is Cagliari: a naked town rising steep, steep, +golden-looking, piled naked to the sky from the plain at the head of the +formless hollow bay. It is strange and rather wonderful, not a bit like +Italy. The city piles up lofty and almost miniature, and makes me think +of Jerusalem: without trees, without cover, rising rather bare and +proud, remote as if back in history, like a town in a monkish, +illuminated missal. One wonders how it ever got there. And it seems like +Spain--or Malta: not Italy. It is a steep and lonely city, treeless, as +in some old illumination. Yet withal rather jewel-like: like a sudden +rose-cut amber jewel naked at the depth of the vast indenture. The air +is cold, blowing bleak and bitter, the sky is all curd. And that is +Cagliari. It has that curious look, as if it could be seen, but not +entered. It is like some vision, some memory, something that has passed +away. Impossible that one can actually _walk_ in that city: set foot +there and eat and laugh there. Ah, no! Yet the ship drifts nearer, +nearer, and we are looking for the actual harbour. + + * * * * * + +The usual sea-front with dark trees for a promenade and palatial +buildings behind, but here not so pink and gay, more reticent, more +sombre of yellow stone. The harbour itself a little basin of water, into +which we are slipping carefully, while three salt-barges laden with salt +as white as snow creep round from the left, drawn by an infinitesimal +tug. There are only two other forlorn ships in the basin. It is cold on +deck. The ship turns slowly round, and is being hauled to the quay side. +I go down for the knapsack, and a fat blue-bottle pounces at me. + +"You pay nine francs fifty." + +I pay them, and we get off that ship. + + + + +III. + +CAGLIARI. + + +There is a very little crowd waiting on the quay: mostly men with their +hands in their pockets. But, thank Heaven, they have a certain aloofness +and reserve. They are not like the tourist-parasites of these post-war +days, who move to the attack with a terrifying cold vindictiveness the +moment one emerges from any vehicle. And some of these men look really +poor. There are no poor Italians any more: at least, loafers. + +Strange the feeling round the harbour: as if everybody had gone away. +Yet there are people about. It is "festa" however, Epiphany. But it is +so different from Sicily: none of the suave Greek-Italian charms, none +of the airs and graces, none of the glamour. Rather bare, rather stark, +rather cold and yellow--somehow like Malta, without Malta's foreign +liveliness. Thank Goodness no one wants to carry my knapsack. Thank +Goodness no one has a fit at the sight of it. Thank Heaven no one takes +any notice. They stand cold and aloof, and don't move. + +We make our way through the Customs: then through the Dazio, the City +Customs-house. Then we are free. We set off up a steep, new, broad road, +with little trees on either side. But stone, arid, new, wide stone, +yellowish under the cold sky--and abandoned-seeming. Though, of course, +there are people about. The north wind blows bitingly. + +We climb a broad flight of steps, always upwards, up the wide, +precipitous, dreary boulevard with sprouts of trees. Looking for the +Hotel, and dying with hunger. + + * * * * * + +At last we find it, the Scala di Ferro: through a courtyard with green +plants. And at last a little man with lank, black hair, like an esquimo, +comes smiling. He is one brand of Sardinian--esquimo looking. There is +no room with two beds: only single rooms. And thus we are led off, if +you please, to the "bagnio": the bathing-establishment wing, on the dank +ground floor. Cubicles on either side a stone passage, and in every +cubicle a dark stone bath, and a little bed. We can have each a little +bath cubicle. If there's nothing else for it, there isn't: but it seems +dank and cold and horrid, underground. And one thinks of all the +unsavory "assignations" at these old bagnio places. True, at the end of +the passage are seated two carabinieri. But whether to ensure +respectibility or not, Heaven knows. We are in the baths, that's all. + +[Illustration: ISILI] + +The esquimo returns after five minutes, however. There _is_ a bedroom in +the house. He is pleased, because he didn't like putting us into the +bagnio. Where he found the bedroom I don't know. But there it was, +large, sombre, cold, and over the kitchen fumes of a small inner court +like a well. But perfectly clean and all right. And the people seemed +warm and good-natured, like human beings. One has got so used to the +non-human ancient-souled Sicilians, who are suave and so completely +callous. + + * * * * * + +After a really good meal we went out to see the town. It was after three +o'clock and everywhere was shut up like an English Sunday. Cold, stony +Cagliari: in summer you must be sizzling hot, Cagliari, like a kiln. The +men stood about in groups, but without the intimate Italian watchfulness +that never leaves a passer-by alone. + +Strange, stony Cagliari. We climbed up a street like a corkscrew +stairway. And we saw announcements of a children's fancy-dress ball. +Cagliari is very steep. Half-way up there is a strange place called the +bastions, a large, level space like a drill-ground with trees, +curiously suspended over the town, and sending off a long shoot like a +wide viaduct, across above the corkscrew street that comes climbing up. +Above this bastion place the town still rises steeply to the Cathedral +and the fort. What is so curious is that this terrace or bastion is so +large, like some big recreation ground, that it is almost dreary, and +one cannot understand its being suspended in mid-air. Down below is the +little circle of the harbour. To the left a low, malarial-looking sea +plain, with tufts of palm trees and Arab-looking houses. From this runs +out the long spit of land towards that black-and-white watch-fort, the +white road trailing forth. On the right, most curiously, a long strange +spit of sand runs in a causeway far across the shallows of the bay, with +the open sea on one hand, and vast, end-of-the-world lagoons on the +other. There are peaky, dark mountains beyond this--just as across the +vast bay are gloomy hills. It is a strange, strange landscape: as if +here the world left off. The bay is vast in itself; and all these +curious things happening at its head: this curious, craggy-studded town, +like a great stud of house-covered rock jutting up out of the bay flats: +around it on one side the weary, Arab-looking palm-desolated malarial +plain, and on the other side great salt lagoons, dead beyond the +sand-bar: these backed again by serried, clustered mountains, suddenly, +while away beyond the plain, hills rise to sea again. Land and sea both +seem to give out, exhausted, at the bay head: the world's end. And into +this world's end starts up Cagliari, and on either side, sudden, +serpent-crest hills. + +But it still reminds me of Malta: lost between Europe and Africa and +belonging to nowhere. Belonging to nowhere, never having belonged to +anywhere. To Spain and the Arabs and the Phoenicians most. But as if +it had never really had a fate. No fate. Left outside of time and +history. + +The spirit of the place is a strange thing. Our mechanical age tries to +override it. But it does not succeed. In the end the strange, sinister +spirit of the place, so diverse and adverse in differing places, will +smash our mechanical oneness into smithereens, and all that we think the +real thing will go off with a pop, and we shall be left staring. + + * * * * * + +On the great parapet above the Municipal Hall and above the corkscrew +high-street a thick fringe of people is hanging, looking down. We go to +look too: and behold, below there is the entrance to the ball. Yes, +there is a china shepherdess in pale blue and powdered hair, crook, +ribbons, Marie Antoinette satin daintiness and all, slowly and +haughtily walking up the road, and gazing superbly round. She is not +more than twelve years old, moreover. Two servants accompany her. She +gazes supremely from right to left as she goes, mincingly, and I would +give her the prize for haughtiness. She is perfect--a little too haughty +for Watteau, but "marquise" to a T. The people watch in silence. There +is no yelling and screaming and running. They watch in a suitable +silence. + +Comes a carriage with two fat bay horses slithering, almost swimming up +the corkscrew high-street. That in itself is a "tour-de-force": for +Cagliari doesn't have carriages. Imagine a street like a corkscrew +stair, paved with slippery stone. And imagine two bay horses rowing +their way up it: they did not walk a single stride. But they arrived. +And there fluttered out three strangely exquisite children, two frail, +white satin Pierrots and a white satin Pierrette. They were like fragile +winter butterflies with black spots. They had a curious, indefinable +remote elegance, something conventional and "fin-de-siècle". But not our +century. The wonderful artificial delicacy of the eighteenth. The boys +had big, perfect ruffs round their necks: and behind were slung old, +cream-colored Spanish shawls, for warmth. They were frail as tobacco +flowers, and with remote, cold elegance they fluttered by the carriage, +from which emerged a large black-satin Mama. Fluttering their queer +little butterfly feet on the pavement, hovering round the large Mama +like three frail-tissued ghosts, they found their way past the solid, +seated Carabinieri into the hall. + +Arrived a primrose-brocade beau, with ruffles, and his hat under his +arm: about twelve years old. Walking statelily, without a qualm up the +steep twist of the street. Or perhaps so perfect in his +self-consciousness that it became an elegant "aplomb" in him. He was a +genuine eighteenth-century exquisite, rather stiffer than the French, +maybe, but completely in the spirit. Curious, curious children! They had +a certain stand-offish superbness, and not a single trace of misgiving. +For them, their "noblesse" was indisputable. For the first time in my +life I recognized the true cold superbness of the old "noblesse". They +had not a single qualm about their own perfect representing of the +higher order of being. + +Followed another white satin "marquise", with a maid-servant. They are +strong on the eighteenth century in Cagliari. Perhaps it is the last +bright reality to them. The nineteenth hardly counts. + + * * * * * + +Curious the children in Cagliari. The poor seem thoroughly +poor-bare-footed urchins, gay and wild in the narrow dark streets. But +the more well-to-do children are so fine: so extraordinarily elegantly +dressed. It quite strikes one of a heap. Not so much the grown-ups. The +children. All the "chic," all the fashion, all the originality is +expended on the children. And with a great deal of success. Better than +Kensington Gardens very often. And they promenade with Papa and Mama +with such alert assurance, having quite brought it off, their +fashionable get-up. Who would have expected it? + + * * * * * + +Oh narrow, dark, and humid streets going up to the Cathedral, like +crevices. I narrowly miss a huge pail of slop-water which comes crashing +down from heaven. A small boy who was playing in the street, and whose +miss is not quite a clean miss, looks up with that naïve, impersonal +wonder with which children stare at a star or a lamp-lighter. + +The Cathedral must have been a fine old pagan stone fortress once. Now +it has come, as it were, through the mincing machine of the ages, and +oozed out baroque and sausagey, a bit like the horrible baldachins in +St. Peter's at Rome. None the less it is homely and hole-and-cornery, +with a rather ragged high mass trailing across the pavement towards the +high altar, since it is almost sunset, and Epiphany. It feels as if one +might squat in a corner and play marbles and eat bread and cheese and be +at home: a comfortable old-time churchey feel. + +There is some striking filet lace on the various altar-cloths. And St. +Joseph must be a prime saint. He has an altar and a verse of invocation +praying for the dying. + +"Oh, St. Joseph, true potential father of Our Lord." What can it profit +a man, I wonder, to be the potential father of anybody! For the rest I +am not Baedeker. + + * * * * * + +The top of Cagliari is the fortress: the old gate, the old ramparts, of +honey-combed, fine yellowish sandstone. Up in a great sweep goes the +rampart wall, Spanish and splendid, dizzy. And the road creeping down +again at the foot, down the back of the hill. There lies the country: +that dead plain with its bunch of palms and a fainting sea, and inland +again, hills. Cagliari must be on a single, loose, lost bluff of rock. + +From the terrace just below the fortress, above the town, not behind it, +we stand and look at the sunset. It is all terrible, taking place beyond +the knotted, serpent-crested hills that lie, bluey and velvety, beyond +the waste lagoons. Dark, sultry, heavy crimson the west is, hanging +sinisterly, with those gloomy blue cloud-bars and cloud-banks drawn +across. All behind the blue-gloomy peaks stretches the curtain of +sinister, smouldering red, and away to the sea. Deep below lie the +sea-meres. They seem miles and miles, and utterly waste. But the +sand-bar crosses like a bridge, and has a road. All the air is dark, a +sombre bluish tone. The great west burns inwardly, sullenly, and gives +no glow, yet a deep red. It is cold. + +We go down the steep streets, smelly, dark, dank, and very cold. No +wheeled vehicle can scramble up them, presumably. People live in one +room. Men are combing their hair or fastening their collars in the +doorways. Evening is here, and it is a feast day. + + * * * * * + +At the bottom of the street we come to a little bunch of masked youths, +one in a long yellow frock and a frilled bonnet, another like an old +woman, another in red twill. They are arm in arm and are accosting the +passers-by. The q-b gives a cry, and looks for escape. She has a terror +of maskers, a terror that comes from childhood. To say the truth, so +have I. We hasten invisibly down the far side of the street, and come +out under the bastions. Then we go down our own familiar wide, short, +cold boulevard to the sea. + +At the bottom, again, is a carriage with more maskers. Carnival is +beginning. A man dressed as a peasant woman in native costume is +clambering with his great wide skirts and wide strides on to the box, +and, flourishing his ribboned whip, is addressing a little crowd of +listeners. He opens his mouth wide and goes on with a long yelling +harangue of taking a drive with his mother--another man in old-woman's +gaudy finery and wig who sits already bobbing on the box. The would-be +daughter flourishes, yells, and prances up there on the box of the +carriage. The crowd listens attentively and mildly smiles. It all seems +real to them. The q-b hovers in the distance, half-fascinated, and +watches. With a great flourish of whip and legs--showing his frilled +drawers--the masker pulls round to drive along the boulevard by the +sea--the only place where one can drive. + + * * * * * + +The big street by the sea is the Via Roma. It has the cafés on one side +and across the road the thick tufts of trees intervening between the sea +and us. Among these thick tufts of sea-front trees the little steam +tram, like a little train, bumps to rest, after having wound round the +back of the town. + +The Via Roma is all social Cagliari. Including the cafés with their +outdoor tables on the one side of the road, and the avenue strand on the +other, it is very wide, and at evening it contains the whole town. Here, +and here alone carriages can spank along, very slowly, officers can +ride, and the people can promenade "en masse." + +We were amazed at the sudden crowd we found ourselves amongst--like a +short, dense river of people streaming slowly in a mass. There is +practically no vehicular traffic--only the steady dense streams of human +beings of all sorts, all on a human footing. It must have been something +like this in the streets of imperial Rome, where no chariots might drive +and humanity was all on foot. + +Little bunches of maskers, and single maskers danced and strutted along +in the thick flow under the trees. If you are a mask you don't walk like +a human being: you dance and prance along extraordinarily like the +life-size marionettes, conducted by wires from above. That is how you +go: with that odd jauntiness as if lifted and propelled by wires from +the shoulders. In front of me went a charming coloured harlequin, all in +diamond-shaped colours, and beautiful as a piece of china. He tripped +with the light, fantastic trip, quite alone in the thick crowd, and +quite blithe. Came two little children hand in hand in brilliant scarlet +and white costumes, sauntering calmly. They did not do the mask trip. +After a while a sky-blue girl with a high hat and full skirts, very +short, that went flip-flip-flip, as a ballet dancer's, whilst she +strutted; after her a Spanish grandee capering like a monkey. They +threaded among the slow stream of the crowd. Appeared Dante and +Beatrice, in Paradise apparently, all in white sheet-robes, and with +silver wreaths on their heads, arm in arm, and prancing very slowly and +majestically, yet with the long lilt as if hitched along by wires from +above. They were very good: all the well-known vision come to life, +Dante incorporate, and white as a shroud, with his tow-haired, +silver-crowned, immortal Beatrice on his arm, strutting the dark +avenues. He had the nose and cheek-bones and banded cheek, and the +stupid wooden look, and offered a modern criticism on the Inferno. + + * * * * * + +It had become quite dark, the lamps were lighted. We crossed the road to +the Café Roma, and found a table on the pavement among the crowd. In a +moment we had our tea. The evening was cold, with ice in the wind. But +the crowd surged on, back and forth, back and forth, slowly. At the +tables were seated mostly men, taking coffee or vermouth or aqua vitae, +all familiar and easy, without the modern self-consciousness. There was +a certain pleasant, natural robustness of spirit, and something of a +feudal free-and-easiness. Then arrived a family, with children, and +nurse in her native costume. They all sat at table together, perfectly +easy with one another, though the marvellous nurse seemed to be seated +below the salt. She was bright as a poppy, in a rose-scarlet dress of +fine cloth, with a curious little waistcoat of emerald green and purple, +and a bodice of soft, homespun linen with great full sleeves. On her +head she had a rose-scarlet and white head-dress, and she wore great +studs of gold filigree, and similar ear-rings. The feudal-bourgeois +family drank its syrup-drinks and watched the crowd. Most remarkable is +the complete absence of self-consciousness. They all have a perfect +natural "sang-froid," the nurse in her marvellous native costume is as +thoroughly at her ease as if she were in her own village street. She +moves and speaks and calls to a passer-by without the slightest +constraint, and much more, without the slightest presumption. She is +below the invisible salt, the invisible but insuperable salt. And it +strikes me the salt-barrier is a fine thing for both parties: they both +remain natural and human on either side of it, instead of becoming +devilish, scrambling and pushing at the barricade. + + * * * * * + +The crowd is across the road, under the trees near the sea. On this side +stroll occasional pedestrians. And I see my first peasant in costume. +He is an elderly, upright, handsome man, beautiful in the +black-and-white costume. He wears the full-sleeved white shirt and the +close black bodice of thick, native frieze, cut low. From this sticks +out a short kilt or frill, of the same black frieze, a band of which +goes between the legs, between the full loose drawers of coarse linen. +The drawers are banded below the knee into tight black frieze gaiters. +On his head he has the long black stocking cap, hanging down behind. How +handsome he is, and so beautifully male! He walks with his hands loose +behind his back, slowly, upright, and aloof. The lovely +unapproachableness, indomitable. And the flash of the black and white, +the slow stride of the full white drawers, the black gaiters and black +cuirass with the bolero, then the great white sleeves and white breast +again, and once more the black cap--what marvellous massing of the +contrast, marvellous, and superb, as on a magpie.--How beautiful +maleness is, if it finds its right expression.--And how perfectly +ridiculous it is made in modern clothes. + +There is another peasant too, a young one with a swift eye and hard +cheek and hard, dangerous thighs. He has folded his stocking cap, so +that it comes forward to his brow like a phrygian cap. He wears close +knee breeches and close sleeved waistcoat of thick brownish stuff that +looks like leather. Over the waistcoat a sort of cuirass of black, rusty +sheepskin, the curly wool outside. So he strides, talking to a comrade. +How fascinating it is, after the soft Italians, to see these limbs in +their close knee-breeches, so definite, so manly, with the old +fierceness in them still. One realises, with horror, that the race of +men is almost extinct in Europe. Only Christ-like heroes and +woman-worshipping Don Juans, and rabid equality-mongrels. The old, +hardy, indomitable male is gone. His fierce singleness is quenched. The +last sparks are dying out in Sardinia and Spain. Nothing left but the +herd-proletariat and the herd-equality mongrelism, and the wistful +poisonous self-sacrificial cultured soul. How detestable. + +But that curious, flashing, black-and-white costume! I seem to have +known it before: to have worn it even: to have dreamed it. To have +dreamed it: to have had actual contact with it. It belongs in some way +to something in me--to my past, perhaps. I don't know. But the uneasy +sense of blood-familiarity haunts me. I _know_ I have known it before. +It is something of the same uneasiness I feel before Mount Eryx: but +without the awe this time. + + * * * * * + +In the morning the sun was shining from a blue, blue sky, but the +shadows were deadly cold, and the wind like a flat blade of ice. We went +out running to the sun. The hotel could not give us coffee and milk: +only a little black coffee. So we descended to the sea-front again, to +the Via Roma, and to our café. It was Friday: people seemed to be +bustling in from the country with huge baskets. + +The Café Roma had coffee and milk, but no butter. We sat and watched the +movement outside. Tiny Sardinian donkeys, the tiniest things ever seen, +trotted their infinitesimal little paws along the road, drawing little +wagons like handcarts. Their proportion is so small, that they make a +boy walking at their side look like a tall man, while a natural man +looks like a Cyclops stalking hugely and cruelly. It is ridiculous for a +grown man to have one of these little creatures, hardly bigger than a +fly, hauling his load for him. One is pulling a chest of drawers on a +cart, and it seems to have a whole house behind it. Nevertheless it +plods bravely, away beneath the load, a wee thing. + +They tell me there used to be flocks of these donkeys, feeding half wild +on the wild, moor-like hills of Sardinia. But the war--and also the +imbecile wantonness of the war-masters--consumed these flocks too, so +that few are left. The same with the cattle. Sardinia, home of cattle, +hilly little Argentine of the Mediterranean, is now almost deserted. It +is war, say the Italiana.--And also the wanton, imbecile, foul +lavishness of the war-masters. It was not alone the war which exhausted +the world. It was the deliberate evil wastefulness of the war-makers in +their own countries. Italy ruined Italy. + + * * * * * + +Two peasants in black-and-white are strolling in the sun, flashing. And +my dream of last evening was not a dream. And my nostalgia for something +I know not what was not an illusion. I feel it again, at once, at the +sight of the men in frieze and linen, a heart yearning for something I +have known, and which I want back again. + +It is market day. We turn up the Largo Carlo-Felice, the second wide gap +of a street, a vast but very short boulevard, like the end of something. +Cagliari is like that: all bits and bobs. And by the side of the +pavement are many stalls, stalls selling combs and collar-studs, cheap +mirrors, handkerchiefs, shoddy Manchester goods, bed-ticking, +boot-paste, poor crockery, and so on. But we see also Madame of Cagliari +going marketing, with a servant accompanying her, carrying a huge +grass-woven basket: or returning from marketing, followed by a small +boy supporting one of these huge grass-woven baskets--like huge +dishes--on his head, piled with bread, eggs, vegetables, a chicken, and +so forth. Therefore we follow Madame going marketing, and find ourselves +in the vast market house, and it fairly glows with eggs: eggs in these +great round dish-baskets of golden grass: but eggs in piles, in mounds, +in heaps, a Sierra Nevada of eggs, glowing warm white. How they glow! I +have never noticed it before. But they give off a warm, pearly +effulgence into the air, almost a warmth. A pearly-gold heat seems to +come out of them. Myriads of eggs, glowing avenues of eggs. + +And they are marked--60 centimes, 65 centimes. Ah, cries the q-b, I must +live in Cagliari--For in Sicily the eggs cost 1.50 each. + +This is the meat and poultry and bread market. There are stalls of new, +various-shaped bread, brown and bright: there are tiny stalls of +marvellous native cakes, which I want to taste, there is a great deal of +meat and kid: and there are stalls of cheese, all cheeses, all shapes, +all whitenesses, all the cream-colours, on into daffodil yellow. Goat +cheese, sheeps cheese, Swiss cheese, Parmegiano, stracchino, +caciocavallo, torolone, how many cheeses I don't know the names of! But +they cost about the same as in Sicily, eighteen francs, twenty francs, +twenty-five francs the kilo. And there is lovely ham--thirty and +thirty-five francs the kilo. There is a little fresh butter too--thirty +or thirty-two francs the kilo. Most of the butter, however, is tinned in +Milan. It costs the same as the fresh. There are splendid piles of +salted black olives, and huge bowls of green salted olives. There are +chickens and ducks and wild-fowl: at eleven and twelve and fourteen +francs a kilo. There is mortadella, the enormous Bologna sausage, thick +as a church pillar: 16 francs: and there are various sorts of smaller +sausage, salami, to be eaten in slices. A wonderful abundance of food, +glowing and shining. We are rather late for fish, especially on Friday. +But a barefooted man offers us two weird objects from the Mediterranean, +which teems with marine monsters. + +The peasant women sit behind their wares, their home-woven linen skirts, +hugely full, and of various colours, ballooning round them. The yellow +baskets give off a glow of light. There is a sense of profusion once +more. But alas no sense of cheapness: save the eggs. Every month, up +goes the price of everything. + +"I must come and live in Cagliari, to do my shopping here," says the +q-b. "I must have one of those big grass baskets." + +We went down to the little street--but saw more baskets emerging from a +broad flight of stone stairs, enclosed. So up we went-and found +ourselves in the vegetable market. Here the q-b was happier still. +Peasant women, sometimes barefoot, sat in their tight little bodices and +voluminous, coloured skirts behind the piles of vegetables, and never +have I seen a lovelier show. The intense deep green of spinach seemed to +predominate, and out of that came the monuments of curd-white and +black-purple cauliflowers: but marvellous cauliflowers, like a +flower-show, the purple ones intense as great bunches of violets. From +this green, white, and purple massing struck out the vivid rose-scarlet +and blue crimson of radishes, large radishes like little turnips, in +piles. Then the long, slim, grey-purple buds of artichokes, and dangling +clusters of dates, and piles of sugar-dusty white figs and +sombre-looking black figs, and bright burnt figs: basketfuls and +basketfuls of figs. A few baskets of almonds, and many huge walnuts. +Basket-pans of native raisins. Scarlet peppers like trumpets: +magnificent fennels, so white and big and succulent: baskets of new +potatoes: scaly kohlrabi: wild asparagus in bunches, yellow-budding +sparacelli: big, clean-fleshed carrots: feathery salads with white +hearts: long, brown-purple onions and then, of course pyramids of big +oranges, pyramids of pale apples, and baskets of brilliant shiny +mandarini, the little tangerine orange with their green-black leaves. +The green and vivid-coloured world of fruit-gleams I have never seen in +such splendour as under the market roof at Cagliari: so raw and +gorgeous. And all quite cheap, the one remaining cheapness, except +potatoes. Potatoes of any sort are 1.40 or 1.50 the kilo. + +"Oh!" cried the q-b, "If I don't live at Cagliari and come and do my +shopping here, I shall die with one of my wishes unfulfilled." + + * * * * * + +But out of the sun it was cold, nevertheless. We went into the streets +to try and get warm. The sun was powerful. But alas, as in southern +towns generally, the streets are sunless as wells. + +So the q-b and I creep slowly along the sunny bits, and then perforce +are swallowed by shadow. We look at the shops. But there is not much to +see. Little, frowsy provincial shops, on the whole. + +But a fair number of peasants in the streets, and peasant women in +rather ordinary costume: tight-bodiced, volume-skirted dresses of +hand-woven linen or thickish cotton. The prettiest is of +dark-blue-and-red, stripes-and-lines, intermingled, so made that the +dark-blue gathers round the waist into one colour, the myriad pleats +hiding all the rosy red. But when she walks, the full-petticoated +peasant woman, then the red goes flash-flash-flash, like a bird showing +its colours. Pretty that looks in the sombre street. She has a plain, +light bodice with a peak: sometimes a little vest, and great full white +sleeves, and usually a handkerchief or shawl loose knotted. It is +charming the way they walk, with quick, short steps. When all is said +and done, the most attractive costume for women in my eye, is the tight +little bodice and the many-pleated skirt, full and vibrating with +movement. It has a charm which modern elegance lacks completely--a +bird-like play in movement. + + * * * * * + +They are amusing, these peasant girls and women: so brisk and defiant. +They have straight backs, like little walls, and decided, well-drawn +brows. And they are amusingly on the alert. There is no eastern +creeping. Like sharp, brisk birds they dart along the streets, and you +feel they would fetch you a bang over the head as leave as look at you. +Tenderness, thank heaven, does not seem to be a Sardinian quality. Italy +is so tender--like cooked macaroni--yards and yards of soft tenderness +ravelled round everything. Here men don't idealise women, by the looks +of things. Here they don't make these great leering eyes, the inevitable +yours-to-command look of Italian males. When the men from the country +look at these women, then it is Mind-yourself, my lady. I should think +the grovelling Madonna-worship is not much of a Sardinian feature. These +women have to look out for themselves, keep their own back-bone stiff +and their knuckles hard. Man is going to be male Lord if he can. And +woman isn't going to give him too much of his own way, either. So there +you have it, the fine old martial split between the sexes. It is tonic +and splendid, really, after so much sticky intermingling and +backboneless Madonna-worship. The Sardinian isn't looking for the "noble +woman nobly planned." No, thank you. He wants that young madam over +there, a young stiff-necked generation that she is. Far better sport +than with the nobly-planned sort: hollow frauds that they are. Better +sport too than with a Carmen, who gives herself away too much, In these +women there is something shy and defiant and un-get-atable. The defiant, +splendid split between the sexes, each absolutely determined to defend +his side, her side, from assault. So the meeting has a certain wild, +salty savour, each the deadly unknown to the other. And at the same +time, each his own, her own native pride and courage, taking the +dangerous leap and scrambling back. + +Give me the old, salty way of love. How I am nauseated with sentiment +and nobility, the macaroni slithery-slobbery mess of modern adorations. + + * * * * * + +One sees a few fascinating faces in Cagliari: those great dark unlighted +eyes. There are fascinating dark eyes in Sicily, bright, big, with an +impudent point of light, and a curious roll, and long lashes: the eyes +of old Greece, surely. But here one sees eyes of soft, blank darkness, +all velvet, with no imp looking out of them. And they strike a stranger, +older note: before the soul became self-conscious: before the mentality +of Greece appeared in the world. Remote, always remote, as if the +intelligence lay deep within the cave, and never came forward. One +searches into the gloom for one second, while the glance lasts. But +without being able to penetrate to the reality. It recedes, like some +unknown creature deeper into its lair. There is a creature, dark and +potent. But what? + +Sometimes Velasquez, and sometimes Goya gives us a suggestion of these +large, dark, unlighted eyes. And they go with fine, fleecy black +hair--almost as fine as fur. I have not seen them north of Cagliari. + + * * * * * + +The q-b spies some of the blue-and-red stripe-and-line cotton stuff of +which the peasants make their dress: a large roll in the doorway of a +dark shop. In we go, and begin to feel it. It is just soft, thickish +cotton stuff--twelve francs a metre. Like most peasant patterns, it is +much more complicated and subtle than appears: the curious placing of +the stripes, the subtle proportion, and a white thread left down one +side only of each broad blue block. The stripes, moreover, run _across_ +the cloth, not lengthwise with it. But the width would be just long +enough for a skirt--though the peasant skirts have almost all a band at +the bottom with the stripes running round-ways. + +The man--he is the esquimo type, simple, frank and aimiable--says the +stuff is made in France, and this the first roll since the war. It is +the old, old pattern, quite correct--but the material not _quite_ so +good. The q-b takes enough for a dress. + +He shows us also cashmeres, orange, scarlet, sky-blue, royal blue: good, +pure-wool cashmeres that were being sent to India, and were captured +from a German mercantile sub-marine. So he says. Fifty francs a +metre--very, very wide. But they are too much trouble to carry in a +knapsack, though their brilliance fascinates. + + * * * * * + +So we stroll and look at the shops, at the filigree gold jewelling of +the peasants, at a good bookshop. But there is little to see and +therefore the question is, shall we go on? Shall we go forward? + +There are two ways of leaving Cagliari for the north: the State railway +that runs up the west side of the island, and the narrow-gauge secondary +railway that pierces the centre. But we are too late for the big trains. +So we will go by the secondary railway, wherever it goes. + +There is a train at 2.30, and we can get as far as Mandas, some fifty +miles in the interior. When we tell the queer little waiter at the +hotel, he says he comes from Mandas, and there are two inns. So after +lunch--a strictly fish menu--we pay our bill. It comes to sixty odd +francs--for three good meals each, with wine, and the night's lodging, +this is cheap, as prices now are in Italy. + +Pleased with the simple and friendly Scala di Ferre, I shoulder my sack +and we walk off to the second station. The sun is shining hot this +afternoon--burning hot, by the sea. The road and the buildings look dry +and desiccated, the harbour rather weary and end of the world. + +There is a great crowd of peasants at the little station. And almost +every man has a pair of woven saddle-bags--a great flat strip of +coarse-woven wool, with flat pockets at either end, stuffed with +purchases. These are almost the only carrying bags. The men sling them +over their shoulder, so that one great pocket hangs in front, one +behind. + +These saddle bags are most fascinating. They are coarsely woven in bands +of raw black-rusty wool, with varying bands of raw white wool or hemp or +cotton--the bands and stripes of varying widths going cross-wise. And on +the pale bands are woven sometimes flowers in most lovely colours, +rose-red and blue and green, peasant patterns--and sometimes fantastic +animals, beasts, in dark wool again. So that these striped zebra bags, +some wonderful gay with flowery colours on their stripes, some weird +with fantastic, griffin-like animals, are a whole landscape in +themselves. + +The train has only first and third class. It costs about thirty francs +for the two of us, third class to Mandas, which is some sixty miles. In +we crowd with the joyful saddle-bags, into the wooden carriage with its +many seats. + +And, wonder of wonders, punctually to the second, off we go, out of +Cagliari. En route again. + + + + +IV. + +MANDAS. + + +The coach was fairly full of people, returning from market. On these +railways the third class coaches are not divided into compartments. They +are left open, so that one sees everybody, as down a room. The +attractive saddle-bags, _bercole_, were disposed anywhere, and the bulk +of the people settled down to a lively _conversazione_. It is much +nicest, on the whole, to travel third class on the railway. There is +space, there is air, and it is like being in a lively inn, everybody in +good spirits. + +At our end was plenty of room. Just across the gangway was an elderly +couple, like two children, coming home very happily. He was fat, fat all +over, with a white moustache and a little not-unamiable frown. She was a +tall lean, brown woman, in a brown full-skirted dress and black apron, +with huge pocket. She wore no head covering, and her iron grey hair was +parted smoothly. They were rather pleased and excited being in the +train. She took all her money out of her big pocket, and counted it and +gave it to him: all the ten Lira notes, and the five Lira and the two +and the one, peering at the dirty scraps of pink-backed one-lira notes +to see if they were good. Then she gave him her half-pennies. And he +stowed them away in the trouser pocket, standing up to push them down +his fat leg. And then one saw, to one's amazement, that the whole of his +shirt-tail was left out behind, like a sort of apron worn backwards. +Why--a mystery. He was one of those fat, good-natured, unheeding men +with a little masterful frown, such as usually have tall, lean, +hard-faced, obedient wives. + +They were very happy. With amazement he watched us taking hot tea from +the Thermos flask. I think he too had suspected it might be a bomb. He +had blue eyes and standing-up white eyebrows. + +"Beautiful hot--!" he said, seeing the tea steam. It is the inevitable +exclamation. "Does it do you good?" + +"Yes," said the q-b. "Much good." And they both nodded complacently. +They were going home. + + * * * * * + +The train was running over the malarial-looking sea-plain--past the +down-at-heel palm trees, past the mosque-looking buildings. At a level +crossing the woman crossing-keeper darted out vigorously with her red +flag. And we rambled into the first village. It was built of sun-dried +brick-adobe houses, thick adobe garden-walls, with tile ridges to keep +off the rain. In the enclosures were dark orange trees. But the +clay-coloured villages, clay-dry, looked foreign: the next thing to mere +earth they seem, like fox-holes or coyote colonies. + +Looking back, one sees Cagliari bluff on her rock, rather fine, with the +thin edge of the sea's blade curving round. It is rather hard to believe +in the real sea, on this sort of clay-pale plain. + + * * * * * + +But soon we begin to climb to the hills. And soon the cultivation begins +to be intermittent. Extraordinary how the heathy, moor-like hills come +near the sea: extraordinary how scrubby and uninhabited the great spaces +of Sardinia are. It is wild, with heath and arbutus scrub and a sort of +myrtle, breast-high. Sometimes one sees a few head of cattle. And then +again come the greyish arable-patches, where the corn is grown. It is +like Cornwall, like the Land's End region. Here and there, in the +distance, are peasants working on the lonely landscape. Sometimes it is +one man alone in the distance, showing so vividly in his black-and-white +costume, small and far-off like a solitary magpie, and curiously +distinct. All the strange magic of Sardinia is in this sight. Among the +low, moor-like hills, away in a hollow of the wide landscape one +solitary figure, small but vivid black-and-white, working alone, as if +eternally. There are patches and hollows of grey arable land, good for +corn. Sardinia was once a great granary. + +Usually, however, the peasants of the South have left off the costume. +Usually it is the invisible soldiers' grey-green cloth, the Italian +khaki. Wherever you go, wherever you be, you see this khaki, this +grey-green war-clothing. How many millions of yards of the thick, +excellent, but hateful material the Italian government must have +provided I don't know: but enough to cover Italy with a felt carpet, I +should think. It is everywhere. It cases the tiny children in stiff and +neutral frocks and coats, it covers their extinguished fathers, and +sometimes it even encloses the women in its warmth. It is symbolic of +the universal grey mist that has come over men, the extinguishing of all +bright individuality, the blotting out of all wild singleness. Oh +democracy! Oh khaki democracy! + + * * * * * + +This is very different from Italian landscape. Italy is almost always +dramatic, and perhaps invariably romantic. There is drama in the plains +of Lombardy, and romance in the Venetian lagoons, and sheer scenic +excitement in nearly all the hilly parts of the peninsula. Perhaps it is +the natural floridity of lime-stone formations. But Italian landscape is +really eighteenth-century landscape, to be represented in that +romantic-classic manner which makes everything rather marvelous and very +topical: aqueducts, and ruins upon sugar-loaf mountains, and craggy +ravines and Wilhelm Meister water-falls: all up and down. + +Sardinia is another thing. Much wider, much more ordinary, not +up-and-down at all, but running away into the distance. Unremarkable +ridges of moor-like hills running away, perhaps to a bunch of dramatic +peaks on the southwest. This gives a sense of space, which is so lacking +in Italy. Lovely space about one, and traveling distances--nothing +finished, nothing final. It is like liberty itself, after the peaky +confinement of Sicily. Room--give me room--give me room for my spirit: +and you can have all the toppling crags of romance. + +So we ran on through the gold of the afternoon, across a wide, almost +Celtic landscape of hills, our little train winding and puffing away +very nimbly. Only the heath and scrub, breast-high, man-high, is too big +and brigand-like for a Celtic land. The horns of black, wild-looking +cattle show sometimes. + +After a long pull, we come to a station after a stretch of loneliness. +Each time, it looks as if there were nothing beyond--no more +habitations. And each time we come to a station. + +Most of the people have left the train. And as with men driving in a +gig, who get down at every public-house, so the passengers usually +alight for an airing at each station. Our old fat friend stands up and +tucks his shirt-tail comfortably in his trousers, which trousers all the +time make one hold one's breath, for they seem at each very moment to be +just dropping right down: and he clambers out, followed by the long, +brown stalk of a wife. + +So the train sits comfortably for five or ten minutes, in the way the +trains have. At last we hear whistles and horns, and our old fat friend +running and clinging like a fat crab to the very end of the train as it +sets off. At the same instant a loud shriek and a bunch of shouts from +outside. We all jump up. There, down the line, is the long brown stork +of a wife. She had just walked back to a house some hundred yards off, +for a few words, and has now seen the train moving. + +Now behold her with her hands thrown to heaven, and hear the wild shriek +"Madonna!" through all the hubbub. But she picks up her two skirt-knees, +and with her thin legs in grey stockings starts with a mad rush after +the train. In vain. The train inexorably pursues its course. Prancing, +she reaches one end of the platform as we leave the other end. Then she +realizes it is not going to stop for her. And then, oh horror, her long +arms thrown out in wild supplication after the retreating train: then +flung aloft to God: then brought down in absolute despair on her head. +And this is the last sight we have of her, clutching her poor head in +agony and doubling forward. She is left--she is abandoned. + +The poor fat husband has been all the time on the little outside +platform at the end of the carriage, holding out his hand to her and +shouting frenzied scolding to her and frenzied yells for the train to +stop. And the train has not stopped. And she is left--left on that +God-forsaken station in the waning light. + +So, his face all bright, his eyes round and bright as two stars, +absolutely transfigured by dismay, chagrin, anger and distress, he comes +and sits in his seat, ablaze, stiff, speechless. His face is almost +beautiful in its blaze of conflicting emotions. For some time he is as +if unconscious in the midst of his feelings. Then anger and resentment +crop out of his consternation. He turns with a flash to the long-nosed, +insidious, Phoenician-looking guard. Why couldn't they stop the train +for her! And immediately, as if someone had set fire to him, off flares +the guard. Heh!--the train can't stop for every person's convenience! +The train is a train--the time-table is a time-table. What did the old +woman want to take her trips down the line for? Heh! She pays the +penalty for her own inconsiderateness. Had _she_ paid for the +train--heh? And the fat man all the time firing off his unheeding and +unheeded answers. One minute--only one minute--if he, the conductor had +told the driver! if he, the conductor, had shouted! A poor woman! Not +another train! What was she going to do! Her ticket? And no money. A +poor woman-- + +There was a train back to Cagliari that night, said the conductor, at +which the fat man nearly burst out of his clothing like a bursting +seed-pod. He bounced on his seat. What good was that? What good was a +train back to Cagliari, when their home was in Snelli! Making matters +worse-- + +So they bounced and jerked and argued at one another, to their hearts' +content. Then the conductor retired, smiling subtly, in a way they have. +Our fat friend looked at us with hot, angry, ashamed, grieved eyes and +said it was a shame. Yes, we chimed, it _was_ a shame. Whereupon a +self-important miss who said she came from some Collegio at Cagliari +advanced and asked a number of impertinent questions in a tone of pert +sympathy. After which our fat friend, left alone, covered his clouded +face with his hand, turned his back on the world, and gloomed. + +It had all been so dramatic that in spite of ourselves we laughed, even +while the q-b shed a few tears. + + * * * * * + +Well, the journey lasted hours. We came to a station, and the conductor +said we must get out: these coaches went no further. Only two coaches +would proceed to Mandas. So we climbed out with our traps, and our fat +friend with his saddle-bag, the picture of misery. + +The one coach into which we clambered was rather crowded. The only other +coach was most of it first-class. And the rest of the train was freight. +We were two insignificant passenger wagons at the end of a long string +of freight-vans and trucks. + +There was an empty seat, so we sat on it: only to realize after about +five minutes, that a thin old woman with two children--her +grandchildren--was chuntering her head off because it was _her_ +seat--why she had left it she didn't say. And under my legs was her +bundle of bread. She nearly went off her head. And over my head, on the +little rack, was her bercola, her saddle-bag. Fat soldiers laughed at +her good-naturedly, but she fluttered and flipped like a tart, +featherless old hen. Since she had another seat and was quite +comfortable, we smiled and let her chunter. So she clawed her bread +bundle from under my legs, and, clutching it and a fat child, sat tense. + + * * * * * + +It was getting quite dark. The conductor came and said that there was no +more paraffin. If what there was in the lamps gave out, we should have +to sit in the dark. There was no more paraffin all along the line.--So +he climbed on the seats, and after a long struggle, with various boys +striking matches for him, he managed to obtain a light as big as a pea. +We sat in this _clair-obscur_, and looked at the sombre-shadowed faces +round us: the fat soldier with a gun, the handsome soldier with huge +saddle-bags, the weird, dark little man who kept exchanging a baby with +a solid woman who had a white cloth tied round her head, a tall +peasant-woman in costume, who darted out at a dark station and returned +triumphant with a piece of chocolate: a young and interested young man, +who told us every station. And the man who spat: there is always one. + +Gradually the crowd thinned. At a station we saw our fat friend go by, +bitterly, like a betrayed soul, his bulging saddle-bag hanging before +and after, but no comfort in it now--no comfort. The pea of light from +the paraffin lamp grew smaller. We sat in incredible dimness, and the +smell of sheeps-wool and peasant, with only our fat and stoic young man +to tell us where we were. The other dusky faces began to sink into a +dead, gloomy silence. Some took to sleep. And the little train ran on +and on, through unknown Sardinian darkness. In despair we drained the +last drop of tea and ate the last crusts of bread. We knew we must +arrive some time. + + * * * * * + +It was not much after seven when we came to Mandas. Mandas is a junction +where these little trains sit and have a long happy chat after their +arduous scramble over the downs. It had taken us somewhere about five +hours to do our fifty miles. No wonder then that when the junction at +last heaves in sight everybody bursts out of the train like seeds from +an exploding pod, and rushes somewhere for something. To the station +restaurant, of course. Hence there is a little station restaurant that +does a brisk trade, and where one can have a bed. + +A quite pleasant woman behind the little bar: a brown woman with brown +parted hair and brownish eyes and brownish, tanned complexion and tight +brown velveteen bodice. She led us up a narrow winding stone stair, as +up a fortress, leading on with her candle, and ushered us into the +bedroom. It smelled horrid and sourish, as shutup bedrooms do. We threw +open the window. There were big frosty stars snapping ferociously in +heaven. + +The room contained a huge bed, big enough for eight people, and quite +clean. And the table on which stood the candle actually had a cloth. But +imagine that cloth! I think it had been originally white: now, however, +it was such a web of time-eaten holes and mournful black inkstains and +poor dead wine stains that it was like some 2000 B.C. mummy-cloth. I +wonder if it could have been lifted from that table: or if it was +mummified on to it! I for one made no attempt to try. But that +table-cover impressed me, as showing degrees I had not imagined.--A +table-cloth. + +We went down the fortress-stair to the eating-room. Here was a long +table with soup-plates upside down and a lamp burning an uncanny naked +acetylene flame. We sat at the cold table, and the lamp immediately +began to wane. The room--in fact the whole of Sardinia--was stone cold, +stone, stone cold. Outside the earth was freezing. Inside there was no +thought of any sort of warmth: dungeon stone floors, dungeon stone walls +and a dead, corpse-like atmosphere, too heavy and icy to move. + +The lamp went quite out, and the q-b gave a cry. The brown woman poked +her head through a hole in the wall. Beyond her we saw the flames of the +cooking, and two devil-figures stirring the pots. The brown woman came +and shook the lamp--it was like a stodgy porcelain mantelpiece +vase--shook it well and stirred up its innards, and started it going +once more. Then she appeared with a bowl of smoking cabbage soup, in +which were bits of macaroni: and would we have wine? I shuddered at the +thought of death-cold red wine of the country, so asked what else there +was. There was malvagia--malvoisie, the same old malmsey that did for +the Duke of Clarence. So we had a pint of malvagia, and were comforted. +At least we were being so, when the lamp went out again. The brown woman +came and shook and smacked it, and started it off again. But as if to +say "Shan't for you", it whipped out again. + +Then came the host with a candle and a pin, a large, genial Sicilian +with pendulous mustaches. And he thoroughly pricked the wretch with the +pin, shook it, and turned little screws. So up flared the flame. We were +a little nervous. He asked us where we came from, etc. And suddenly he +asked us, with an excited gleam, were we Socialists. Aha, he was going +to hail us as citizens and comrades. He thought we were a pair of +Bolshevist agents: I could see it. And as such he was prepared to +embrace us. But no, the q-b disclaimed the honor. I merely smiled and +shook my head. It is a pity to rob people of their exciting illusions. + +"Ah, there is too much socialism everywhere!" cried the q-b. + +"Ma--perhaps, perhaps--" said the discreet Sicilian. She saw which way +the land lay, and added: + +"Si vuole un _pocchetino_ di Socialismo: one wants a tiny bit of +socialism in the world, a tiny bit. But not much. Not much. At present +there is too much." + +Our host, twinkling at this speech which treated of the sacred creed as +if it were a pinch of salt in the broth, believing the q-b was throwing +dust in his eyes, and thoroughly intrigued by us as a pair of deep ones, +retired. No sooner had he gone than the lamp-flame stood up at its full +length, and started to whistle. The q-b drew back. Not satisfied by +this, another flame suddenly began to whip round the bottom of the +burner, like a lion lashing its tail. Unnerved, we made room: the q-b +cried again: in came the host with a subtle smile and a pin and an air +of benevolence, and tamed the brute. + +What else was there to eat? There was a piece of fried pork for me, and +boiled eggs for the q-b. As we were proceeding with these, in came the +remainder of the night's entertainment: three station officials, two in +scarlet peaked caps, one in a black-and-gold peaked cap. They sat down +with a clamour, in their caps, as if there was a sort of invisible +screen between us and them. They were young. The black cap had a lean +and sardonic look: one of the red-caps was little and ruddy, very young, +with a little mustache: we called him the _maialino_, the gay little +black pig, he was so plump and food-nourished and frisky. The third was +rather puffy and pale and had spectacles. They all seemed to present us +the blank side of their cheek, and to intimate that no, they were not +going to take their hats off, even if it were dinner-table and a strange +_signora_. And they made rough quips with one another, still as if we +were on the other side of the invisible screen. + +Determined however, to remove this invisible screen, I said +Good-evening, and it was very cold. They muttered Good-evening, and yes, +it was fresh. An Italian never says it is cold: it is never more than +_fresco_. But this hint that it was cold they took as a hint at their +caps, and they became very silent, till the woman came in with the +soup-bowl. Then they clamoured at her, particularly the _maialino_, what +was there to eat. She told them--beef-steaks of pork. Whereat they +pulled faces. Or bits of boiled pork. They sighed, looked gloomy, +cheered up, and said beef-steaks, then. + +And they fell on their soup. And never, from among the steam, have I +heard a more joyful trio of soup-swilkering. They sucked it in from +their spoons with long, gusto-rich sucks. The _maialino_ was the +treble--he trilled his soup into his mouth with a swift, sucking +vibration, interrupted by bits of cabbage, which made the lamp start to +dither again. Black-cap was the baritone; good, rolling spoon-sucks. And +the one in spectacles was the bass: he gave sudden deep gulps. All was +led by the long trilling of the _maialino_. Then suddenly, to vary +matters, he cocked up his spoon in one hand, chewed a huge mouthful of +bread, and swallowed it down with a smack-smack-smack! of his tongue +against his palate. As children we used to call this "clapping". + +"Mother, she's clapping!" I would yell with anger, against my sister. +The German word is schmatzen. + +So the _maialino_ clapped like a pair of cymbals, while baritone and +bass rolled on. Then in chimed the swift bright treble. + +At this rate however, the soup did not last long. Arrived the +beef-steaks of pork. And now the trio was a trio of castanet smacks and +cymbal claps. Triumphantly the _maialino_ looked around. He out-smacked +all. + +The bread of the country is rather coarse and brown, with a hard, hard +crust. A large rock of this is perched on every damp serviette. The +_maialino_ tore his rock asunder, and grumbled at the black-cap, who had +got a weird sort of three-cornered loaf-roll of pure white bread--starch +white. He was a swell with this white bread. + +Suddenly black-cap turned to me. Where had we come from, where were we +going, what for? But in laconic, sardonic tone. + +"I _like_ Sardinia," cried the q-b. + +"Why?" he asked sarcastically. And she tried to find out. + +"Yes, the Sardinians please me more than the Sicilians," said I. + +"Why?" he asked sarcastically. + +"They are more open--more honest." He seemed to turn his nose down. + +"The padrone is a Sicilian," said the _maialino_, stuffing a huge block +of bread into his mouth, and rolling his insouciant eyes of a gay, +well-fed little black pig towards the background. We weren't making much +headway. + +"You've seen Cagliari?" the black-cap said to me, like a threat. + +"Yes! oh Cagliari pleases me--Cagliari is beautiful!" cried the q-b, +who travels with a vial of melted butter ready for her parsnips. + +"Yes--Cagliari is _so-so_--Cagliari is very fair," said the black cap. +"_Cagliari è discreto._" He was evidently proud of it. + +"And is Mandas nice?" asked the q-b. + +"In what way nice?" they asked, with immense sarcasm. + +"Is there anything to see?" + +"Hens," said the _maialino_ briefly. They all bristled when one asked if +Mandas was nice. + +"What does one do here?" asked the q-b. + +"_Niente!_ At Mandas one does _nothing_. At Mandas one goes to bed when +it's dark, like a chicken. At Mandas one walks down the road like a pig +that is going nowhere. At Mandas a goat understands more than the +inhabitants understand. At Mandas one needs socialism...." + +They all cried out at once. Evidently Mandas was more than flesh and +blood could bear for another minute to these three conspirators. + +"Then you are very bored here?" say I. + +"Yes." + +And the quiet intensity of that naked yes spoke more than volumes. + +"You would like to be in Cagliari?" + +"Yes." + +Silence, intense, sardonic silence had intervened. The three looked at +one another and made a sour joke about Mandas. Then the black-cap turned +to me. + +"Can you understand Sardinian?" he said. + +"Somewhat. More than Sicilian, anyhow." + +"But Sardinian is more difficult than Sicilian. It is full of words +utterly unknown to Italian--" + +"Yes, but," say I, "it is spoken openly, in plain words, and Sicilian is +spoken all stuck together, none of the words there at all." + +He looks at me as if I were an imposter. Yet it is true. I find it quite +easy to understand Sardinian. As a matter of fact, it is more a question +of human approach than of sound. Sardinian seems open and manly and +downright. Sicilian is gluey and evasive, as if the Sicilian didn't want +to speak straight to you. As a matter of fact, he doesn't. He is an +over-cultured, sensitive, ancient soul, and he has so many sides to his +mind that he hasn't got any definite one mind at all. He's got a dozen +minds, and uneasily he's aware of it, and to commit himself to anyone of +them is merely playing a trick on himself and his interlocutor. The +Sardinian, on the other hand, still seems to have one downright mind. I +bump up against a downright, smack-out belief in Socialism, for +example. The Sicilian is much too old in our culture to swallow +Socialism whole: much too ancient and rusé not to be sophisticated about +any and every belief. He'll go off like a squib: and then he'll smoulder +acridly and sceptically even against his own fire. One sympathizes with +him in retrospect. But in daily life it is unbearable. + +"Where do you find such white bread?" say I to the black cap, because he +is proud of it. + +"It comes from my home." And then he asks about the bread of Sicily. Is +it any whiter than _this_--the Mandas rock. Yes, it is a little whiter. +At which they gloom again. For it is a very sore point, this bread. +Bread means a great deal to an Italian: it is verily his staff of life. +He practically lives on bread. And instead of going by taste, he now, +like all the world, goes by eye. He has got it into his head that bread +should be white, so that every time he fancies a darker shade in the +loaf a shadow falls on his soul. Nor is he altogether wrong. For +although, personally, I don't like white bread any more, yet I do like +my brown bread to be made of pure, unmixed flour. The peasants in +Sicily, who have kept their own wheat and make their own natural brown +bread, ah, it is amazing how fresh and sweet and _clean_ their loaf +seems, so perfumed as home-bread used all to be before the war. Whereas +the bread of the commune, the regulation supply, is hard, and rather +coarse and rough, so rough and harsh on the palate. One gets tired to +death of it. I suspect myself the maize meal mixed in. But I don't know. +And finally the bread varies immensely from town to town, from commune +to commune. The so-called just and equal distribution is all my-eye. One +place has abundance of good sweet bread, another scrapes along, always +stinted, on an allowance of harsh coarse stuff. And the poor suffer +bitterly, really, from the bread-stinting, because they depend so on +this one food. They say the inequality and the injustice of distribution +comes from the Camorra--la grande Camorra--which is no more nowadays +than a profiteering combine, which the poor hate. But for myself, I +don't know. I only know that one town--Venice, for example--seems to +have an endless supply of pure bread, of sugar, of tobacco, of +salt--while Florence is in one continual ferment of irritation over the +stinting of these supplies--which are all government monopoly, doled out +accordingly. + +We said Good-night to our three railway friends, and went up to bed. We +had only been in the room a minute or two, when the brown woman tapped: +and if you please, the black-cap had sent us one of his little white +loaves. We were really touched. Such delicate little generosities have +almost disappeared from the world. + +It was a queer little bread--three-cornered, and almost as hard as ships +biscuit, made of starch flour. Not strictly bread at all. + + * * * * * + +The night was cold, the blankets flat and heavy, but one slept quite +well till dawn. At seven o'clock it was a clear, cold morning, the sun +not yet up. Standing at the bedroom window looking out, I could hardly +believe my eyes it was so like England, like Cornwall in the bleak +parts, or Derbyshire uplands. There was a little paddock-garden at the +back of the Station, rather tumble-down, with two sheep in it. There +were several forlorn-looking out-buildings, very like Cornwall. And then +the wide, forlorn country road stretched away between borders of grass +and low, drystone walls, towards a grey stone farm with a tuft of trees, +and a naked stone village in the distance. The sun came up yellow, the +bleak country glimmered bluish and reluctant. The low, green hill-slopes +were divided into fields, with low drystone walls and ditches. Here and +there a stone barn rose alone, or with a few bare, windy trees attached. +Two rough-coated winter horses pastured on the rough grass, a boy came +along the naked, wide, grass-bordered high-road with a couple of milk +cans, drifting in from nowhere: and it was all so like Cornwall, or a +part of Ireland, that the old nostalgia for the Celtic regions began to +spring up in me. Ah, those old, drystone walls dividing the fields--pale +and granite-blenched! Ah, the dark, sombre grass, the naked sky! the +forlorn horses in the wintry morning! Strange is a Celtic landscape, far +more moving, disturbing than the lovely glamor of Italy and Greece. +Before the curtains of history lifted, one feels the world was like +this--this Celtic bareness and sombreness and _air_. But perhaps it is +not Celtic at all: Iberian. Nothing is more unsatisfactory than our +conception of what is Celtic and what is not Celtic. I believe there +never were any Celts, as a race.--As for the Iberians--! + +[Illustration: TONARA] + +Wonderful to go out on a frozen road, to see the grass in shadow bluish +with hoar-frost, to see the grass in the yellow winter-sunrise beams +melting and going cold-twinkly. Wonderful the bluish, cold air, and +things standing up in cold distance. After two southern winters, with +roses blooming all the time, this bleakness and this touch of frost in +the ringing morning goes to my soul like an intoxication. I am so glad, +on this lonely naked road, I don't know what to do with myself. I walk +down in the shallow grassy ditches under the loose stone walls, I walk +on the little ridge of grass, the little bank on which the wall is +built, I cross the road across the frozen cow-droppings: and it is all +so familiar to my _feet_, my very feet in contact, that I am wild as if +I had made a discovery. And I realize that I hate lime-stone, to live on +lime-stone or marble or any of those limey rocks. I hate them. They are +dead rocks, they have no life--thrills for the feet. Even sandstone is +much better. But granite! Granite is my favorite. It is so live under +the feet, it has a deep sparkle of its own. I like its roundnesses--and +I hate the jaggy dryness of lime-stone, that burns in the sun, and +withers. + + * * * * * + +After coming to a deep well in a grassy plot in a wide space of the +road, I go back, across the sunny naked upland country, towards the pink +station and its out-buildings. An engine is steaming its white clouds in +the new light. Away to the left there is even a row of small houses, +like a row of railway-mens' dwellings. Strange and familiar sight. And +the station precincts are disorderly and rather dilapidated. I think of +our Sicilian host. + +The brown woman gives us coffee, and very strong, rich goats' milk, and +bread. After which the q-b and I set off once more along the road to the +village. She too is thrilled. She too breathes deep. She too feels +_space_ around her, and freedom to move the limbs: such as one does not +feel in Italy and Sicily, where all is so classic and fixed. + +The village itself is just a long, winding, darkish street, in shadow, +of houses and shops and a smithy. It might almost be Cornwall: not +quite. Something, I don't know what, suggests the stark burning glare of +summer. And then, of course, there is none of the cosiness which +climbing roses and lilac trees and cottage shops and haystacks would +give to an English scene. This is harder, barer, starker, more dreary. +An ancient man in the black-and-white costume comes out of a hovel of a +cottage. The butcher carries a huge side of meat. The women peer at +us--but more furtive and reticent than the howling stares of Italy. + +So we go on, down the rough-cobbled street through the whole length of +the village. And emerging on the other side, past the last cottage, we +find ourselves again facing the open country, on the gentle down-slope +of the rolling hill. The landscape continues the same: low, rolling +upland hills, dim under the yellow sun of the January morning: stone +fences, fields, grey-arable land: a man slowly, slowly ploughing with a +pony and a dark-red cow: the road trailing empty across the distance: +and then, the one violently unfamiliar note, the enclosed cemetery lying +outside on the gentle hill-side, closed in all round, very compact, +with high walls: and on the inside face of the enclosure wall the marble +slabs, like shut drawers of the sepulchres, shining white, the wall +being like a chest of drawers, or pigeon holes to hold the dead. Tufts +of dark and plumy cypresses rise among the flat graves of the enclosure. +In the south, cemeteries are walled off and isolated very tight. The +dead, as it were, are kept fast in pound. There is no spreading of +graves over the face of the country. They are penned in a tight fold, +with cypresses to fatten on the bones. This is the one thoroughly +strange note in the landscape. But all-pervading there is a strangeness, +that strange feeling as if the _depths_ were barren, which comes in the +south and the east, sun-stricken. Sun-stricken, and the heart eaten out +by the dryness. + +"I like it! I like it!" cries the q-b. + +"But could you live here?" She would like to say yes, but daren't. + +We stray back. The q-b wants to buy one of those saddle-bag +arrangements. I say what for? She says to keep things in. Ach! but +peeping in the shops, we see one and go in and examine it. It is quite a +sound one, properly made: but plain, quite plain. On the white +cross-stripes there are no lovely colored flowers of rose and green and +magenta: the three favorite Sardinian colors: nor are there any of the +fantastic and griffin-like beasts. So it won't do. How much does it +cost? Forty-five francs. + +There is nothing to do in Mandas. So we will take the morning train and +go to the terminus, to Sorgono. Thus, we shall cross the lower slopes of +the great central knot of Sardinia, the mountain knot called +Gennargentu. And Sorgono we feel will be lovely. + +Back at the station we make tea on the spirit lamp, fill the thermos, +pack the knapsack and the kitchenino, and come out into the sun of the +platform. The q-b goes to thank the black-cap for the white bread, +whilst I settle the bill and ask for food for the journey. The brown +woman fishes out from a huge black pot in the background sundry hunks of +coarse boiled pork, and gives me two of these, hot, with bread and salt. +This is the luncheon. I pay the bill: which amounts to twenty-four +francs, for everything. (One says francs or liras, irrespective, in +Italy.) At that moment arrives the train from Cagliari, and men rush in, +roaring for the soup--or rather, for the broth. "Ready, ready!" she +cries, going to the black pot. + + + + +V. + +TO SORGONO. + + +The various trains in the junction squatted side by side and had long, +long talks before at last we were off. It was wonderful to be running in +the bright morning towards the heart of Sardinia, in the little train +that seemed so familiar. We were still going third class, rather to the +disgust of the railway officials at Mandas. + +At first the country was rather open: always the long spurs of hills, +steep-sided, but not high. And from our little train we looked across +the country, across hill and dale. In the distance was a little town, on +a low slope. But for its compact, fortified look it might have been a +town on the English downs. A man in the carriage leaned out of the +window holding out a white cloth, as a signal to someone in the far off +town that he was coming. The wind blew the white cloth, the town in the +distance glimmered small and alone in its hollow. And the little train +pelted along. + +It was rather comical to see it. We were always climbing. And the line +curved in great loops. So that as one looked out of the window, time and +again one started, seeing a little train running in front of us, in a +diverging direction, making big puffs of steam. But lo, it was our own +little engine pelting off around a loop away ahead. We were quite a long +train, but all trucks in front, only our two passenger coaches hitched +on behind. And for this reason our own engine was always running fussily +into sight, like some dog scampering in front and swerving about us, +while we followed at the tail end of the thin string of trucks. + +I was surprised how well the small engine took the continuous steep +slopes, how bravely it emerged on the sky-line. It is a queer railway. I +would like to know who made it. It pelts up hill and down dale and round +sudden bends in the most unconcerned fashion, not as proper big railways +do, grunting inside deep cuttings and stinking their way through +tunnels, but running up the hill like a panting, small dog, and having a +look round, and starting off in another direction, whisking us behind +unconcernedly. This is much more fun than the tunnel-and-cutting system. + +They told me that Sardinia mines her own coal: and quite enough for her +own needs: but very soft, not fit for steam-purposes. I saw heaps of it: +small, dull, dirty-looking stuff. Truck-loads of it too. And +truck-loads of grain. + +At every station we were left ignominiously planted, while the little +engines--they had gay gold names on their black little bodies--strolled +about along the side-lines, and snuffed at the various trucks. There we +sat, at every station, while some truck was discarded and some other +sorted out like a branded sheep, from the sidings and hitched on to us. +It took a long time, this did. + + * * * * * + +All the stations so far had had wire netting over the windows. This +means malaria-mosquitoes. The malaria climbs very high in Sardinia. The +shallow upland valleys, moorland with their intense summer sun and the +riverless, boggy behaviour of the water breed the pest inevitably. But +not very terribly, as far as one can make out: August and September +being the danger months. The natives don't like to admit there is any +malaria: a tiny bit, they say, a tiny bit. As soon as you come to the +_trees_ there is no more. So they say. For many miles the landscape is +moorland and down-like, with no trees. But wait for the trees. Ah, the +woods and forests of Gennargentu: the woods and forests higher up: no +malaria there! + +The little engine whisks up and up, around its loopy curves as if it +were going to bite its own tail: we being the tail: then suddenly dives +over the sky-line out of sight. And the landscape changes. The famous +woods begin to appear. At first it is only hazel-thickets, miles of +hazel-thickets, all wild, with a few black cattle trying to peep at us +out of the green myrtle and arbutus scrub which forms the undergrowth; +and a couple of rare, wild peasants peering at the train. They wear the +black sheepskin tunic, with the wool outside, and the long stocking +caps. Like cattle they too peer out from between deep bushes. The myrtle +scrub here rises man-high, and cattle and men are smothered in it. The +big hazels rise bare above. It must be difficult getting about in these +parts. + +Sometimes, in the distance one sees a black-and-white peasant riding +lonely across a more open place, a tiny vivid figure. I like so much the +proud instinct which makes a living creature distinguish itself from its +background. I hate the rabbity khaki protection-colouration. A +black-and-white peasant on his pony, only a dot in the distance beyond +the foliage, still flashes and dominates the landscape. Ha-ha! proud +mankind! There you ride! But alas, most of the men are still +khaki-muffled, rabbit-indistinguishable, ignominious. The Italians look +curiously rabbity in the grey-green uniform: just as our sand-colored +khaki men look doggy. They seem to scuffle rather abased, ignominious +on the earth. Give us back the scarlet and gold, and devil take the +hindmost. + + * * * * * + +The landscape really begins to change. The hillsides tilt sharper and +sharper. A man is ploughing with two small red cattle on a craggy, +tree-hanging slope as sharp as a roof-side. He stoops at the small +wooden plough, and jerks the ploughlines. The oxen lift their noses to +heaven, with a strange and beseeching snake-like movement, and taking +tiny little steps with their frail feet, move slantingly across the +slope-face, between rocks and tree-roots. Little, frail, jerky steps the +bullocks take, and again they put their horns back and lift their +muzzles snakily to heaven, as the man pulls the line. And he skids his +wooden plough round another scoop of earth. It is marvellous how they +hang upon that steep, craggy slope. An English labourer's eyes would +bolt out of his head at the sight. + +There is a stream: actually a long tress of a water-fall pouring into a +little gorge, and a stream-bed that opens a little, and shows a +marvellous cluster of naked poplars away below. They are like ghosts. +They have a ghostly, almost phosphorescent luminousness in the shadow of +the valley, by the stream of water. If not phosphorescent, then +incandescent: a grey, goldish-pale incandescence of naked limbs and +myriad cold-glowing twigs, gleaming strangely. If I were a painter I +would paint them: for they seem to have living, sentient flesh. And the +shadow envelopes them. + +Another naked tree I would paint is the gleaming mauve-silver fig, which +burns its cold incandescence, tangled, like some sensitive creature +emerged from the rock. A fig tree come forth in its nudity gleaming over +the dark winter-earth is a sight to behold. Like some white, tangled sea +anemone. Ah, if it could but answer! or if we had tree-speech! + + * * * * * + +Yes, the steep valley sides become almost gorges, and there are trees. +Not forests such as I had imagined, but scattered, grey, smallish oaks, +and some lithe chestnuts. Chestnuts with their long whips, and oaks with +their stubby boughs, scattered on steep hillsides where rocks crop out. +The train perilously winding round, half way up. Then suddenly bolting +over a bridge and into a completely unexpected station. What is more, +men crowd in--the station is connected with the main railway by a post +motor-omnibus. + +An unexpected irruption of men--they may be miners or navvies or +land-workers. They all have huge sacks: some lovely saddle-bags with +rose-coloured flowers across the darkness. One old man is in full +black-and-white costume, but very dirty and coming to pieces. The others +wear the tight madder-brown breeches and sleeved waistcoats. Some have +the sheepskin tunic, and all wear the long stocking cap. And how they +smell! of sheep-wool and of men and goat. A rank scent fills the +carriage. + +They talk and are very lively. And they have mediaeval faces, _rusé_, +never really abandoning their defences for a moment, as a badger or a +pole-cat never abandons its defences. There is none of the brotherliness +and civilised simplicity. Each man knows he must guard himself and his +own: each man knows the devil is behind the next bush. They have never +known the post-Renaissance Jesus. Which is rather an eye-opener. + +Not that they are suspicious or uneasy. On the contrary, noisy, +assertive, vigorous presences. But with none of that implicit belief +that everybody will be and ought to be good to them, which is the mark +of our era. They don't expect people to be good to them: they don't want +it. They remind me of half-wild dogs that will love and obey, but which +won't be handled. They won't have their heads touched. And they won't be +fondled. One can almost hear the half-savage growl. + +The long stocking caps they wear as a sort of crest, as a lizard wears +his crest at mating time. They are always moving them, settling them on +their heads. One fat fellow, young, with sly brown eyes and a young +beard round his face folds his stocking-foot in three, so that it rises +over his brow martial and handsome. The old boy brings his stocking-foot +over the left ear. A handsome fellow with a jaw of massive teeth pushes +his cap back and lets it hang a long way down his back. Then he shifts +it forward over his nose, and makes it have two sticking-out points, +like fox-ears, above his temples. It is marvellous how much expression +these caps can take on. They say that only those born to them can wear +them. They seem to be just long bags, nearly a yard long, of black +stockinette stuff. + +The conductor comes to issue them their tickets. And they all take out +rolls of paper money. Even a little mothy rat of a man who sits opposite +me has quite a pad of ten-franc notes. Nobody seems short of a hundred +francs nowadays: nobody. + +They shout and expostulate with the conductor. Full of coarse life they +are: but so coarse! The handsome fellow has his sleeved waistcoat open, +and his shirt-breast has come unbuttoned. Not looking, it seems as if he +wears a black undervest. Then suddenly, one sees it is his own hair. He +is quite black inside his shirt, like a black goat. + +But there is a gulf between oneself and them. They have no inkling of +our crucifixion, our universal consciousness. Each of them is pivoted +and limited to himself, as the wild animals are. They look out, and they +see other objects, objects to ridicule or mistrust or to sniff curiously +at. But "thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself" has never entered +their souls at all, not even the thin end of it. They might love their +neighbour, with a hot, dark, unquestioning love. But the love would +probably leave off abruptly. The fascination of what is beyond them has +not seized on them. Their neighbour is a mere external. Their life is +centripetal, pivoted inside itself, and does not run out towards others +and mankind. One feels for the first time the real old mediaeval life, +which is enclosed in itself and has no interest in the world outside. + +And so they lie about on the seats, play a game, shout, and sleep, +and settle their long stocking-caps: and spit. It is wonderful in +them that at this time of day they still wear the long stocking-caps +as part of their inevitable selves. It is a sign of obstinate and +powerful tenacity. They are not going to be broken in upon by +world-consciousness. They are not going into the world's common clothes. +Coarse, vigorous, determined, they will stick to their own coarse dark +stupidity and let the big world find its own way to its own enlightened +hell. Their hell is their own hell, they prefer it unenlightened. + +And one cannot help wondering whether Sardinia will resist right +through. Will the last waves of enlightenment and world-unity break over +them and wash away the stocking-caps? Or is the tide of enlightenment +and world-unity already receding fast enough? + +Certainly a reaction is setting in, away from the old universality, +back, away from cosmopolitanism and internationalism. Russia, with her +Third International, is at the same time reacting most violently away +from all other contact, back, recoiling on herself, into a fierce, +unapproachable Russianism. Which motion will conquer? The workman's +International, or the centripetal movement into national isolation? Are +we going to merge into one grey proletarian homogeneity?--or are we +going to swing back into more-or-less isolated, separate, defiant +communities? + +Probably both. The workman's International movement will finally break +the flow towards cosmopolitanism and world-assimilation, and suddenly in +a crash the world will fly back into intense separations. The moment has +come when America, that extremist in world-assimilation and +world-oneness, is reacting into violent egocentricity, a truly +Amerindian egocentricity. As sure as fate we are on the brink of +American empire. + +For myself, I am glad. I am glad that the era of love and oneness is +over: hateful homogeneous world-oneness. I am glad that Russia flies +back into savage Russianism, Scythism, savagely self-pivoting. I am glad +that America is doing the same. I shall be glad when men hate their +common, world-alike clothes, when they tear them up and clothe +themselves fiercely for distinction, savage distinction, savage +distinction against the rest of the creeping world: when America kicks +the billy-cock and the collar-and-tie into limbo, and takes to her own +national costume: when men fiercely react against looking all alike and +being all alike, and betake themselves into vivid clan or +nation-distinctions. + +The era of love and oneness is over. The era of world-alike should be at +an end. The other tide has set in. Men will set their bonnets at one +another now, and fight themselves into separation and sharp distinction. +The day of peace and oneness is over, the day of the great fight into +multifariousness is at hand. Hasten the day, and save us from +proletarian homogeneity and khaki all-alikeness. + +I love my indomitable coarse men from mountain Sardinia, for their +stocking-caps and their splendid, animal-bright stupidity. If only the +last wave of all-alikeness won't wash those superb crests, those caps, +away. + + * * * * * + +We are struggling now among the Gennargentu spurs. There is no single +peak--no Etna of Sardinia. The train, like the plough, balances on the +steep, steep sides of the hill-spurs, and winds around and around. Above +and below the steep slopes are all bosky. These are the woods of +Gennargentu. But they aren't woods in my sense of the word. They are +thin sprinkles of oaks and chestnuts and cork-trees over steep +hill-slopes. And cork-trees! I see curious slim oaky-looking trees that +are stripped quite naked below the boughs, standing brown-ruddy, +curiously distinct among the bluey grey pallor of the others. They +remind me, again and again, of glowing, coffee-brown, naked aborigines +of the South Seas. They have the naked suavity, skin-bare, and an +intense coffee-red colour of unclothed savages. And these are the +stripped cork-trees. Some are much stripped, some little. Some have the +whole trunk and part of the lower limbs ruddy naked, some only a small +part of the trunk. + + * * * * * + +It is well on in the afternoon. A peasant in black and white, and his +young, handsome woman in rose-red costume, with gorgeous apron bordered +deep with grass-green, and a little, dark-purple waistcoat over her +white, full bodice, are sitting behind me talking. The workmen peasants +are subsiding into sleep. It is well on in the afternoon, we have long +ago eaten the meat. Now we finish the white loaf, the gift, and the tea. +Suddenly looking out of the window, we see Gennargentu's mass behind us, +a thick snow-deep knot-summit, beautiful beyond the long, steep spurs +among which we are engaged. We lose the white mountain mass for half an +hour: when suddenly it emerges unexpectedly almost in front, the great, +snow-heaved shoulder. + +How different it is from Etna, that lonely, self-conscious wonder of +Sicily! This is much more human and knowable, with a deep breast and +massive limbs, a powerful mountain-body. It is like the peasants. + + * * * * * + +The stations are far between--an hour from one to another. Ah, how weary +one gets of these journeys, they last so long. We look across a +valley--a stone's throw. But alas, the little train has no wings, and +can't jump. So back turns the line, back and back towards Gennargentu, a +long rocky way, till it comes at length to the poor valley-head. This it +skirts fussily, and sets off to pelt down on its traces again, gaily. +And a man who was looking at us doing our round-about has climbed down +and crossed the valley in five minutes. + +The peasants nearly all wear costumes now, even the women in the fields: +the little fields in the half-populated valleys. These Gennargentu +valleys are all half-populated, more than the moors further south. + +It is past three o'clock, and cold where there is no sun. At last only +one more station before the terminus. And here the peasants wake up, +sling the bulging sacks over their shoulders, and get down. We see +Tonara away above. We see our old grimy black-and-white peasant greeted +by his two women who have come to meet him with the pony--daughters +handsome in vivid rose and green costume. Peasants, men in black and +white, men in madder-brown, with the close breeches on their compact +thighs, women in rose-and-white, ponies with saddle-bags, all begin to +trail up the hill-road in silhouette, very handsome, towards the +far-off, perched, sun-bright village of Tonara, a big village, shining +like a New Jerusalem. + + * * * * * + +The train as usual leaves us standing, and shuffles with trucks--water +sounds in the valley: there are stacks of cork on the station, and coal. +An idiot girl in a great full skirt entirely made of coloured patches +mops and mows. Her little waistcoat thing is also incredibly old, and +shows faint signs of having once been a lovely purple and black brocade. +The valley and steep slopes are open about us. An old shepherd has a +lovely flock of delicate merino sheep. + +And at last we move. In one hour we shall be there. As we travel among +the tree slopes, many brown cork-trees, we come upon a flock of sheep. +Two peasants in our carriage looking out, give the most weird, +unnatural, high-pitched shrieks, entirely unproduceable by any ordinary +being. The sheep know, however, and scatter. And after ten minutes the +shrieks start again, for three young cattle. Whether the peasants do it +for love, I don't know. But it is the wildest and weirdest inhuman +shepherd noise I have ever heard. + + * * * * * + +It is Saturday afternoon and four o'clock. The country is wild and +uninhabited, the train almost empty, yet there is the leaving-off-work +feeling in the atmosphere. Oh twisty, wooded, steep slopes, oh glimpses +of Gennargentu, oh nigger-stripped cork-trees, oh smell of peasants, oh +wooden, wearisome railway carriage, we are so sick of you! Nearly seven +hours of this journey already: and a distance of sixty miles. + +But we are almost there--look, look, Sorgono, nestling beautifully among +the wooded slopes in front. Oh magic little town. Ah, you terminus and +ganglion of the inland roads, we hope in you for a pleasant inn and +happy company. Perhaps we will stay a day or two at Sorgono. + +The train gives a last sigh, and draws to a last standstill in the tiny +terminus station. An old fellow fluttering with rags as a hen in the +wind flutters, asked me if I wanted the _Albergo_, the inn. I said yes, +and let him take my knapsack. Pretty Sorgono! As we went down the brief +muddy lane between hedges, to the village high-road, we seemed almost to +have come to some little town in the English west-country, or in Hardy's +country. There were glades of stripling oaks, and big slopes with oak +trees, and on the right a saw-mill buzzing, and on the left the town, +white and close, nestling round a baroque church-tower. And the little +lane was muddy. + +Three minutes brought us to the high-road, and a great, pink-washed +building blank on the road facing the station lane, and labelled in huge +letters: RISTORANTE RISVEGLIO: the letter N being printed backwards. +_Risveglio_ if you please: which means waking up or rousing, like the +word _reveille_. Into the doorway of the Risveglio bolted the flutterer. +"Half a minute," said I. "Where is the Albergo d'Italia?" I was relying +on Baedeker. + +"Non c'è più," replied my rag-feather. "There isn't it any more." This +answer, being very frequent nowadays, is always most disconcerting. + +"Well then, what other hotel?" + +"There is no other." + +Risveglio or nothing. In we go. We pass into a big, dreary bar, where +are innumerable bottles behind a tin counter. Flutter-jack yells: and at +length appears mine host, a youngish fellow of the Esquimo type, but +rather bigger, in a dreary black suit and a cutaway waistcoat suggesting +a dinner-waistcoat, and innumerable wine-stains on his shirt front. I +instantly hated him for the filthy appearance he made. He wore a +battered hat and his face was long unwashed. + +Was there a bedroom? + +Yes. + +And he led the way down the passage, just as dirty as the road outside, +up the hollow, wooden stairs also just as clean as the passage, along a +hollow, drum-rearing dirty corridor, and into a bedroom. Well, it +contained a large bed, thin and flat with a grey-white counterpane, like +a large, poor, marble-slabbed tomb in the room's sordid emptiness; one +dilapidated chair on which stood the miserablest weed of a candle I +have ever seen: a broken wash-saucer in a wire ring: and for the rest, +an expanse of wooden floor as dirty-grey-black as it could be, and an +expanse of wall charted with the bloody deaths of mosquitoes. The window +was about two feet above the level of a sort of stable-yard outside, +with a fowl-house just by the sash. There, at the window flew lousy +feathers and dirty straw, the ground was thick with chicken-droppings. +An ass and two oxen comfortably chewed hay in an open shed just across, +and plump in the middle of the yard lay a bristly black pig taking the +last of the sun. Smells of course were varied. + +The knapsack and the kitchenino were dropped on the repulsive floor, +which I hated to touch with my boots even. I turned back the sheets and +looked at other people's stains. + +"There is nothing else?" + +"Niente," said he of the lank, low forehead and beastly shirt-breast. +And he sullenly departed. I gave the flutterer his tip and he too ducked +and fled. Then the queen-bee and I took a few mere sniffs. + +"Dirty, disgusting swine!" said I, and I was in a rage. + +I could have forgiven him anything, I think, except his horrible +shirt-breast, his personal shamelessness. + +We strolled round--saw various other bedrooms, some worse, one really +better. But this showed signs of being occupied. All the doors were +open: the place was quite deserted, and open to the road. The one thing +that seemed definite was honesty. It must be a very honest place, for +every footed beast, man or animal, could walk in at random and nobody to +take the slightest regard. + +So we went downstairs. The only other apartment was the open public bar, +which seemed like part of the road. A muleteer, leaving his mules at the +corner of the Risveglio, was drinking at the counter. + + * * * * * + +This famous inn was at the end of the village. We strolled along the +road between the houses, down-hill. A dreary hole! a cold, hopeless, +lifeless, Saturday afternoon-weary village, rather sordid, with nothing +to say for itself. No real shops at all. A weary-looking church, and a +clutch of disconsolate houses. We walked right through the village. In +the middle was a sort of open space where stood a great, grey +motor-omnibus. And a bus-driver looking rather weary. + +Where did the bus go? + +It went to join the main railway. + +When? + +At half-past seven in the morning. + +Only then? + +Only then. + +"Thank God we can get out, anyhow," said I. + +We passed on, and emerged beyond the village, still on the descending +great high-road that was mended with loose stones pitched on it. This +wasn't good enough. Besides, we were out of the sun, and the place being +at a considerable elevation, it was very cold. So we turned back, to +climb quickly uphill into the sun. + + * * * * * + +We went up a little side-turning past a bunch of poor houses towards a +steep little lane between banks. And before we knew where we were, we +were in the thick of the public lavatory. In these villages, as I knew, +there are no sanitary arrangements of any sort whatever. Every villager +and villageress just betook himself at need to one of the side-roads. It +is the immemorial Italian custom. Why bother about privacy? The most +socially-constituted people on earth, they even like to relieve +themselves in company. + +We found ourselves in the full thick of one of these meeting-places. To +get out at any price! So we scrambled up the steep earthen banks to a +stubble field above. And by this time I was in a greater rage. + + * * * * * + +Evening was falling, the sun declining. Below us clustered the +Sodom-apple of this vile village. Around were fair, tree-clad hills and +dales, already bluish with the frost-shadows. The air bit cold and +strong. In a very little time the sun would be down. We were at an +elevation of about 2,500 feet above the sea. + +No denying it was beautiful, with the oak-slopes and the wistfulness and +the far-off feeling of loneliness and evening. But I was in too great a +temper to admit it. We clambered frenziedly to get warm. And the sun +immediately went right down, and the ice-heavy blue shadow fell over us +all. The village began to send forth blue wood-smoke, and it seemed more +than ever like the twilit West Country. + +But thank you--we had to get back. And run the gauntlet of that +stinking, stinking lane? Never. Towering with fury--quite unreasonable, +but there you are--I marched the q-b down a declivity through a wood, +over a ploughed field, along a cart-track, and so to the great high-road +above the village and above the inn. + +It was cold, and evening was falling into dusk. Down the high-road came +wild half-ragged men on ponies, in all degrees of costume and +not-costume: came four wide-eyed cows stepping down-hill round the +corner, and three delicate, beautiful merino sheep which stared at us +with their prominent, gold-curious eyes: came an ancient, ancient man +with a stick: came a stout-chested peasant carrying a long wood-pole: +came a straggle of alert and triumphant goats, long-horned, long-haired, +jingling their bells. Everybody greeted us hesitatingly. And everything +came to a halt at the Risveglio corner, while the men had a nip. + +I attacked the spotty-breast again. + +Could I have milk? + +No. Perhaps in an hour there would be milk. Perhaps not. + +Was there anything to eat? + +No--at half past seven there would be something to eat. + +Was there a fire? + +No--the man hadn't made the fire. + +Nothing to do but to go to that foul bedroom or walk the high-road. We +turned up the high-road again. Animals stood about the road in the +frost-heavy air, with heads sunk passively, waiting for the men to +finish their drinks in the beastly bar--we walked slowly up the hill. In +a field on the right a flock of merino sheep moved mistily, uneasily, +climbing at the gaps in the broken road bank, and sounding their +innumerable small fine bells with a frosty ripple of sound. A figure +which in the dusk I had really thought was something inanimate broke +into movement in the field. It was an old shepherd, very old, in very +ragged dirty black-and-white, who had been standing like a stone there +in the open field-end for heaven knows how long, utterly motionless, +leaning on his stick. Now he broke into a dream-motion and hobbled after +the wistful, feminine, inquisitive sheep. The red was fading from the +far-off west. At the corner, climbing slowly and wearily, we almost ran +into a grey and lonely bull, who came stepping down-hill in his measured +fashion like some god. He swerved his head and went round us. + +We reached a place which we couldn't make out: then saw it was a +cork-shed. There were stacks and stacks of cork-bark in the dusk, like +crumpled hides. + +"Now I'm going back," said the q-b flatly, and she swung round. The last +red was smouldering beyond the lost, thin-wooded hills of this interior. +A fleece of blue, half-luminous smoke floated over the obscure village. +The high-way wound down-hill at our feet, pale and blue. + +And the q-b was angry with me for my fury. + +"Why are you so indignant! Anyone would think your moral self had been +outraged! Why take it morally? You petrify that man at the inn by the +very way you speak to him, _such_ condemnation! Why don't you take it as +it comes? It's all life." + +But no, my rage is black, black, black. Why, heaven knows. But I think +it was because Sorgono had seemed so fascinating to me, when I imagined +it beforehand. Oh so fascinating! If I had expected nothing I should not +have been so hit. Blessed is he that expecteth nothing, for he shall not +be disappointed. + +I cursed the degenerate aborigines, the dirty-breasted host who _dared_ +to keep such an inn, the sordid villagers who had the baseness to squat +their beastly human nastiness in this upland valley. All my praise of +the long stocking-cap--you remember?--vanished from my mouth. I cursed +them all, and the q-b for an interfering female.... + + * * * * * + +In the bar a wretched candle was weeping light--uneasy, gloomy men were +drinking their Saturday-evening-home-coming dram. Cattle lay down in the +road, in the cold air as if hopeless. + +Had the milk come? + +No. + +When would it come. + +He didn't know. + +Well, what were we to do? Was there no room? Was there nowhere where we +could sit? + +Yes, there was the _stanza_ now. + +_Now!_ Taking the only weed of a candle, and leaving the drinkers in +the dark, he led us down a dark and stumbly earthen passage, over loose +stones and an odd plank, as it would seem underground, to the stanza: +the room. + +The stanza! It was pitch dark--But suddenly I saw a big fire of +oak-root, a brilliant, flamy, rich fire, and my rage in that second +disappeared. + +The host, and the candle, forsook us at the door. The stanza would have +been in complete darkness, save for that rushing bouquet of new flames +in the chimney, like fresh flowers. By this firelight we saw the room. +It was like a dungeon, absolutely empty, with an uneven, earthen floor, +quite dry, and high bare walls, gloomy, with a handbreadth of window +high up. There was no furniture at all, save a little wooden bench, a +foot high, before the fire, and several home-made-looking rush mats +rolled up and leaning against the walls. Furthermore a chair before the +fire on which hung wet table-napkins. Apart from this, it was a high, +dark, naked prison-dungeon. + +But it was quite dry, it had an open chimney, and a gorgeous new fire +rushing like a water-fall upwards among the craggy stubs of a pile of +dry oak roots. I hastily put the chair and the wet corpse-cloths to one +side. We sat on the low bench side by side in the dark, in front of this +rippling rich fire, in front of the cavern of the open chimney, and we +did not care any more about the dungeon and the darkness. Man can live +without food, but he can't live without fire. It is an Italian proverb. +We had found the fire, like new gold. And we sat in front of it, a +little way back, side by side on the low form, our feet on the uneven +earthen floor, and felt the flame-light rippling upwards over our faces, +as if we were bathing in some gorgeous stream of fieriness. I forgave +the dirty-breasted host everything and was as glad as if I had come into +a kingdom. + +So we sat alone for half an hour, smiling into the flames, bathing our +faces in the glow. From time to time I was aware of steps in the +tunnel-like passage outside, and of presences peering. But no one came. +I was aware too of the faint steaming of the beastly table-napkins, the +only other occupants of the room. + + * * * * * + +In dithers a candle, and an elderly, bearded man in gold-coloured +corduroys, and an amazing object on a long, long spear. He put the +candle on the mantel-ledge, and crouched at the side of the fire, +arranging the oak-roots. He peered strangely and fixedly in the fire. +And he held up the speared object before our faces. + +It was a kid that he had come to roast. But it was a kid opened out, +made quite flat, and speared like a flat fan on a long iron stalk. It +was a really curious sight. And it must have taken some doing. The whole +of the skinned kid was there, the head curled in against a shoulder, the +stubby cut ears, the eyes, the teeth, the few hairs of the nostrils: and +the feet curled curiously round, like an animal that puts its fore-paw +over its ducked head: and the hind-legs twisted indescribably up: and +all skewered flat-wise upon the long iron rod, so that it was a complete +flat pattern. It reminded me intensely of those distorted, slim-limbed, +dog-like animals which figure on the old Lombard ornaments, distorted +and curiously infolded upon themselves. Celtic illuminations also have +these distorted, involuted creatures. + +The old man flourished the flat kid like a bannerette, whilst he +arranged the fire. Then, in one side of the fire-place wall he poked the +point of the rod. He himself crouched on the hearth-end, in the +half-shadow at the other side of the fire-place, holding the further end +of the long iron rod. The kid was thus extended before the fire, like a +hand-screen. And he could spin it round at will. + +[Illustration: SORONGO] + +But the hole in the masonry of the chimney-piece was not satisfactory. +The point of the rod kept slipping, and the kid came down against the +fire. He muttered and muttered to himself, and tried again. Then at +length he reared up the kid-banner whilst he got large stones from a +dark corner. He arranged these stones so that the iron point rested on +them. He himself sat away on the opposite side of the fire-place, on the +shadowy hearth-end, and with queer, spell-bound black eyes and +completely immovable face, he watched the flames and the kid, and held +the handle end of the rod. + +We asked him if the kid was for the evening meal--and he said it was. It +would be good! And he said yes, and looked with chagrin at the bit of +ash on the meat, where it had slipped. It is a point of honour that it +should never touch the ash. Did they do all their meat this way? He said +they did. And wasn't it difficult to put the kid thus on the iron rod? +He said it was not easy, and he eyed the joint closely, and felt one of +the forelegs, and muttered that was not fixed properly. + +He spoke with a very soft mutter, hard to catch, and sideways, never to +us direct. But his manner was gentle, soft, muttering, reticent, +sensitive. He asked us where we came from, and where we were going: +always in his soft mutter. And what nation were we, were we French? Then +he went on to say there was a war--but he thought it was finished. There +was a war because the Austrians wanted to come into Italy again. But +the French and the English came to help Italy. A lot of Sardinians had +gone to it. But let us hope it is all finished. He thought it was--young +men of Sorgono had been killed. He hoped it was finished. + +Then he reached for the candle and peered at the kid. It was evident he +was the born roaster. He held the candle and looked for a long time at +the sizzling side of the meat, as if he would read portents. Then he +held his spit to the fire again. And it was as if time immemorial were +roasting itself another meal. I sat holding the candle. + + * * * * * + +A young woman appeared, hearing voices. Her head was swathed in a shawl, +one side of which was brought across, right over the mouth, so that only +her two eyes and her nose showed. The q-b thought she must have +toothache--but she laughed and said no. As a matter of fact that is the +way a head-dress is worn in Sardinia, even by both sexes. It is +something like the folding of the Arab's burnoose. The point seems to be +that the mouth and chin are thickly covered, also the ears and brow, +leaving only the nose and eyes exposed. They say it keeps off the +malaria. The men swathe shawls round their heads in the same way. It +seems to me they want to keep their heads warm, dark and hidden: they +feel secure inside. + +She wore the workaday costume: a full, dark-brown skirt, the full white +bodice, and a little waistcoat or corset. This little waistcoat in her +case had become no more than a shaped belt, sending up graceful, +stiffened points under the breasts, like long leaves standing up. It was +pretty--but all dirty. She too was pretty, but with an impudent, not +quite pleasant manner. She fiddled with the wet napkins, asked us +various questions, and addressed herself rather jerkily to the old man, +who answered hardly at all--Then she departed again. The women are +self-conscious in a rather smirky way, bouncy. + +When she was gone I asked the old man if she was his daughter. He said +very brusquely, in his soft mutter, No. She came from a village some +miles away. He did not belong to the inn. He was, as far as I +understood, the postman. But I may have been mistaken about the word. + +But he seemed laconic, unwilling to speak about the inn and its keepers. +There seemed to be something queer. And again he asked where we were +going. He told me there were now two motor-buses: a new one which ran +over the mountains to Nuoro. Much better go to Nuoro than to Abbasanta. +Nuoro was evidently the town towards which these villages looked, as a +sort of capital. + + * * * * * + +The kid-roasting proceeded very slowly, the meat never being very near +the fire. From time to time the roaster arranged the cavern of red-hot +roots. Then he threw on more roots. It was very hot. And he turned the +long spit, and still I held the candle. + +Other people came strolling in, to look at us. But they hovered behind +us in the dark, so I could not make out at all clearly. They strolled in +the gloom of the dungeon-like room, and watched us. One came forward--a +fat, fat young soldier in uniform. I made place for him on the +bench--but he put out his hand and disclaimed the attention. Then he +went away again. + +The old man propped up the roast, and then he too disappeared for a +time. The thin candle guttered, the fire was no longer flamy but red. +The roaster reappeared with a new, shorter spear, thinner, and a great +lump of raw hog-fat spitted on it. This he thrust into the red fire. It +sizzled and smoked and spit fat, and I wondered. He told me he wanted it +to catch fire. It refused. He groped in the hearth for the bits of twigs +with which the fire had been started. These twig-stumps he stuck in the +fat, like an orange stuck with cloves, then he held it in the fire +again. Now at last it caught, and it was a flaming torch running +downwards with a thin shower of flaming fat. And now he was satisfied. +He held the fat-torch with its yellow flares over the browning kid, +which he turned horizontal for the occasion. All over the roast fell the +flaming drops, till the meat was all shiny and browny. He put it to the +fire again, holding the diminishing fat, still burning bluish, over it +all the time in the upper air. + + * * * * * + +While this was in process a man entered with a loud _Good evening_. We +replied Good-evening--and evidently he caught a strange note. He came +and bent down and peered under my hat-brim, then under the q-b's +hat-brim, we still wore hats and overcoats, as did everybody. Then he +stood up suddenly and touched his cap and said _Scusi_--excuse me. I +said _Niente_, which one always says, and he addressed a few jovial +words to the crouching roaster: who again would hardly answer him. The +omnibus was arrived from Oristano, I made out--with few passengers. + +This man brought with him a new breezy atmosphere, which the roaster did +not like. However, I made place on the low bench, and the attention this +time was accepted. Sitting down at the extreme end, he came into the +light, and I saw a burly man in the prime of life, dressed in dark brown +velvet, with a blond little moustache and twinkling blue eyes and a +tipsy look. I thought he might be some local tradesman or farmer. He +asked a few questions, in a boisterous familiar fashion, then went out +again. He appeared with a small iron spit, a slim rod, in one hand, and +in the other hand two joints of kid and a handful of sausages. He stuck +his joints on his rod. But our roaster still held the interminable flat +kid before the now red, flameless fire. The fat-torch was burnt out, the +cinder pushed in the fire. A moment's spurt of flame, then red, intense +redness again, and our kid before it like a big, dark hand. + +"Eh," said the newcomer, whom I will call the girovago, "it's done. The +kid's done. It's done." + +The roaster slowly shook his head, but did not answer. He sat like time +and eternity at the hearth-end, his face flame-flushed, his dark eyes +still fire-abstract, still sacredly intent on the roast. + +"Na-na-na!" said the girovago. "Let another body see the fire." And with +his pieces of meat awkwardly skewered on his iron stick he tried to poke +under the authorised kid and get at the fire. In his soft mutter, the +old man bade him wait for the fire till the fire was ready for him. But +the girovago poked impudently and good humouredly, and said testily +that the authorised kid was done. + +"Yes, surely it is done," said I, for it was already a quarter to eight. + +The old roasting priest muttered, and took out his knife from his +pocket. He pressed the blade slowly, slowly deep into the meat: as far +as a knife will go in a piece of kid. He seemed to be feeling the meat +inwardly. And he said it was not done. He shook his head, and remained +there like time and eternity at the end of the rod. + +The girovago said _Sangue di Dio_, but couldn't roast his meat! And he +tried to poke his skewer near the coals. So doing his pieces fell off +into the ashes, and the invisible onlookers behind raised a shout of +laughter. However, he raked it out and wiped it with his hand and said +No matter, nothing lost. + +Then he turned to me and asked the usual whence and whither questions. +These answered, he said wasn't I German. I said No, I was English. He +looked at me many times, shrewdly, as if he wanted to make out +something. Then he asked, where were we domiciled--and I said Sicily. +And then, very pertinently, why had we come to Sardinia. I said for +pleasure, and to see the island. + +"Ah, per divertimento!" he repeated, half-musingly, not believing me in +the least. + +Various men had now come into the room, though they all remained +indistinct in the background. The girovago talked and jested abroad in +the company, and the half-visible men laughed in a rather hostile +manner. + +At last the old roaster decided the kid was done. He lifted it from the +fire and scrutinised it thoroughly, holding the candle to it, as if it +were some wonderful epistle from the flames. To be sure it looked +marvellous, and smelled so good: brown, and crisp, and hot, and savoury, +not burnt in any place whatever. It was eight o'clock. + +"It's done! It's done! Go away with it! Go," said the girovago, pushing +the old roaster with his hand. And at last the old man consented to +depart, holding the kid like a banner. + +"It looks so _good_!" cried the q-b. "And I am so hungry." + +"Ha-ha! It makes one hungry to see good meat, Signora. Now it is my +turn. Heh--Gino--" the girovago flourished his arm. And a handsome, +unwashed man with a black moustache came forward rather sheepishly. He +was dressed in soldier's clothes, neutral grey, and was a big, robust, +handsome fellow with dark eyes and Mediterranean sheepishness. "Here, +take it thou," said the girovago, pressing the long spit into his hand. +"It is thy business, cook the supper, thou art the woman.--But I'll keep +the sausages and do them." + +The so-called woman sat at the end of the hearth, where the old roaster +had sat, and with his brown, nervous hand piled the remaining coals +together. The fire was no longer flamy: and it was sinking. The +dark-browed man arranged it so that he could cook the meat. He held the +spit negligently over the red mass. A joint fell off. The men laughed. +"It's lost nothing," said the dark-browed man, as the girovago had said +before, and he skewered it on again and thrust it to the fire. But +meanwhile he was looking up from under his dark lashes at the girovago +and at us. + +The girovago talked continually. He turned to me, holding the handful of +sausages. + +"This makes the tasty bit," he said. + +"Oh yes--good salsiccia," said I. + +"You are eating the kid? You are eating at the inn?" he said. I replied +that I was. + +"No," he said. "You stay and eat with me. You eat with me. The sausage +is good, the kid will soon be done, the fire is grateful." + +I laughed, not quite understanding him. He was certainly a bit tipsy. + +"Signora," he said, turning to the q-b. She did not like him, he was +impudent, and she shut a deaf ear to him as far as she could. "Signora," +he said, "do you understand me what I say?" + +She replied that she did. + +"Signora," he said, "I sell things to the women. I sell them things." + +"What do you sell?" she asked in astonishment. + +"Saints," he said. + +"Saints!" she cried in more astonishment. + +"Yes, saints," he said with tipsy gravity. + +She turned in confusion to the company in the background. The fat +soldier came forward, he was the chief of the carabinieri. + +"Also combs and bits of soap and little mirrors," he explained +sarcastically. + +"Saints!" said the girovago once more. "And also _ragazzini_--also +youngsters--Wherever I go there is a little one comes running calling +Babbo! Babbo! Daddy! Daddy! Wherever I go--youngsters. And I'm the +babbo." + +All this was received with a kind of silent sneer from the invisible +assembly in the background. The candle was burning low, the fire was +sinking too. In vain the dark-browed man tried to build it up. The q-b +became impatient for the food. She got up wrathfully and stumbled into +the dark passage, exclaiming--"Don't we eat yet?" + +"Eh--Patience! Patience, Signora. It takes time in this house," said the +man in the background. + +The dark-browed man looked up at the girovago and said: + +"Are you going to cook the sausages with your fingers?" + +He too was trying to be assertive and jesting, but he was the kind of +person no one takes any notice of. The girovago rattled on in dialect, +poking fun at us and at our being there in this inn. I did not quite +follow. + +"Signora!" said the girovago. "Do you understand Sardinian?" + +"I understand Italian--and some Sardinian," she replied rather hotly. +"And I know that you are trying to laugh at us--to make fun of us." + +He laughed fatly and comfortably. + +"Ah Signora," he said. "We have a language that you wouldn't +understand--not one word. Nobody here would understand it but me and +him--" he pointed to the black-browed one. "Everybody would want an +interpreter--everybody." + +But he did not say interpreter--he said _intreprete_, with the accent +on the penultimate, as if it were some sort of priest. + +"A what?" said I. + +He repeated with tipsy unction, and I saw what he meant. + +"Why?" said I. "Is it a dialect? What is your dialect?" + +"My dialect," he said, "is Sassari. I come from Sassari. If I spoke my +dialect they would understand something. But if I speak this language +they would want an interpreter." + +"What language is it then?" + +He leaned up to me, laughing. + +"It is the language we use when the women are buying things and we don't +want them to know what we say: me and him--" + +"Oh," said I. "I know. We have that language in England. It is called +thieves Latin--_Latino dei furbi_." + +The men at the back suddenly laughed, glad to turn the joke against the +forward girovago. He looked down his nose at me. But seeing I was +laughing without malice, he leaned to me and said softly, secretly: + +"What is your affair then? What affair is it, yours?" + +"How? What?" I exclaimed, not understanding. + +"_Che genere di affari?_ What sort of business?" + +"How--_affari_?" said I, still not grasping. + +"What do you _sell_?" he said, flatly and rather spitefully. "What +goods?" + +"I don't sell anything," replied I, laughing to think he took us for +some sort of strolling quacks or commercial travellers. + +"Cloth--or something," he said cajolingly, slyly, as if to worm my +secret out of me. + +"But nothing at all. Nothing at all," said I. "We have come to Sardinia +to see the peasant costumes--" I thought that might sound satisfactory. + +"Ah, the costumes!" he said, evidently thinking I was a deep one. And he +turned bandying words with his dark-browed mate, who was still poking +the meat at the embers and crouching on the hearth. The room was almost +quite dark. The mate answered him back, and tried to seem witty too. But +the girovago was the commanding personality! rather too much so: too +impudent for the q-b, though rather after my own secret heart. The mate +was one of those handsome, passive, stupid men. + +"Him!" said the girovago, turning suddenly to me and pointing at the +mate. "He's my wife." + +"Your wife!" said I. + +"Yes. He's my wife, because we're always together." + +There had become a sudden dead silence in the background. In spite of it +the mate looked up under his black lashes and said, with a half smile: + +"Don't talk, or I shall give thee a good _bacio_ to-night." + +There was an instant's fatal pause, then the girovago continued: + +"Tomorrow is festa of Sant 'Antonio at Tonara. Tomorrow we are going to +Tonara. Where are you going?" + +"To Abbasanta," said I. + +"Ah Abbasanta! You should come to Tonara. At Tonara there is a brisk +trade--and there are costumes. You should come to Tonara. Come with him +and me to Tonara tomorrow, and we will do business together." + +I laughed, but did not answer. + +"Come," said he. "You will like Tonara! Ah, Tonara is a fine place. +There is an inn: you can eat well, sleep well. I tell you, because to +you ten francs don't matter. Isn't that so? Ten francs don't matter to +you. Well, then come to Tonara. What? What do you say?" + +I shook my head and laughed, but did not answer. + +To tell the truth I should have liked to go to Tonara with him and his +mate and do the brisk trade: if only I knew what trade it would be. + +"You are sleeping upstairs?" he said to me. + +I nodded. + +"This is my bed," he said, taking one of the home-made rush mats from +against the wall. I did not take him seriously at any point. + +"Do they make those in Sorgono?" I said. + +"Yes, in Sorgono--they are the beds, you see! And you roll up this end a +bit--so! and that is the pillow." + +He laid his cheek sideways. + +"Not really," said I. + +He came and sat down again next to me, and my attention wandered. The +q-b was raging for her dinner. It must be quite half-past eight. The +kid, the perfect kid would be cold and ruined. Both fire and candle were +burning low. Someone had been out for a new candle, but there was +evidently no means of replenishing the fire. The mate still crouched on +the hearth, the dull red fire-glow on his handsome face, patiently +trying to roast the kid and poking it against the embers. He had heavy, +strong limbs in his khaki clothes, but his hand that held the spit was +brown and tender and sensitive, a real Mediterranean hand. The girovago, +blond, round-faced, mature and aggressive with all his liveliness, was +more like a northerner. In the background were four or five other men, +of whom I had distinguished none but a stout soldier, probably chief +carabiniere. + + * * * * * + +Just as the q-b was working up to the rage I had at last calmed down +from, appeared the shawl-swathed girl announcing "Pronto!" + +"Pronto! Pronto!" said everybody. + +"High time, too," said the q-b, springing from the low bench before the +fire. "Where do we eat? Is there another room?" + +"There is another room, Signora," said the carabiniere. + +So we trooped out of the fire-warmed dungeon, leaving the girovago and +his mate and two other men, muleteers from the road, behind us. I could +see that it irked my girovago to be left behind. He was by far the +strongest personality in the place, and he had the keenest intelligence. +So he hated having to fall into the background, when he had been +dragging all the lime-light on to himself all the evening. To me, too, +he was something of a kindred soul that night. But there we are: fate, +in the guise of that mysterious division between a respectable life and +a scamp's life divided us. There was a gulf between me and him, between +my way and his. He was a kindred spirit--but with a hopeless difference. +There was something a bit sordid about him--and he knew it. That is why +he was always tipsy. Yet I like the lone wolf souls best--better than +the sheep. If only they didn't feel mongrel inside themselves. +Presumably a scamp is bound to be mongrel. It is a pity the untamable, +lone-wolf souls should always become pariahs, almost of choice: mere +scamps. + +Top and bottom of it is, I regretted my girovago, though I knew it was +no good thinking of him. His way was _not_ my way. Yet I regretted him, +I did. + + * * * * * + +We found ourselves in a dining room with a long white table and inverted +soup-plates, tomb-cold, lighted by an acetylene flare. Three men had +accompanied us: the carabiniere, a little dark youth with a small black +moustache, in a soldier's short, wool-lined great-coat: and a young man +who looked tired round his blue eyes, and who wore a dark-blue overcoat, +quite smart. The be-shawled damsel came in with the inevitable bowl of +minestrone, soup with cabbage and cauliflower and other things. We +helped ourselves, and the fat carabiniere started the conversation with +the usual questions--and where were we going tomorrow? + +I asked about buses. Then the responsible-looking, tired-eyed youth +told me he was the bus-driver. He had come from Oristano, on the main +line, that day. It is a distance of some forty miles. Next morning he +was going on over the mountains to Nuoro--about the same distance again. +The youth with the little black moustache and the Greek, large eyes, was +his mate, the conductor. This was their run, from Oristano to Nuoro--a +course of ninety miles or more. And every day on, on, on. No wonder he +looked nerve-tired. Yet he had that kind of dignity, the wistful +seriousness and pride of a man in machine control: the only god-like +ones today, those who pull the iron levers and are the gods in the +machine. + +They repeated what the old roaster said: much nicer for us to go to +Nuoro than to Abbasanta. So to Nuoro we decided to go, leaving at +half-past nine in the morning. + + * * * * * + +Every other night the driver and his mate spent in this benighted +Risveglio inn. It must have been their bedroom we saw, clean and tidy. I +said was the food always so late, was everything always as bad as today. +Always--if not worse, they said, making light of it, with sarcastic +humor against the Risveglio. You spent your whole life at the Risveglio +sitting, waiting, and going block-cold: unless you were content to +drink _aqua vitae_, like those in there. The driver jerked his head +towards the dungeon. + +"Who were those in there?" said I. + +The one who did all the talking was a mercante, a mercante girovago, a +wandering peddler. This was my girovago: a wandering peddler selling +saints and youngsters! The other was his mate, who helped carry the +pack. They went about together. Oh, my girovago was a known figure all +over the country.--And where would they sleep? There, in the room where +the fire was dying. + +They would unroll the mats and lie with their feet to the hearth. For +this they paid threepence, or at most fourpence. And they had the +privilege of cooking their own food. The Risveglio supplied them with +nothing but the fire, the roof, and the rush mat.--And, of course, the +drink. Oh, we need have no sympathy with the girovago and his sort. +_They_ lacked for nothing. They had everything they wanted: everything: +and money in abundance. _They_ lived for the _aqua vitae_ they drank. +That was all they wanted: their continual allowance of _aqua vitae_. And +they got it. Ah, they were not cold. If the room became cold during the +night: if they had no coverings at all: pah, they waited for morning, +and as soon as it was light they drank a large glass of _aqua vitae_. +That was their fire, their hearth and their home: drink. _Aqua vitae_, +was hearth and home to them. + +I was surprised at the contempt, tolerant and yet profound, with which +these three men in the dining-room spoke of the others in the _stanza_. +How contemptuous, almost bitter, the driver was against alcohol. It was +evident he hated it. And though we all had our bottles of dead-cold dark +wine, and though we all drank: still, the feeling of the three youths +against actual intoxication was deep and hostile, with a certain burning +_moral_ dislike that is more northern than Italian. And they curled +their lip with real dislike of the girovago: his forwardness, his +impudent aggressiveness. + + * * * * * + +As for the inn, yes, it was very bad. It had been quite good under the +previous proprietors. But now--they shrugged their shoulders. The +dirty-breast and the shawled girl were not the owners. They were merely +conductors of the hotel: here a sarcastic curl of the lip. The owner was +a man in the village--a young man. A week or two back, at Christmas +time, there had been a roomful of men sitting drinking and roistering at +this very table. When in had come the proprietor, mad-drunk, swinging a +litre bottle round his head and yelling: "Out! Out! Out, all of you! Out +every one of you! I am proprietor here. And when I want to clear my +house I clear my house. Every man obeys--who doesn't obey has his brains +knocked out with this bottle. Out, out, I say--Out, everyone!" And the +men all cleared out. "But," said the bus-driver, "I told him that when I +had paid for my bed I was going to sleep in it. I was not going to be +turned out by him or anybody. And so he came down." + + * * * * * + +There was a little silence from everybody after this story. Evidently +there was more to it, that we were not to be told. Especially the +carabiniere was silent. He was a fat, not very brave fellow, though +quite nice. + +Ah, but--said the little dark bus-conductor, with his small-featured +swarthy Greek face--you must not be angry with them. True the inn was +very bad. Very bad--but you must pity them, for they are only ignorant. +Poor things, they are _ignoranti_! Why be angry? + +The other two men nodded their heads in agreement and repeated +_ignoranti_. They are _ignoranti_. It is true. Why be angry? + +And here the modern Italian spirit came out: the endless pity for the +ignorant. It is only slackness. The pity makes the ignorant more +ignorant, and makes the Risveglio daily more impossible. If somebody +let a bottle buzz round the ears of the dirty-breast, and whipped the +shawl from the head of the pert young madam and sent her flying down the +tunnel with a flea in her ear, we might get some attention and they +might find a little self-respect. But no: pity them, poor _ignoranti_, +while they pull life down and devour it like vermin. Pity them! What +they need is not pity but prods: they and all their myriad of likes. + + * * * * * + +The be-shawled appeared with a dish of kid. Needless to say, the +_ignoranti_ had kept all the best portions for themselves. What arrived +was five pieces of cold roast, one for each of us. Mine was a sort of +large comb of ribs with a thin web of meat: perhaps an ounce. That was +all we got, after watching the whole process. There was moreover a dish +of strong boiled cauliflower, which one ate, with the coarse bread, out +of sheer hunger. After this a bilious orange. Simply one is not _fed_ +nowadays. In the good hotels and in the bad, one is given paltry +portions of unnourishing food, and one goes unfed. + + * * * * * + +The bus-driver, the only one with an earnest soul, was talking of the +Sardinians. Ah, the Sardinians! They were hopeless. Why--because they +did not know how to strike. They, too, were _ignoranti_. But this form +of ignorance he found more annoying. They simply did not know what a +strike was. If you offered them one day ten francs a stint--he was +speaking now of the miners of the Iglesias region.--No, no, no, they +would not take it, they wanted twelve francs. Go to them the next day +and offer them four francs for half a stint, and yes, yes, yes, they +would take it. And there they were: ignorant: ignorant Sardinians. They +absolutely did not know how to strike. He was quite sarcastically hot +about it. The whole tone of these three young men was the tone of +sceptical irony common to the young people of our day the world over. +Only they had--or at least the driver had--some little fervour for his +strikes and his socialism. But it was a pathetic fervour: a _pis-aller_ +fervour. + + * * * * * + +We talked about the land. The war has practically gutted Sardinia of her +cattle: so they said. And now the land is being deserted, the arable +land is going back to fallow. Why? Why, says the driver, because the +owners of the land won't spend any capital. They have got the capital +locked up, and the land is dead. They find it cheaper to let all the +arable go back to fallow, and raise a few head of cattle, rather than to +pay high wages, grow corn, and get small returns. + +Yes, and also, chimes in the carabiniere, the peasants don't want to +work the land. They hate the land. They'll do anything to get off the +land. They want regular wages, short hours, and devil take the rest. So +they will go into France as navvies, by the hundred. They flock to Rome, +they besiege the Labor bureaus, they will do the artificial Government +navvy-work at a miserable five francs a day--a railway shunter having at +least eighteen francs a day--anything, anything rather than work the +land. + +Yes, and what does the Government do! replies the bus-driver. They pull +the roads to pieces in order to find work for the unemployed, remaking +them, across the campagna. But in Sardinia, where roads and bridges are +absolutely wanting, will they do anything? No! + +There it is, however. The bus-driver, with dark shadows under his eyes, +represents the intelligent portion of the conversation. The carabiniere +is soft and will go any way, though always with some interest. The +little Greek-looking conductor just does not care. + + * * * * * + +Enters another belated traveller, and takes a seat at the end of the +table. The be-shawled brings him soup and a skinny bit of kid. He eyes +this last with contempt, and fetches out of his bag a large hunk of +roast pork, and bread, and black olives, thus proceeding to make a +proper meal. + +[Illustration: FONNI] + +We being without cigarettes, the bus-driver and his companion press them +on us: their beloved Macedonia cigarettes. The driver says they are +_squisitissimi_--most, most exquisite--so exquisite that all foreigners +want them. In truth I believe they are exported to Germany now. And they +are quite good, when they really have tobacco in them. Usually they are +hollow tubes of paper which just flare away under one's nose and are +done. + +We decide to have a round drink: they choose the precious _aqua vitae_: +the white sort I think. At last it arrives--when the little dark-eyed +one has fetched it. And it tastes rather like sweetened petroleum, with +a dash of aniseed: filthy. Most Italian liquors are now sweet and +filthy. + +At length we rise to go to bed. We shall all meet in the morning. And +this room is dead cold, with frost outside. Going out, we glance into +the famous stanza. One figure alone lies stretched on the floor in the +almost complete darkness. A few embers still glow. The other men no +doubt are in the bar. + +Ah, the filthy bedroom. The q-b ties up her head in a large, clean white +kerchief, to avoid contact with the unsavory pillow. It is a cold, hard, +flat bed, with two cold, hard, flat blankets. But we are very tired. +Just as we are going to sleep, however, weird, high-pitched singing +starts below, very uncanny--with a refrain that is a yelp-yelp-yelp! +almost like a dog in angry pain. Weird, almost gruesome this singing +goes on, first one voice and then another and then a tangle of voices. +Again we are roused by the pounding of heavy feet on the corridor +outside, which is as hollow and resonant as a drum. And then in the +infernal crew-yard outside a cock crows. Throughout the night--yea, +through all the black and frosty hours this demoniac bird screams its +demon griefs. + + * * * * * + +However, it is morning. I gingerly wash a bit of myself in the broken +basin, and dry that bit on a muslin veil which masquerades upon the +chair as a towel. The q-b contents herself with a dry wipe. And we go +downstairs in hopes of the last-night's milk. + +There is no one to be seen. It is a cold, frost-strong, clear morning. +There is no one in the bar. We stumble down the dark tunnel passage. The +stanza is as if no man had ever set foot in it: very dark, the mats +against the wall, the fire-place grey with a handful of long dead ash. +Just like a dungeon. The dining-room has the same long table and eternal +table-cloth--and our serviettes, still wet, lying where we shovelled +them aside. So back again to the bar. + +And this time a man is drinking _aqua vitae_, and the dirty-shirt is +officiating. He has no hat on: and extraordinary, he has no brow at all: +just flat, straight black hair slanting to his eyebrows, no forehead at +all. + +Is there coffee? + +No, there is no coffee. + +Why? + +Because they can't get sugar. + +Ho! laughs the peasant drinking _aqua vitae_. You make coffee with +sugar! + +Here, say I, they make it with nothing.--Is there milk? + +No. + +No milk at all? + +No. + +Why not? + +Nobody brings it. + +Yes, yes--there is milk if they like to get it, puts in the peasant. But +they want you to drink _aqua vitae_. + +I see myself drinking _aqua vitae_. My yesterday's rage towers up again +suddenly, till it quite suffocates me. There is something in this +unsavoury, black, wine-dabbled, thick, greasy young man that does for +me. + +"Why," say I, lapsing into the Italian rhetorical manner, "why do you +keep an inn? Why do you write the word Ristorante so large, when you +have nothing to offer people, and don't intend to have anything. Why do +you have the impudence to take in travellers? What does it mean, that +this is an inn? What, say, what does it mean? Say then--what does it +mean? What does it mean, your Ristorante Risveglio, written so large?" + +Getting all this out in one breath, my indignation now stifled me. Him +of the shirt said nothing at all. The peasant laughed. I demanded the +bill. It was twenty-five francs odd. I picked up every farthing of the +change. + +"Won't you leave any tip at all?" asks the q-b. + +"Tip!" say I, speechless. + +So we march upstairs and make tea to fill the thermos flask. Then, with +sack over my shoulder, I make my way out of the Risveglio. + + * * * * * + +It is Sunday morning. The frozen village street is almost empty. We +march down to the wider space where the bus stands: I hope they haven't +the impudence to call it a Piazza. + +"Is this the Nuoro bus?" I ask of a bunch of urchins. + +And even they begin to jeer. But my sudden up-starting flare quenches +them at once. One answers yes, and they edge away. I stow the sack and +the kitchenino in the first-class part. The first-class is in front: we +shall see better. + +There are men standing about, with their hands in their pockets,--those +who are not in costume. Some wear the black-and-white. All wear the +stocking caps. And all have the wide shirt-breasts, white, their +waistcoats being just like evening dress waistcoats. Imagine one of +these soft white shirt fronts well slobbered, and you have mine host of +the Risveglio. But these lounging, static, white-breasted men are +snowily clean, this being Sunday morning. They smoke their pipes on the +frosty air, and are none too friendly. + + * * * * * + +The bus starts at half-past nine. The campanile is clanging nine. Two or +three girls go down the road in their Sunday costume of purplish brown. +We go up the road, into the clear, ringing frosty air, to find the lane. + +And again, from above, how beautiful it is in the sharp morning! The +whole village lies in bluish shadow, the hills with their thin pale oak +trees are in bluish shadow still, only in the distance the frost-glowing +sun makes a wonderful, jewel-like radiance on the pleasant hills, wild +and thinly-wooded, of this interior region. Real fresh wonder-beauty +all around. And such humanity. + +Returning to the village we find a little shop and get biscuits and +cigarettes. And we find our friends the bus-men. They are shy this +morning. They are ready for us when we are ready. So in we get, +joyfully, to leave Sorgono. + +One thing I say for it, it must be an honest place. For people leave +their sacks about without a qualm. + + * * * * * + +Up we go, up the road. Only to stop, alas, at the Risveglio. The little +conductor goes down the lane towards the station. The driver goes and +has a little drink with a comrade. There is quite a crowd round the +dreary entrances of the inn. And quite a little bunch of people to +clamber up into the second class, behind us. + +We wait and wait. Then in climbs an old peasant, in full black-and-white +costume, smiling in the pleased, naïve way of the old. After him climbs +a fresh-faced young man with a suit-case. + +"Na!" said the young man. "Now you are in the automobile." + +And the old man gazes round with the wondering, vacant, naïve smile. + +"One is all right here, eh?" the young citizen persists, patronizing. + +But the old man is too excited to answer. He gazes hither and thither. +Then he suddenly remembers he had a parcel, and looks for it in fear. +The bright-faced young man picks it from the floor and hands it him. Ah, +it is all right. + +I see the little conductor in his dashing, sheep-lined, short military +overcoat striding briskly down the little lane with the post-bag. The +driver climbs to his seat in front of me. He has a muffler round his +neck and his hat pulled down to his ears. He pips at the horn, and our +old peasant cranes forward to look how he does it. + +And so, with a jerk and a spurt, we start uphill. + +"Eh--what's that?" said the peasant, frightened. + +"We're starting," explained the bright-faced young man. + +"Starting! Didn't we start before?" + +The bright face laughs pleasedly. + +"No," he said. "Did you think we had been going ever since you got in?" + +"Yes," says the old man, simply, "since the door was shut." + +The young citizen looks at us for our joyful approval. + + + + +VI. + +TO NUORO. + + +These automobiles in Italy are splendid. They take the steep, looping +roads so easily, they seem to run so naturally. And this one was +comfortable, too. + +The roads of Italy always impress me. They run undaunted over the most +precipitous regions, and with curious ease. In England almost any such +road, among the mountains at least, would be labelled three times +dangerous and would be famous throughout the land as an impossible +climb. Here it is nothing. Up and down they go, swinging about with +complete sang-froid. There seems to have been no effort in their +construction. They are so good, naturally, that one hardly notices what +splendid gestures they represent. Of course, the surface is now often +intolerably bad. And they are most of them roads which, with ten years' +neglect, will become ruins. For they are cut through overhanging rock +and scooped out of the sides of hills. But I think it is marvellous how +the Italians have penetrated all their inaccessible regions, of which +they have so many, with great high-roads: and how along these high-roads +the omnibuses now keep up a perfect communication. The precipitous and +craggily-involved land is threaded through and through with roads. There +seems to be a passion for high-roads and for constant communication. In +this the Italians have a real Roman instinct, _now_. For the roads are +new. + +The railways too go piercing through rock for miles and miles, and +nobody thinks anything of it. The coast railway of Calabria, down to +Reggio, would make us stand on our heads if we had it in England. Here +it is a matter of course. In the same way I always have a profound +admiration for their driving--whether of a great omnibus or of a +motor-car. It all seems so easy, as if the man were part of the car. +There is none of that beastly grinding, uneasy feeling one has in the +north. A car behaves like a smooth, live thing, sensibly. + +All the peasants have a passion for a high-road. They want their land +opening out, opening out. They seem to hate the ancient Italian +remoteness. They all want to be able to get out at a moment's notice, to +get away--quick, quick. A village which is two miles off the high-road, +even if it is perched like a hawk's nest on a peak, still chafes and +chafes for the great road to come to it, chafes and chafes for the +daily motor-bus connection with the railway. There is no placidity, no +rest in the heart of the land. There is a fever of restless irritation +all the time. + +And yet the permanent way of almost every railway is falling into bad +disrepair, the roads are shocking. And nothing seems to be done. Is our +marvellous, mechanical era going to have so short a bloom? Is the +marvellous openness, the opened-out wonder of the land going to collapse +quite soon, and the remote places lapse back into inaccessibility again? +Who knows! I rather hope so. + + * * * * * + +The automobile took us rushing and winding up the hill, sometimes +through cold, solid-seeming shadow, sometimes across a patch of sun. +There was thin, bright ice in the ruts, and deep grey hoar-frost on the +grass. I cannot tell how the sight of the grass and bushes heavy with +frost, and wild--in their own primitive wildness charmed me. The slopes +of the steep wild hills came down shaggy and bushy, with a few berries +lingering, and the long grass-stalks sere with the frost. Again the dark +valley sank below like a ravine, but shaggy, bosky, unbroken. It came +upon me how I loved the sight of the blue-shadowed, tawny-tangled winter +with its frosty standstill. The young oaks keep their brown leaves. And +doing so, surely they are best with a thin edge of rime. + +One begins to realize how old the real Italy is, how man-gripped, and +how withered. England is far more wild and savage and lonely, in her +country parts. Here since endless centuries man has tamed the impossible +mountain side into terraces, he has quarried the rock, he has fed his +sheep among the thin woods, he has cut his boughs and burnt his +charcoal, he has been half domesticated even among the wildest +fastnesses. This is what is so attractive about the remote places, the +Abruzzi, for example. Life is so primitive, so pagan, so strangely +heathen and half-savage. And yet it is human life. And the wildest +country is half humanized, half brought under. It is all conscious. +Wherever one is in Italy, either one is conscious of the present, or of +the mediaeval influences, or of the far, mysterious gods of the early +Mediterranean. Wherever one is, the place has its conscious genus. Man +has lived there and brought forth his consciousness there and in some +way brought that place to consciousness, given it its expression, and, +really, finished it. The expression may be Proserpine, or Pan, or even +the strange "shrouded gods" of the Etruscans or the Sikels, none the +less it is an expression. The land has been humanised, through and +through: and we in our own tissued consciousness bear the results of +this humanisation. So that for us to go to Italy and to _penetrate_ into +Italy is like a most fascinating act of self-discovery--back, back down +the old ways of time. Strange and wonderful chords awake in us, and +vibrate again after many hundreds of years of complete forgetfulness. + +And then--and then--there is a final feeling of sterility. It is all +worked out. It is all known: _connu, connu!_ + +This Sunday morning, seeing the frost among the tangled, still savage +bushes of Sardinia, my soul thrilled again. This was not all known. This +was not all worked out. Life was not only a process of rediscovering +backwards. It is that, also: and it is that intensely. Italy has given +me back I know not what of myself, but a very, very great deal. She has +found for me so much that was lost: like a restored Osiris. But this +morning in the omnibus I realize that, apart from the great rediscovery +backwards, which one _must_ make before one can be whole at all, there +is a move forwards. There are unknown, unworked lands where the salt has +not lost its savour. But one must have perfected oneself in the great +past first. + + * * * * * + +If one travels one eats. We immediately began to munch biscuits, and the +old peasant in his white, baggy breeches and black cuirass, his old +face smiling wonderingly under his old stocking cap, although he was +only going to Tonara, some seven or eight miles, began to peel himself a +hard-boiled egg, which he got out of his parcel. With calm wastefulness +he peeled away the biggest part of the white of the egg with the +shell--because it came away so. The citizen of Nuoro, for such the +bright-faced young man was, said to him--"But see how you waste +it."--"Ha!" said the old peasant, with a reckless indifferent wave of +the hand. What did he care how much he wasted, since he was _en voyage_ +and riding for the first time in his life in an automobile. + +The citizen of Nuoro told us he had some sort of business in Sorgono, so +he came back and forth constantly. The peasant did some work or other +for him--or brought him something down from Tonara. He was a pleasant, +bright-eyed young man, and he made nothing of eight hours in a +motor-bus. + +He told us there was still game among these hills: wild boars which were +hunted in big hunts, and many hares. It was a curious and beautiful +sight, he said, to see a hare at night fascinated by the flare of the +lamps of the automobile, racing ahead with its ears back, always keeping +in front, inside the beam, and flying like mad, on and on ahead, till +at some hill it gathered speed and melted into the dark. + + * * * * * + +We descended into a deep, narrow valley to the road-junction and the +canteen-house, then up again, up and up sharp to Tonara, our village we +had seen in the sun yesterday. But we were approaching it from the back. +As we swerved into the sunlight, the road took a long curve on to the +open ridge between two valleys. And there in front we saw a glitter of +scarlet and white. It was in slow motion. It was a far-off procession, +scarlet figures of women, and a tall image moving away from us, slowly, +in the Sunday morning. It was passing along the level sunlit ridge above +a deep, hollow valley. A close procession of women glittering in +scarlet, white and black, moving slowly in the distance beneath the +grey-yellow buildings of the village on the crest, towards an isolated +old church: and all along this narrow upland saddle as on a bridge of +sunshine itself. + +Were we not going to see any more? The bus turned again and rushed along +the now level road and then veered. And there beyond, a little below, we +saw the procession _coming_. The bus faded to a standstill, and we +climbed out. Above us, old and mellowed among the smooth rocks and the +bits of flat grass was the church, tanging its bell. Just in front, +above, were old, half-broken houses of stone. The road came gently +winding up to us, from what was evidently two villages ledged one above +the other upon the steep summit of the south slope. Far below was the +south valley, with a white puff of engine steam. + +And slowly chanting in the near distance, curving slowly up to us on the +white road between the grass came the procession. The high morning was +still. We stood all on this ridge above the world, with the deeps of +silence below on the right. And in a strange, brief, staccato monody +chanted the men, and in quick, light rustle of women's voices came the +responses. Again the men's voices! The white was mostly men, not women. +The priest in his robes, his boys near him, was leading the chanting. +Immediately behind him came a small cluster of bare-headed, tall, +sunburnt men, all in golden-velveteen corduroy, mountain-peasants, +bowing beneath a great life-size seated image of Saint Anthony of Padua. +After these a number of men in the costume, but with the white linen +breeches hanging wide and loose almost to the ankles, instead of being +tucked into the black gaiters. So they seemed very white beneath the +back kilt frill. The black frieze body-vest was cut low, like an evening +suit, and the stocking caps were variously perched. The men chanted in +low, hollow, melodic tones. Then came the rustling chime of the women. +And the procession crept slowly, aimlessly forward in time with the +chant. The great image rode rigid, and rather foolish. + +After the men was a little gap--and then the brilliant wedge of the +women. They were packed two by two, close on each other's heels, +chanting inadvertently when their turn came, and all in brilliant, +beautiful costume. In front were the little girl-children, two by two, +immediately following the tall men in peasant black-and-white. Children, +demure and conventional, in vermilion, white and green--little +girl-children with long skirts of scarlet cloth down to their feet, +green-banded near the bottom: with white aprons bordered with vivid +green and mingled colour: having little scarlet, purple-bound, open +boleros over the full white shirts: and black head-cloths folded across +their little chins, just leaving the lips clear, the face framed in +black. Wonderful little girl-children, perfect and demure in the +stiffish, brilliant costume, with black head-dress! Stiff as Velasquez +princesses! The bigger girls followed, and then the mature women, a +close procession. The long vermilion skirts with their green bands at +the bottom flashed a solid moving mass of colour, softly swinging, and +the white aprons with their band of brilliant mingled green seemed to +gleam. At the throat the full-bosomed white shirts were fastened with +big studs of gold filigree, two linked filigree globes: and the great +white sleeves billowed from the scarlet, purplish-and-green-edged +boleros. The faces came nearer to us, framed all round in the dark +cloths. All the lips still sang responses, but all the eyes watched us. +So the softly-swaying coloured body of the procession came up to us. The +poppy-scarlet smooth cloth rocked in fusion, the bands and bars of +emerald green seemed to burn across the red and the showy white, the +dark eyes peered and stared at us from under the black snood, gazed back +at us with raging curiosity, while the lips moved automatically in +chant. The bus had run into the inner side of the road, and the +procession had to press round it, towards the sky-line, the great valley +lying below. + +The priest stared, hideous St. Anthony cockled a bit as he passed the +butt end of the big grey automobile, the peasant men in gold-coloured +corduroy, old, washed soft, were sweating under the load and still +singing with opened lips, the loose white breeches of the men waggled as +they walked on with their hands behind their backs, turning again, to +look at us. The big, hard hands, folded behind black kilt-frill! The +women, too, shuffled slowly past, rocking the scarlet and the bars of +green, and all twisting as they sang, to look at us still more. And so +the procession edged past the bus, and was trailing upwards, curved +solid against the sky-line towards the old church. From behind, the +geranium scarlet was intense, one saw the careful, curiously cut backs +of the shapen boleros, poppy-red, edged with mauve-purple and green, and +the white of the shirt just showing at the waist. The full sleeves +billowed out, the black head-cloths hung down to a point. The pleated +skirts swing slowly, the broad band of green accentuating the motion. +Indeed that is what it must be for, this thick, rich band of jewel +green, to throw the wonderful horizontal motion back and forth, back and +forth, of the suave vermilion, and give that static, Demeta splendor to +a peasant motion, so magnificent in colour, geranium and malachite. + +All the costumes were not exactly alike. Some had more green, some had +less. In some the sleeveless boleros were of a darker red, and some had +poorer aprons, without such gorgeous bands at the bottom. And some were +evidently old: probably thirty years old: still perfect and in keeping, +reserved for Sunday and high holidays. A few were darker, ruddier than +the true vermilion. This varying of the tone intensified the beauty of +the shuffling woman-host. + + * * * * * + +When they had filed into the grey, forlorn little church on the +ridge-top just above us, the bus started silently to run on to the +rest-point below, whilst we climbed back up the little rock-track to the +church. When we came to the side-door we found the church quite full. +Level with us as we stood in the open side doorway, we saw kneeling on +the bare stoneflags the little girl-children, and behind them all the +women clustered kneeling upon their aprons, with hands negligently +folded, filling the church to the further doorway, where the sun shone: +the bigger west-end doorway. In the shadow of the whitewashed, bare +church all these kneeling women with their colour and their black +head-cloths looked like some thick bed of flowers, geranium, black +hooded above. They all knelt on the naked, solid stone of the pavement. + +There was a space in front of the geranium little girl-children, then +the men in corduroys, gold-soft, with dark round heads, kneeling +awkwardly in reverence; and then the queer, black cuirasses and full +white sleeves of grey-headed peasant men, many bearded. Then just in +front of them the priest in his white vestment, standing exposed, and +just baldly beginning an address. At the side of the altar was seated +large and important the modern, simpering, black-gowned Anthony of +Padua, nursing a boy-child. He looked a sort of male Madonna. + +"Now," the priest was saying, "blessed Saint Anthony shows you in what +way you can be Christians. It is not enough that you are not Turks. Some +think they are Christians because they are not Turks. It is true you are +none of you Turks. But you have still to learn how to be good +Christians. And this you can learn from our blessed Saint Anthony. Saint +Anthony, etc., etc...." + +The contrast between Turks and Christians is still forceful in the +Mediterranean, where the Mohammedans have left such a mark. But how the +word _cristiani_, _cristiani_, spoken with a peculiar priestly unction, +gets on my nerves. The voice is barren in its homily. And the women are +all intensely watching the q-b and me in the doorway, their folded hands +are very negligently held together. + +"Come away!" say I. "Come away, and let them listen." + + * * * * * + +We left the church crowded with its kneeling host, and dropped down past +the broken houses towards the omnibus, which stood on a sort of level +out-look place, a levelled terrace with a few trees, standing silent +over the valley. It should be picketed with soldiers having arquebuses. +And I should have welcomed a few thorough-paced infidels, as a leaven +to this dreary Christianity of ours. + +But it was a wonderful place. Usually, the life-level is reckoned as +sea-level. But here, in the heart of Sardinia, the life-level is high as +the golden-lit plateau, and the sea-level is somewhere far away, below, +in the gloom, it does not signify. The life-level is high up, high and +sun-sweetened and among rocks. + +We stood and looked below, at the puff of steam, far down the wooded +valley where we had come yesterday. There was an old, low house on this +eagle-perching piazza. I would like to live there. The real village--or +rather two villages, like an ear-ring and its pendant--lay still beyond, +in front, ledging near the summit of the long, long, steep wooded slope, +that never ended till it ran flush to the depths away below there in +shadow. + +And yesterday, up this slope the old peasant had come with his two +brilliant daughters and the pack-pony. + +And somewhere in those ledging, pearly villages in front must be my +girovago and his "wife". I wish I could see their stall and drink aqua +vitae with them. + +"How beautiful the procession!" says the q-b to the driver. + +"Ah yes--one of the most beautiful costumes of Sardinia, this of +Tonara," he replied wistfully. + + * * * * * + +The bus sets off again--minus the old peasant. We retrace our road. A +woman is leading a bay pony past the church, striding with long strides, +so that her maroon skirt swings like a fan, and hauling the halter rope. +Apparently the geranium red costume is Sunday only, the week-day is this +maroon, or puce, or madder-brown. + +Quickly and easily the bus slips down the hill into the valley. Wild, +narrow valleys, with trees, and brown-legged cork trees. Across the +other side a black and white peasant is working alone on a tiny terrace +of the hill-side, a small, solitary figure, for all the world like a +magpie in the distance. These people like being alone--solitary--one +sees a single creature so often isolated among the wilds. This is +different from Sicily and Italy, where the people simply cannot be +alone. They _must_ be in twos and threes. + +But it is Sunday morning, and the worker is exceptional. Along the road +we pass various pedestrians, men in their black sheepskins, boys in +their soldiers' remains. They are trudging from one village to another, +across the wild valleys. And there is a sense of Sunday morning freedom, +of roving, as in an English countryside. Only the one old peasant works +alone: and a goatherd watching his long-haired, white goats. + +Beautiful the goats are: and so swift. They fly like white shadows along +the road from us, then dart down-hill. I see one standing on a bough of +an oak-tree, right in the tree, an enormous white tree-creature +complacently munching up aloft, then rearing on her hind legs, so +lengthy, and putting her slim paws far away on an upper, forward branch. + + * * * * * + +Whenever we come to a village we stop and get down, and our little +conductor disappears into the post-office for the post-bag. This last is +usually a limp affair, containing about three letters. The people crowd +round--and many of them in very ragged costume. They look poor, and not +attractive: perhaps a bit degenerate. It would seem as if the Italian +instinct to get into rapid touch with the world were the healthy +instinct after all. For in these isolated villages, which have been +since time began far from any life-centre, there is an almost sordid +look on the faces of the people. We must remember that the motor-bus is +a great innovation. It has been running for five weeks only. I wonder +for how many months it will continue. + +For I am sure it cannot pay. Our first-class tickets cost, I believe, +about twenty-seven francs each. The second class costs about +three-quarters the first. Some parts of the journey we were very few +passengers. The distance covered is so great, the population so thin, +that even granted the passion for getting out of their own villages, +which possesses all people now, still the bus cannot earn much more than +an average of two hundred to three hundred francs a day. Which, with two +men's wages, and petrol at its enormous price, and the cost of +wear-and-tear, cannot possibly pay. + +I asked the driver. He did not tell me what his wages were: I did not +ask him. But he said the company paid for the keep and lodging for +himself and mate at the stopping-places. This being Sunday, fewer people +were travelling: a statement hard to believe. Once he had carried fifty +people all the way from Tonara to Nuoro. Once! But it was in vain he +protested. Ah well, he said, the bus carried the post, and the +government paid a subsidy of so many thousands of lire a year: a goodly +number. Apparently then the government was the loser, as usual. And +there are hundreds, if not thousands of these omnibuses running the +lonely districts of Italy and Sicily--Sardinia had a network of systems. +They are splendid--and they are perhaps an absolute necessity for a +nervous restless population which simply cannot keep still, and which +finds some relief in being whirled about even on the _autovie_, as the +bus-system is called. + +The autovie are run by private companies, only subsidised by the +government. + + * * * * * + +On we rush, through the morning--and at length see a large village, high +on the summit beyond, stony on the high upland. But it has a magical +look, as these tiny summit-cities have from the distance. They recall to +me always my childish visions of Jerusalem, high against the air, and +seeming to sparkle, and built in sharp cubes. + +It is curious what a difference there is between the high, fresh, proud +villages and the valley villages. Those that crown the world have a +bright, flashing air, as Tonara had. Those that lie down below, infolded +in the shadow, have a gloomy, sordid feeling and a repellent population, +like Sorgono and other places at which we had halted. The judgment may +be all wrong: but this was the impression I got. + +We were now at the highest point of the journey. The men we saw on the +road were in their sheepskins, and some were even walking with their +faces shawl-muffled. Glancing back, we saw up the valley clefts the snow +of Gennargentu once more, a white mantle on broad shoulders, the very +core of Sardinia. The bus slid to a standstill in a high valley, beside +a stream where the road from Fonni joined ours. There was waiting a +youth with a bicycle. I would like to go to Fonni. They say it is the +highest village in Sardinia. + + * * * * * + +In front, on the broad summit, reared the towers of Gavoi. This was the +half-way halt, where the buses had their _coincidenza_, and where we +would stay for an hour and eat. We wound up and up the looping road, and +at last entered the village. Women came to the doors to look. They were +wearing the dark madder-brown costume. Men were hastening, smoking their +pipes, towards our stopping place. + +We saw the other bus--a little crowd of people--and we drew up at last. +We were tired and hungry. We were at the door of the inn, and we entered +quickly. And in an instant, what a difference! At the clean little bar, +men were drinking cheerfully. A side door led into the common room. And +how charming it was. In a very wide chimney, white and stone-clean, with +a lovely shallow curve above, was burning a fire of long, clean-split +faggots, laid horizontally on the dogs. A clean, clear bright fire, with +odd little chairs in front, very low, for us to sit on. The funny, low +little chairs seem a specialty of this region. + +The floor of this room was paved with round dark pebbles, beautifully +clean. On the walls hung brilliant copper fans, glittering against the +whitewash. And under the long, horizontal window that looked on the +street was a stone slab with sockets for little charcoal fires. The +curve of the chimney arch was wide and shallow, the curve above the +window was still wider, and of a similar delicate shallowness, the white +roof rose delicately vaulted. With the glitter of copper, the expanse of +dark, rose-coloured, pebbled floor, the space, the few low, +clean-gleaming faggots, it was really beautiful. We sat and warmed +ourselves, welcomed by a plump hostess and a pleasant daughter, both in +madder-brown dress and full white shirt. People strayed in and out, +through the various doors. The houses are built without any plan at all, +the rooms just happening, here or there. A bitch came from an inner +darkness and stood looking at the fire, then looked up at me, smiling in +her bitch-like, complacent fashion. + + * * * * * + +But we were dying with hunger. What was there to eat?--and was it nearly +ready? There was _cinghiale_, the pleasant, hard-cheeked girl told us, +and it was nearly ready. _Cinghiale_ being wild boar, we sniffed the +air. The girl kept tramping rather fecklessly back and forth, with a +plate or a serviette: and at last it was served. We went through the +dark inner place, which was apparently the windowless bit left over, +inside, when the hap-hazard rooms were made round about, and from thence +into a large, bare, darkish pebbled room with a white table and inverted +soup-plates. It was deathly cold. The window looked north over the +wintry landscape of the highlands, fields, stone walls, and rocks. Ah, +the cold, motionless air of the room. + +But we were quite a party: the second bus-driver and his mate, a bearded +traveller on the second bus, with his daughter, ourselves, the +bright-faced citizen from Nuoro, and our driver. Our little dark-eyed +conductor did not come. It dawned on me later he could not afford to pay +for this meal, which was not included in his wage. + +The Nuoro citizen conferred with our driver--who looked tired round the +eyes--and made the girl produce a tin of sardines. These were opened at +table with a large pocket-knife belonging to the second conductor. He +was a reckless, odd, hot-foot fellow whom I liked very much. But I was +terrified at the way he carved the sardine-box with his jack-knife. +However, we could eat and drink. + +Then came the _brodo_, the broth, in a great bowl. This was boiling hot, +and very, very strong. It was perfectly plain, strong meat-stock, +without vegetables. But how good and invigorating it was, and what an +abundance! We drank it down, and ate the good, cold bread. + +Then came the boar itself. Alas, it was a bowl of hunks of dark, rather +coarse boiled meat, from which the broth had been made. It was quite +dry, without fat. I should have been very puzzled to know what meat it +was, if I had not been told. Sad that the wild boar should have received +so little culinary attention. However, we ate the hunks of hot, dry meat +with bread, and were glad to get them. They were filling, at least. And +there was a bowl of rather bitter green olives for a condiment. + +The Nuoro citizen now produced a huge bottle of wine, which he said was +_finissimo_, and refused to let us go on with the dark wine on the +table, of which every guest was served with a bottle. So we drank up, +and were replenished with the redder, lighter, finer Sorgono wine. It +was very good. + +The second bus-conductor also did not eat the inn meal. He produced a +vast piece of bread, good, home-made bread, and at least half of a roast +lamb, and a large paper of olives. This lamb he insisted on sending +round the table, waving his knife and fork with dramatic gestures at +every guest, insisting that every guest should take a hunk. So one by +one we all helped ourselves to the extraordinarily good cold roast lamb, +and to the olives. Then the bus-conductor fell to as well. There was a +mass of meat still left to him. + +It is extraordinary how generous and, from the inside, well-bred these +men were. To be sure the second conductor waved his knife and fork and +made bitter faces if one of us took only a little bit of the lamb. He +wanted us to take more. But the _essential_ courtesy in all of them was +quite perfect, so manly and utterly simple. Just the same with the q-b. +They treated her with a sensitive, manly simplicity, which one could not +but be thankful for. They made none of the odious politenesses which are +so detestable in well-brought-up people. They made no advances and did +none of the hateful homage of the adulating male. They were quiet, and +kind, and sensitive to the natural flow of life, and quite without airs. +I liked them extremely. Men who can be quietly kind and simple to a +woman, without wanting to show off or to make an impression, they are +men still. They were neither humble nor conceited. They did not show +off. And oh God, what a blessed relief, to be with people who don't +bother to show off. We sat at that table quietly and naturally as if we +were by ourselves, and talked or listened to their talk, just as it +happened. When we did not want to talk, they took no notice of us. And +that I call good manners. Middle-class, showing off people would have +found them uncouth. I found them almost the only really well-bred people +I have met. They did not show off in any way at all, not even a show of +simplicity. They knew that in the beginning and in the end a man stands +alone, his soul is alone in itself, and all attributes are nothing--and +this curious final knowledge preserved them in simplicity. + +When we had had coffee and were going out, I found our own conductor in +a little chair by the fire. He was looking a bit pathetic. I had enough +sense to give him a coffee, which brightened him. But it was not till +afterwards, putting things together, that I realized he had wanted to be +with us all at table, but that his conductor's wages probably did not +allow him to spend the money. My bill for the dinner was about fifteen +francs, for the two of us. + + * * * * * + +In the bus again, we were quite crowded. A peasant girl in Nuoro costume +sat facing me, and a dark-bearded, middle-aged man in a brown velveteen +suit was next me and glowering at her. He was evidently her husband. I +did not like him: one of the jealous, carping sort. She, in her way, was +handsome: but a bit of a devil as well, in all probability. There were +two village women become fine, in town dress and black silk scarves over +their heads, fancying themselves. Then there was a wild scuffle, and +three bouncing village lasses were pushed in, laughing and wild with +excitement. There were wild farewells, and the bus rolled out of Gavoi +between the desolate mountain fields and the rocks, on a sort of +table-land. We rolled on for a mile or so: then stopped, and the excited +lasses got down. I gathered they had been given a little ride for a +Sunday treat. Delighted they were. And they set off, with other +bare-headed women in costume, along a bare path between flat, +out-cropping rocks and cold fields. + + * * * * * + +The girl facing me was a study. She was not more than twenty years old I +should say: or was she? Did the delicate and fine complication of lines +against her eyes mean thirty-five? But anyhow she was the wife of the +velveteen man. He was thick-set and had white hairs in his coarse black +beard, and little, irritable brown eyes under his irritable brows. He +watched her all the time. Perhaps, she was after all a young, new +girl-wife. She sat with that expressionless look of one who is watched +and who appears not to know it. She had her back to the engine. + +[Illustration: GAVOI] + +She wore her black head-cloth from her brow and her hair was taken tight +back from her rather hard, broad, well-shaped forehead. Her dark +eyebrows were very finely drawn above her large, dark-grey, pellucid +eyes, but they were drawn with a peculiar obstinate and irritating lift. +Her nose was straight and small, her mouth well-shut. And her big, +rather hostile eyes had a withheld look in them, obstinate. Yet, being +newly wed and probably newly-awakened, her eyes looked sometimes at me +with a provoking look, curious as to what I was in the husband line, +challenging rather defiantly with her new secrets, obstinate in +opposition to the male authority, and yet intrigued by the very fact +that one was man. The velveteen husband--his velveteens too had gone +soft and gold-faded, yet somehow they made him look ugly, common--he +watched her with his irritable, yellow-brown eyes, and seemed to fume in +his stiff beard. + +She wore the costume: the full-gathered shirt fastened at the throat +with the two gold filigree globes, a little dark, braided, stiff bolero +just fastened at the waist, leaving a pretty pattern of white breast, +and a dark maroon skirt. As the bus rushed along she turned somewhat +pale, with the obstinate pinched look of a woman who is in opposition to +her man. At length she flung him a few words which I did not catch--and +her forehead seemed to go harder, as she drooped her lashes occasionally +over her wide, alert, obstinate, rather treacherous eyes. She must have +been a difficult piece of goods to deal with. And she sat with her knees +touching mine, rocking against mine as the bus swayed. + + * * * * * + +We came to a village on the road: the landscape had now become wider, +much more open. At the inn door the bus stopped, and the velveteen +husband and the girl got down. It was cold--but in a minute I got down +too. The bus conductor came to me and asked anxiously if the q-b were +ill. The q-b said no, why? Because there was a signora whom the motion +of the bus made ill. This was the girl. + +There was a crowd and a great row at this inn. In the second dark room, +which was bare of furniture, a man sat in a corner playing an accordion. +Men in the close breeches were dancing together. Then they fell to +wrestling wildly, crashing about among the others, with shouts and +yells. Men in the black-and-white, but untidy, with the wide white +drawers left hanging out over the black gaiters, surged here and there. +All were rowdy with drink. This again was rather a squalid inn but +roaring with violent, crude male life. + +The Nuoro citizen said that here was very good wine, and we must try it. +I did not want it, but he insisted. So we drank little glasses of merely +moderate red wine. The sky had gone all grey with the afternoon +curd-clouds. It was very cold and raw. Wine is no joy, cold, dead wine, +in such an atmosphere. + +The Nuoro citizen insisted on paying. He would let me pay, he said, when +he came to England. In him, and in our bus men, the famous Sardinian +hospitality and generosity still lingers. + + * * * * * + +When the bus ran on again the q-b told the peasant girl who again had +the pinched look, to change places with me and sit with her face to the +engine. This the young woman did, with that rather hard assurance common +to these women. But at the next stop she got down, and made the +conductor come with us into the compartment, whilst she sat in front +between the driver and the citizen of Nuoro. That was what she wanted +all the time. Now she was all right. She had her back to the velveteen +husband, she sat close between two strange young men, who were condoling +with her. And velveteens eyed her back, and his little eyes went littler +and more pin-pointed, and his nose seemed to curl with irritation. + +The costumes had changed again. There was again the scarlet, but no +green. The green had given place to mauve and rose. The women in one +cold, stony, rather humbled broken place were most brilliant. They had +the geranium skirts, but their sleeveless boleros were made to curl out +strangely from the waist, and they were edged with a puckered rose-pink, +a broad edge, with lines of mauve and lavender. As they went up between +the houses that were dark and grisly under the blank, cold sky, it is +amazing how these women of vermilion and rose-pink seemed to melt into +an almost impossible blare of colour. What a risky blend of colours! Yet +how superb it could look, that dangerous hard assurance of these women +as they strode along so blaring. I would not like to tackle one of them. + + * * * * * + +Wider and colder the landscape grew. As we topped a hill at the end of a +village, we saw a long string of wagons, each with a pair of oxen, and +laden with large sacks, curving upwards in the cold, pallid Sunday +afternoon. Seeing us, the procession came to a standstill at the curve +of the road, and the pale oxen, the pale low wagons, the pale full +sacks, all in the blenched light, each one headed by a tall man in +shirt-sleeves, trailing a static procession on the hill-side, seemed +like a vision: like a Doré drawing. The bus slid past, the man holding +the wagon-pole, while some oxen stood like rock, some swayed their +horns. The q-b asked the velveteener what they were carrying. For a long +time he took no notice of the question. Then he volunteered, in a snappy +voice, that it was the government grain being distributed to the +communes for bread. On Sunday afternoon too. + +Oh this government corn! What a problem those sacks represent! + + * * * * * + +The country became wider as we dropped lower. But it was bleak and +treeless once more. Stones cropped up in the wide, hollow dales. Men on +ponies passed forlorn across the distances. Men with bundles waited at +the cross-roads to pick up the bus. We were drawing near to Nuoro. It +was past three in the afternoon, cold with a blenched light. The +landscape seemed bare and stony, wide, different from any before. + +We came to the valley where the branch-line runs to Nuoro. I saw little +pink railway-cabins at once, lonely along the valley bed. Turning sharp +to the right, we ran in silence over the moor-land-seeming slopes, and +saw the town beyond, clustered beyond, a little below, at the end of the +long declivity, with sudden mountains rising around it. There it lay, as +if at the end of the world, mountains rising sombre behind. + +So, we stop at the Dazio, the town's customs hut, and velveteens has to +pay for some meat and cheese he is bringing in. After which we slip into +the cold high-street of Nuoro. I am thinking that this is the home of +Grazia Deledda, the novelist, and I see a barber's shop. De Ledda. And +thank heaven we are at the end of the journey. It is past four o'clock. + +The bus has stopped quite close to the door of the inn: Star of Italy, +was it? In we go at the open door. Nobody about, free access to anywhere +and everywhere, as usual: testifying again to Sardinian honesty. We peer +through a doorway to the left--through a rough little room: ah, there in +a dark, biggish room beyond is a white-haired old woman with a long, +ivory-coloured face standing at a large table ironing. One sees only the +large whiteness of the table, and the long pallid face and the querulous +pale-blue eye of the tall old woman as she looks up questioning from the +gloom of the inner place. + +"Is there a room, Signora?" + +She looks at me with a pale, cold blue eye, and shouts into the dark for +somebody. Then she advances into the passage and looks us up and down, +the q-b and me. + +"Are you husband and wife?" she demands, challenge. + +"Yes, how shouldn't we be," say I. + +A tiny maid, of about thirteen, but sturdy and brisk-looking, has +appeared in answer to the shout. + +"Take them to number seven," says the old dame, and she turns back to +her gloom, and seizes the flat iron grimly. + +We follow up two flights of cold stone stairs, disheartening narrow +staircase with a cold iron rail, and corridors opening off gloomily and +rather disorderly. These houses give the effect, inside, of never having +been properly finished, as if, long, long ago, the inmates had crowded +in, pig-sty fashion, without waiting for anything to be brought into +order, and there it had been left, dreary and chaotic. + +Thumbelina, the little maid, threw open the door of number seven with +_eclat_. And we both exclaimed: "How fine!" It seemed to us palatial. +Two good, thick white beds, a table, a chest of drawers, two mats on the +tiled floor, and gorgeous oleographs on the wall--and two good +wash-bowls side by side--and all perfectly clean and nice. What were we +coming to! We felt we ought to be impressed. + + * * * * * + +We pulled open the latticed window doors, and looked down on the street: +the only street. And it was a river of noisy life. A band was playing, +rather terribly, round the corner at the end, and up and down the +street jigged endless numbers of maskers in their Carnival costume, with +girls and young women strolling arm-in-arm to participate. And how +frisky they all were, how bubbly and unself-conscious! + +The maskers were nearly all women--the street was full of women: so we +thought at first. Then we saw, looking closer, that most of the women +were young men, dressed up. All the maskers were young men, and most of +these young men, _of course_, were masquerading as women. As a rule they +did not wear face-masks, only little dominoes of black cloth or green +cloth or white cloth coming down to the mouth. Which is much better. For +the old modelled half-masks with the lace frill, the awful proboscis +sticking forward white and ghastly like the beaks of corpse-birds--such +as the old Venice masks--these I think are simply horrifying. And the +more modern "faces" are usually only repulsive. While the simple little +pink half-masks with the end of black or green or white cloth, these +just form a human disguise. + +It was quite a game, sorting out the real women from the false. Some +were easy. They had stuffed their bosoms, and stuffed their bustles, and +put on hats and very various robes, and they minced along with little +jigging steps, like little dolls that dangle from elastic, and they put +their heads on one side and dripped their hands, and danced up to flurry +the actual young ladies, and sometimes they received a good clout on the +head, when they broke into wild and violent gestures, whereat the +_actual_ young ladies scuffled wildly. + +They were very lively and naïve.--But some were more difficult. Every +conceivable sort of "woman" was there, broad shouldered and with rather +large feet. The most usual was the semi-peasant, with a very full bosom +and very full skirt and a very downright bearing. But one was a widow in +weeds, drooping on the arm of a robust daughter. And one was an ancient +crone in a crochet bed-cover. And one was in an old skirt and blouse and +apron, with a broom, wildly sweeping the street from end to end. He was +an animated rascal. He swept with very sarcastic assiduity in front of +two town-misses in fur coats, who minced very importantly along. He +swept their way very humbly, facing them and going backwards, sweeping +and bowing, whilst they advanced with their noses in the air. He made +his great bow, and they minced past, daughters of dog-fish, pesce-carne, +no doubt. Then he skipped with a bold, gambolling flurry behind them, +and with a perfectly mad frenzy began to sweep after them, as if to +sweep their tracks away. He swept so madly and so blindly with his besom +that he swept on to their heels and their ankles. They shrieked and +glowered round, but the blind sweeper saw them not. He swept and swept +and pricked their thin silk ankles. And they, scarlet with indignation +and rage, gave hot skips like cats on hot bricks, and fled discomfited +forwards. He bowed once more after them, and started mildly and +innocently to sweep the street. A pair of lovers of fifty years ago, she +in a half crinoline and poke bonnet and veil, hanging on his arm came +very coyly past, oh so simpering, and it took me a long time to be sure +that the "girl" was a youth. An old woman in a long nightdress prowled +up and down, holding out her candle and peering in the street as if for +burglars. She would approach the _real_ young women and put her candle +in their faces and peer so hard, as if she suspected them of something. +And they blushed and turned their faces away and protested confusedly. +This old woman searched so fearfully in the face of one strapping lass +in the pink and scarlet costume, who looked for all the world like a +bunch of red and rose-pink geraniums, with a bit of white,--a _real_ +peasant lass--that the latter in a panic began to beat him with her +fist, furiously, quite aroused. And he made off, running comically in +his long white nightdress. + +There were some really beautiful dresses of rich old brocade, and some +gleaming old shawls, a shimmer of lavender and silver, or of dark, rich +shot colours with deep borders of white silver and primrose gold, very +lovely. I believe two of them were actual women--but the q-b says no. +There was a Victorian gown of thick green silk, with a creamy blotched +cross-over shawl. About her we both were doubtful. There were two +wistful, drooping-lily sisters, all in white, with big feet. And there +was a very successful tall miss in a narrow hobble-skirt of black satin +and a toque with ospreys. The way she minced and wagged her posterior +and went on her toes and peered over her shoulder and kept her elbows in +was an admirable caricature. Especially the curious sagging heaving +movement of "bustle" region, a movement very characteristic of modern +feminism, was hit off with a bit of male exaggeration which rejoiced me. +At first she even took me in. + +We stood outside our window, and leaned on the little balcony rail +looking down at this flow of life. Directly opposite was the chemist's +house: facing our window the best bedroom of the chemist, with a huge +white matrimonial bed and muslin curtains. In the balcony sat the +chemist's daughters, very elegant in high-heeled shoes and black hair +done in the fluffy fashion with a big sweep sideways. Oh very elegant! +They eyed us a little and we eyed them. But without interest. The river +of life was down below. + + * * * * * + +It was very cold and the day was declining. We too were cold. We decided +to go into the street and look for the café. In a moment we were out of +doors, walking as inconspicuously as possible near the wall. Of course +there was no pavement. These maskers were very gentle and whimsical, no +touch of brutality at all. Now we were level with them, how odd and +funny they were. One youth wore a thin white blouse and a pair of his +sister's wide, calico knickers with needlework frills near the ankle, +and white stockings. He walked artlessly, and looked almost pretty. Only +the q-b winced with pain: not because of the knickers, but because of +that awful length, coming well below the knee. Another young man was +wound into a sheet, and heavens knows if he could ever get out of it. +Another was involved in a complicated entanglement of white crochet +antimacassars, very troublesome to contemplate. I did not like him at +all, like a fish in a net. But he strode robustly about. + +We came to the end of the street, where there is a wide, desolate sort +of gap. Here the little band stood braying away, there was a thick crowd +of people, and on a slanting place just above, a little circle where +youths and men, maskers and one or two girls were dancing, so crowded +together and such a small ring that they looked like a jiggly set of +upright rollers all turning rickettily against one another. They were +doing a sort of intense jigging waltz. Why do they look so intense? +Perhaps because they were so tight all together, like too many fish in a +globe slipping through one another. + +There was a café in this sort of piazza--not a piazza at all, a formless +gap. But young men were drinking little drinks, and I knew it would be +hopeless to ask for anything but cold drinks or black coffee: which we +did not want. So we continued forwards, up the slope of the village +street. These towns soon come to an end. Already we were wandering into +the open. On a ledge above, a peasant family was making a huge bonfire, +a tower of orange-coloured, rippling flame. Little, impish boys were +throwing on more rubbish. Everybody else was in town. Why were these +folk at the town-end making this fire alone? + +We came to the end of the houses and looked over the road-wall at the +hollow, deep, interesting valley below. Away on the other side rose a +blue mountain, a steep but stumpy cone. High land reared up, dusky and +dark-blue, all around. Somewhere far off the sun was setting with a bit +of crimson. It was a wild, unusual landscape, of unusual shape. The +hills seemed so untouched, dark-blue, virgin-wild, the hollow cradle of +the valley was cultivated like a tapestry away below. And there seemed +so little outlying life: nothing. No castles even. In Italy and Sicily +castles perching everywhere. In Sardinia none--the remote, ungrappled +hills rising darkly, standing outside of life. + + * * * * * + +As we went back it was growing dark, and the little band was about to +leave off its brass noise. But the crowd still surged, the maskers still +jigged and frisked unweariedly. Oh the good old energy of the bygone +days, before men became so self-conscious. Here it was still on the hop. + +We found no café that looked any good. Coming to the inn, we asked if +there was a fire anywhere. There wasn't. We went up to our room. The +chemist-daughters had lighted up opposite, one saw their bedroom as if +it were one's own. In the dusk of the street the maskers were still +jigging, all the youths still joyfully being women, but a little more +roughly now. Away over the house-tops the purple-red of a dying sunset. +And it was very cold. + +There was nothing for it but just to lie in bed. The q-b made a little +tea on the spirit-lamp, and we sat in bed and sipped it. Then we covered +ourselves up and lay still, to get warm. Outside the noise of the +street came unabated. It grew quite dark, the lights reflected into the +room. There was the sound of an accordion across the hoarseness of the +many voices and movements in the street: and then a solid, strong +singing of men's voices, singing a soldier song. + +"Quando torniamo in casa nostra--" + +We got up to look. Under the small electric lights the narrow, cobbled +street was still running with a river of people, but fewer maskers. Two +maskers beating loudly at a heavy closed door. They beat and beat. At +last the door opens a crack. They rush to try to get in--but in vain. It +had shut the moment it saw them, they are foiled, on they go down the +street. The town is full of men, many peasants come in from the outlying +parts, the black and white costume now showing in the streets. + +We retire to bed again out of the cold. Comes a knock, and Thumbelina +bursts in, in the darkness. + +"Siamo qua!" says the q-b. + +Thumbelina dashes at the window-doors and shuts them and shuts the +casement. Then she dashes to my bedhead and turns on the light, looking +down at me as if I were a rabbit in the grass. Then she flings a can of +water against the wash-bowls--cold water, icy, alas. After which, small +and explosive, she explodes her way out of the room again, and leaves +us in the glaring light, having replied that it is now a little after +six o'clock, and dinner is half past seven. + +So we lie in bed, warm and in peace, but hungry, waiting for half past +seven. + + * * * * * + +When the q-b can stand it no more she flounces up, though the clock from +the Campanile has struck seven only a few minutes before. Dashing +downstairs to reconnoitre, she is back in a breath to say that people +are eating their heads off in the long dining room. In the next breath +we are downstairs too. + +The room was brightly lighted, and at many white tables sat diners, all +men. It was quite city-like. Everyone was in convivial mood. The q-b +spied men opposite having chicken and salad--and she had hopes. But they +were brief. When the soup came, the girl announced that there was only +bistecca: which meant a bit of fried cow. So it did: a quite, quite +small bit of fried beef, a few potatoes and a bit of cauliflower. +Really, it was not enough for a child of twelve. But that was the end of +it. A few mandarini--tangerine oranges--rolled on a plate for dessert. +And there's the long and short of these infernal dinners. Was there any +cheese? No, there was no cheese. So we merely masticated bread. + +There came in three peasants in the black and white costume, and sat at +the middle table. They kept on their stocking caps. And queer they +looked, coming in with slow, deliberate tread of these elderly men, and +sitting rather remote, with a gap of solitude around them. The peculiar +ancient loneliness of the Sardinian hills clings to them, and something +stiff, static, pre-world. + + * * * * * + +All the men at our end of the room were citizens--employees of some +sort--and they were all acquaintances. A large dog, very large indeed, +with a great muzzle, padded slowly from table to table, and looked at us +with big wistful topaz eyes. When the meal was almost over our +bus-driver and conductor came in--looking faint with hunger and cold and +fatigue. They were quartered at this house. They had eaten nothing since +the boar-broth at Gavoi. + +In a very short time they were through their portions: and was there +nothing else? Nothing! But they were half starved. They ordered two eggs +each, in padella. I ordered coffee--and asked them to come and take it +with us, and a brandy. So they came when their eggs were finished. + +A diversion was now created at the other side of the room. The red wine, +which is good in Sardinia, had been drunk freely. Directly facing us +sat a rather stout man with pleasant blue eyes and a nicely shaped head: +dressed like any other town man on a Sunday. The dog had waddled up to +him and sat down statuesque in front of him. And the fat man, being +mellow, began to play with the big, gentle, brindled animal. He took a +piece of bread and held it before the dog's nose--and the dog tried to +take it. But the man, like a boy now he was ripe with wine, put the +mastiff back with a restraining finger, and told him not to snatch. Then +he proceeded with a little conversation with the animal. The dog again +tried to snatch, gently, and again the man started, saved the bread, and +startled the dog, which backed and gave a sharp, sad yelp, as if to say: +"Why do you tease me!" + +"Now," said the man, "you are not to snatch. Come here. Come here. Vieni +qua!" And he held up the piece of bread. The animal came near. "Now," +said the man, "I put this bread on your nose, and you don't move, +un--Ha!!" + +The dog had tried to snatch the bread, the man had shouted and jerked it +away, the animal had recoiled and given another expostulating yelp. + +The game continued. All the room was watching, smiling. The dog did not +understand at all. It came forward again, troubled. The man held the +bread near its nose, and held up a warning finger. The beast dropped +its head mournfully, cocking up its eye at the bread with varied +feelings. + +"Now--!" said the man, "not until I say three--_Uno--due--_" the dog +could bear it no longer, the man in jerking let go the bread and yelled +at the top of his voice--"_e tre!_" The dog gulped the piece of bread +with a resigned pleasure, and the man pretended it had all happened +properly on the word "three." + +So he started again. "Vieni qua! Vieni qua!" The dog, which had backed +away with the bread, came hesitating, cringing forward, dropping its +hind-quarters in doubt, as dogs do, advancing towards the new nugget of +bread. The man preached it a little sermon. + +"You sit there and look at this bread. I sit here and look at you, and I +hold this bread. And you stop still, and I stop still, while I count +three. Now then--uno--" the dog couldn't bear these numerals, with their +awful slowness. He snatched desperately. The man yelled and lost the +bread, the dog, gulping, turned to creep away. + +Then it began again. + +"Come here! Come here! Didn't I tell thee I would count three? Già! I +said I would count three. Not one, but three. And to count three you +need three numbers. Ha! Steady! Three numbers. Uno--due E TRE!" The +last syllables were yelled so that the room rang again. The dog gave a +mournful howl of excitement, missed the bread, groped for it, and fled. + +The man was red with excitement, his eyes shining. He addressed the +company at large. "I had a dog," he said, "ah, a dog! And I would put a +piece of bread on his nose, and say a verse. And he looked at me so!" +The man put his face sideways. "And he looked at me _so_!" He gazed up +under his brows. "And he talked to me so--o: Zieu! Zieu!--But he never +moved. No, he never moved. If he sat with that bread on his nose for +half an hour, and if tears ran down his face, he never moved--not till I +said _three_! Then--ah!" The man tossed up his face, snapped the air +with his mouth, and gulped an imaginary crust. "AH, that dog was +trained...." The man of forty shook his head. + +"Vieni qua! Come here! Tweet! Come here!" + +He patted his fat knee, and the dog crept forward. The man held another +piece of bread. + +"Now," he said to the dog, "listen! Listen. I am going to tell you +something. + + Il soldato va alla guerra-- + +No--no, Not yet. When I say _three_! + + Il soldato va alla guerra + Mangia male, dorme in terra-- + +Listen. Be still. Quiet now. UNO--DUE--E--TRE!" + +It came out in one simultaneous yell from the man, the dog in sheer +bewilderment opened his jaws and let the bread go down his throat, and +wagged his tail in agitated misery. + +"Ah," said the man, "you are learning. Come! Come here! Come! Now then! +Now you know. So! So! Look at me so!" + +The stout, good-looking man of forty bent forward. His face was flushed, +the veins in his neck stood out. He talked to the dog, and imitated the +dog. And very well indeed he reproduced something of the big, gentle, +wistful subservience of the animal. The dog was his totem--the +affectionate, self-mistrustful, warm-hearted hound. + +So he started the rigmarole again. We put it into English. + +"Listen now. Listen! Let me tell it you-- + + So the soldier goes to the war! + His food is rotten, he sleeps on the floor-- + +"Now! Now! No, you are not keeping quiet. Now! Now! + + Il soldate va alla guerra + Mangia male, dorme in terra--" + +The verses, known to every Italian, were sung out in a sing-song +fashion. The audience listened as one man--or as one child--the rhyme +chiming in every heart. They waited with excitement for the +One--Two--and Three! The last two words were always ripped out with a +tearing yell. I shall never forget the force of those syllables--E TRE! +But the dog made a poor show--He only gobbled the bread and was uneasy. + +This game lasted us a full hour: a full hour by the clock sat the whole +room in intense silence, watching the man and the dog. + + * * * * * + +Our friends told us the man was the bus-inspector--their inspector. But +they liked him. "Un brav' uomo! Un bravo uomo! Eh si!" Perhaps they were +a little uneasy, seeing him in his cups and hearing him yell so nakedly: +AND THREE! + +We talked rather sadly, wistfully. Young people, especially nice ones +like the driver, are too sad and serious these days. The little +conductor made big brown eyes at us, wistful too, and sad we were going. + +For in the morning they were driving back again to Sorgono, over the old +road, and we were going on, to Terranova, the port. But we promised to +come back in the summer, when it was warmer. Then we should all meet +again. + +"Perhaps you will find us on the same course still. Who knows!" said the +driver sadly. + + + + +VII. + +TO TERRANOVA AND THE STEAMER. + + +The morning was very clear and blue. We were up betimes. The old dame of +the inn very friendly this morning. We were going already! Oh, but we +hadn't stayed long in Nuoro. Didn't we like it? + +Yes, we like it. We would come back in the summer when it was warmer. + +Ah yes, she said, artists came in the summer. Yes, she agreed, Nuoro was +a nice place--_simpatico, molto simpatico_. And really it is. And really +she was an awfully nice, capable, human old woman: and I had thought her +a beldame when I saw her ironing. + +She gave us good coffee and milk and bread, and we went out into the +town. There was the real Monday morning atmosphere of an old, +same-as-ever provincial town: the vacant feeling of work resumed after +Sunday, rather reluctantly; nobody buying anything, nobody quite at +grips with anything. The doors of the old-fashioned shops stood open: in +Nuoro they have hardly reached the stage of window-displays. One must +go inside, into the dark caves, to see what the goods are. Near the +doorways of the drapers' shops stood rolls of that fine scarlet cloth, +for the women's costumes. In a large tailor's window four women sat +sewing, tailoring, and looking out of the window with eyes still +Sunday-emancipate and mischievous. Detached men, some in the black and +white, stood at the street corners, as if obstinately avoiding the +current of work. Having had a day off, the salt taste of liberty still +lingering on their lips, they were not going to be dragged so easily +back into harness. I always sympathise with these rather sulky, forlorn +males who insist on making another day of it. It shows a spark of +spirit, still holding out against our over-harnessed world. + +There is nothing to see in Nuoro: which, to tell the truth, is always a +relief. Sights are an irritating bore. Thank heaven there isn't a bit of +Perugino or anything Pisan in the place: that I know of. Happy is the +town that has nothing to show. What a lot of stunts and affectations it +saves! Life is then life, not museum-stuffing. One could saunter along +the rather inert, narrow, Monday-morning street, and see the women +having a bit of a gossip, and see an old crone with a basket of bread on +her head, and see the unwilling ones hanging back from work, and the +whole current of industry disinclined to flow. Life is life and things +are things. I am sick of gaping _things_, even Peruginos. I have had my +thrills from Carpaccio and Botticelli. But now I've had enough. But I +can always look at an old, grey-bearded peasant in his earthy white +drawers and his black waist-frill, wearing no coat or over-garment, but +just crooking along beside his little ox-wagon. I am sick of "things," +even Perugino. + + * * * * * + +The sight of the woman with the basket of bread reminded us that we +wanted some food. So we searched for bread. None, if you please. It was +Monday morning, eaten out. There would be bread at the forno, the oven. +Where was the oven? Up the road and down a passage. I thought we should +smell it. But no. We wandered back. Our friends had told us to take +tickets early, for perhaps the bus would be crowded. So we bought +yesterday's pastry and little cakes, and slices of native sausage. And +still no bread. I went and asked our old hostess. + +"There is no fresh bread. It hasn't come in yet," she said. + +"Never mind, give me stale." + +So she went and rummaged in a drawer. + +"Oh dear, Oh dear, the women have eaten it all! But perhaps over +there--" she pointed down the street--"they can give you some." + +They couldn't. + +I paid the bill--about twenty-eight francs, I think--and went out to +look for the bus. There it was. In a dark little hole they gave me the +long ticket-strips, first-class to Terranova. They cost some seventy +francs the two. The q-b was still vainly, aimlessly looking along the +street for bread. + +"Ready when you are," said our new driver rather snappily. He was a +pale, cross-looking young man with brown eyes and fair "ginger" hair. So +in we clambered, waved farewell to our old friends, whose bus was ready +to roll away in the opposite direction. As we bumped past the "piazza" I +saw Velveteens standing there, isolate, and still, apparently, scowling +with unabated irritation. + +I am sure he has money: why the first class, yesterday, otherwise. And +I'm sure _she_ married him because he is a townsman with property. + + * * * * * + +Out we rolled, on our last Sardinian drive. The morning was of a +bell-like beauty, blue and very lovely. Below on the right stretched the +concave valley, tapestried with cultivation. Up into the morning light +rose the high, humanless hills, with wild, treeless moor-slopes. + +But there was no glass in the left window of the _coupé_, and the wind +came howling in, cold enough. I stretched myself on the front seat, the +q-b screwed herself into a corner, and we watched the land flash by. How +well this new man drove! the long-nosed, freckled one with his gloomy +brown eyes. How cleverly he changed gear, so that the automobile mewed +and purred comfortably, like a live thing enjoying itself. And how dead +he was to the rest of the world, wrapped in his gloom like a young +bus-driving Hamlet. His answers to his mate were monosyllabic--or just +no answers at all. He was one of those responsible, capable, morose +souls, who do their work with silent perfection and look as if they were +driving along the brink of doom, say a word to them and they'll go over +the edge. But gentle _au fond_, of course. Fiction used to be fond of +them: a sort of ginger-haired, young, mechanic Mr. Rochester who has +even lost the Jane illusion. + +Perhaps it was not fair to watch him so closely from behind. + +His mate was a bit of a bounder, with one of those rakish military caps +whose soft tops cock sideways or backwards. He was in Italian khaki, +riding-breeches and puttees. He smoked his cigarette bounderishly: but +at the same time, with peculiar gentleness, he handed one to the ginger +Hamlet. Hamlet accepted it, and his mate held him a light as the bus +swung on. They were like man and wife. The mate was the alert and +wide-eyed Jane Eyre whom the ginger Mr. Rochester was not going to spoil +in a hurry. + + * * * * * + +The landscape was different from yesterday's. As we dropped down the +shallow, winding road from Nuoro, quite quickly the moors seemed to +spread on either side, treeless, bushy, rocky, desert. How hot they must +be in summer! One knows from Grazia Deledda's books. + +A pony with a low trap was prancing unhappily in the road-side. We +slowed down and slid harmlessly past. Then again, on we whizzed down the +looped road, which turned back on itself as sharply as a snake that has +been wounded. Hamlet darted the bus at the curves; then softly padded +round like an angel: then off again for the next parabola. + +We came out into wide, rather desolate, moorland valley spaces, with low +rocks away to the left, and steep slopes, rocky-bushy, on the right. +Sometimes groups of black-and-white men were working in the forlorn +distances. A woman in the madder costume led a panniered ass along the +wastes. The sun shone magnificently, already it was hotter here. The +landscape had quite changed. These slopes looked east and south to the +sea, they were sun-wild and sea-wild. + +The first stop was where a wild, rough lane came down the hill to our +road. At the corner stood a lonely house--and in the road-side the most +battered, life-weary old carriage I have ever seen. The jaunty mate +sorted out the post--the boy with the tattered-battered brown carriage +and brown pony signed the book as we all stood in the roadway. There was +a little wait for a man who was fetching up another parcel. The post-bag +and parcels from the tattered carriage were received and stowed and +signed for. We walked up and down in the sun to get warm. The landscape +was wild and open round about. + +Pip! goes Mr. Rochester, peremptorily, at the horn. Amazing how +obediently we scuffle in. Away goes the bus, rushing towards the sea. +Already one felt that peculiar glare in the half-way heavens, that +intensification of the light in the lower sky, which is caused by the +sea to sunward. + +Away in front three girls in brown costume are walking along the side of +the white high-road, going with panniers towards a village up a slight +incline. They hear us, turn round, and instantly go off their heads, +exactly like chickens in the road. They fly towards us, crossing the +road, and swifter than any rabbits they scuttle, one after another, into +a deep side-track, like a deep ditch at right angles to the road. There, +as we roll past, they are all crouched, peering out at us fearfully, +like creatures from their hole. The bus mate salutes them with a shout, +and we roll on towards the village on the low summit. + + * * * * * + +It is a small, stony, hen-scratched place of poor people. We roll on to +a standstill. There is a group of poor people. The women wear the +dark-brown costume, and again the bolero has changed shape. It is a +rather fantastic low corset, curiously shapen; and originally, +apparently, made of wonderful elaborate brocade. But look at it now. + +There is an altercation because a man wants to get into the bus with two +little black pigs, each of which is wrapped in a little sack, with its +face and ears appearing like a flower from a wrapped bouquet. He is told +that he must pay the fare for each pig as if it were a Christian. +_Cristo del mondo!_ A pig, a little pig, and paid for as if it were a +Christian. He dangles the pig-bouquets, one from each hand, and the +little pigs open their black mouths and squeal with self-conscious +appreciation of the excitement they are causing. _Dio benedetto!_ it is +a chorus. But the bus mate is inexorable. Every animal, even if it were +a mouse, must be paid for and have a ticket as if it were a Christian. +The pig-master recoils stupified with indignation, a pig-bouquet under +each arm. "How much do you charge for the fleas you carry?" asks a +sarcastic youth. + +A woman sitting sewing a soldier's tunic into a little jacket for her +urchin, and thus beating the sword into a ploughshare, stitches +unconcernedly in the sun. Round-cheeked but rather slatternly damsels +giggle. The pig-master, speechless with fury, slings the pig-bouquets, +like two bottles one on either side the saddle of the ass whose halter +is held by a grinning but also malevolent girl: malevolent against +pig-prices, that is. The pigs, looking abroad from their new situation, +squeal the eternal pig-protest against an insufferable humanity. + +"Andiamo! Andiamo!" says ginger Mr. Rochester in his quiet but intense +voice. The bus-mate scrambles up and we charge once more into the strong +light to seaward. + + * * * * * + +In we roll, into Orosei, a dilapidated, sun-smitten, god-forsaken little +town not far from the sea. We descend in piazza. There is a great, false +baroque façade to a church, up a wavering vast mass of steps: and at +the side a wonderful jumble of roundnesses with a jumble of round +tiled roofs, peaked in the centre. It must have been some sort of +convent. But it is eminently what they call a "painter's bit"--that +pallid, big baroque face, at the top of the slow incline, and the very +curious dark building at the side of it, with its several dark-tiled +round roofs, like pointed hats, at varying altitudes. The whole space +has a strange Spanish look, neglected, arid, yet with a bigness and a +dilapidated dignity and a stoniness which carry one back to the Middle +Ages, when life was violent and Orosei was no doubt a port and a +considerable place. Probably it had bishops. + +[Illustration: NUORO ] + +The sun came hot into the wide piazza; with its pallid heavy façade up +on the stony incline on one side, and arches and a dark great courtyard +and outer stair-ways of some unknown building away on the other, the +road entering down-hill from the inland, and dropping out below to the +sea-marshes, and with the impression that once some single power had had +the place in grip, had given this centre an architectural unity and +splendour, now lost and forgotten, Orosei was truly fascinating. + +But the inhabitants were churlish. We went into a sort of bar-place, +very primitive, and asked for bread. + +"Bread alone?" said the churl. + +"If you please." + +"There isn't any," he answered. + +"Oh--where can we get some then?" + +"You can't get any." + +"Really!" + +And we couldn't. People stood about glum, not friendly. + +There was a second great automobile, ready to set off for Tortolì, far +to the south, on the east coast. Mandas is the railway junction both for +Sorgono and Tortolì. The two buses stood near and communed. We prowled +about the dead, almost extinct town--or call it village. Then Mr. +Rochester began to pip his horn peremptorily, so we scuffled in. + +The post was stowed away. A native in black broad-cloth came running and +sweating, carrying an ox-blood suit-case, and said we must wait for his +brother-in-law, who was a dozen yards away. Ginger Mr. Rochester sat on +his driver's throne and glared in the direction whence the +brother-in-law must come. His brow knitted irritably, his long, sharp +nose did not promise much patience. He made the horn roar like a +sea-cow. But no brother-in-law. + +"I'm going to wait no longer," said he. + +"Oh, a minute, a minute! That won't do us any harm," expostulated his +mate. No answer from the long faced, long-nosed ginger Hamlet. He sat +statuesque, but with black eyes looking daggers down the still void +road. + +"_Eh va bene_", he murmured through closed lips, and leaned forward +grimly for the starting handle. + +"Patience--patience--patience a moment--why--" cried the mate. + +"Per l'amor' di Dio!" cried the black broad-cloth man, simply sizzling +and dancing in anguish on the road, round the suit-case, which stood in +the dust. "Don't go! God's love, don't start. He's got to catch the +boat. He's got to be in Rome tomorrow. He won't be a second. He's here, +he's here, he's here!" + +This startled the fate-fixed, sharp-nosed driver. He released the handle +and looked round, with dark and glowering eyes. No one in sight. The few +glum natives stood round unmoved. Thunder came into the gloomy dark eyes +of the Rochester. Absolutely nobody in sight. Click! went his face into +a look of almost seraphic peace, as he pulled off the brakes. We were on +an incline, and insidiously, oh most subtly the great bus started to +lean forwards and steal into motion. + +"Oh _ma che!_--what a will you've got!" cried the mate, clambering in +to the side of the now seraphic-looking Rochester. + +"Love of God--God!" yelled the broad-cloth, seeing the bus melt forwards +and gather momentum. He put his hands up as if to arrest it, and yelled +in a wild howl: "O Beppin'! Bepp_in_--O!" + +But in vain. Already we had left the little groups of onlookers behind. +We were rolling downwards out of the piazza. Broad-cloth had seized the +bag and was running beside us in agony. Out of the piazza we rolled, +Rochester had not put on the engines and we were just simply rolling +down the gentle incline by the will of God. Into the dark outlet-street +we melted, towards the still invisible sea. + +Suddenly a yell--"OO--ahh!!" + +"È qua! È qua! È qua! È qua!" gasped broad-cloth four times. "He's +here!" And then: "Beppin'--she's going, she's going!" + +Beppin' appeared, a middle-aged man also in black broad-cloth, with a +very scrubby chin and a bundle, running _towards_ us on fat legs. He was +perspiring, but his face was expressionless and innocent-looking. With a +sardonic flicker of a grin, half of spite, half of relief, Rochester put +on the brakes again, and we stopped in the street. A woman tottered up +panting and holding her breast. Now for farewells. + +"Andiamo!" said Rochester curtly, looking over his shoulder and making +his fine nose curl with malice. And instantly he took off the brakes +again. The fat woman shoved Beppin' in, gasping farewells, the +brother-in-law handed in the ox-blood-red suit-case, tottering behind, +and the bus surged savagely out of Orosei. + + * * * * * + +Almost in a moment we had left the town on its slope, and there below us +was a river winding through marshy flats to the sea, to where small +white surf broke on a flat, isolated beach, a quarter of a mile away. +The river ran rapidly between stones and then between belts of high sere +reeds, high as a man. These tall reeds advanced almost into the slow, +horizontal sea, from which stood up a white glare of light, massive +light over the low Mediterranean. + +Quickly we came down to the river-level, and rolled over a bridge. +Before us, between us and the sea rose another hill, almost like a wall +with a flat top, running horizontal, perfectly flat, parallel with the +sea-edge, a sort of narrow long plateau. For a moment we were in the +wide scoop of the river-bed. Orosei stood on the bluff behind us. + +Away to the right the flat river-marshes with the thick dead reeds met +the flat and shining sea, river and sea were one water, the waves +rippled tiny and soft-foot into the stream. To the left there was great +loveliness. The bed of the river curved upwards and inland, and there +was cultivation: but particularly, there were noble almond trees in full +blossom. How beautiful they were, their pure, silvery pink gleaming so +nobly, like a transfiguration, tall and perfect in that strange cradled +river-bed parallel with the sea. Almond trees were in flower beneath +grey Orosei, almond trees came near the road, and we could see the hot +eyes of the individual blossoms, almond trees stood on the upward slope +before us. And they had flowered in such noble beauty there, in that +trough where the sun fell magnificent and the sea-glare whitened all the +air as with a sort of God-presence, they gleamed in their incandescent +sky-rosiness. One could hardly see their iron trunks, in this weird +valley. + +But already we had crossed, and were charging up the great road that was +cut straight, slant-wise along the side of the sea-hill, like a stairway +outside the side of the house. So the bus turned southward to run up +this stairway slant, to get to the top of the sea's long table-land. So, +we emerged: and there was the Mediterranean rippling against the black +rocks not so very far away below on our right. For, once on the long +table-land the road turned due north, a long white dead-straight road +running between strips of moorland, wild and bushy. The sea was in the +near distance, blue, blue, and beating with light. It seemed more light +than watery. And on the left was the wide trough of the valley, where +almond trees like clouds in a wind seemed to poise sky-rosy upon the +pale, sun-pale land, and beyond which Orosei clustered its lost grey +houses on the bluff. Oh wonderful Orosei with your almonds and your +reedy river, throbbing, throbbing with light and the sea's nearness, and +all so lost, in a world long gone by, lingering as legends linger on. It +is hard to believe that it is real. It seems so long since life left it +and memory transfigured it into pure glamour, lost away like a lost +pearl on the east Sardinian coast. Yet there it is, with a few grumpy +inhabitants who won't even give you a crust of bread. And probably there +is malaria--almost sure. And it would be hell to have to live there for +a month. Yet for a moment, that January morning, how wonderful, oh, the +timeless glamour of those Middle Ages when men were lordly and violent +and shadowed with death. + + "Timor mortis conturbat me." + +The road ran along by the sea, above the sea, swinging gently up and +down, and running on to a sea-encroaching hilly promontory in the +distance. There were no high lands. The valley was left behind, and +moors surrounded us, wild, desolate, uninhabited and uninhabitable moors +sweeping up gently on the left, and finishing where the land dropped low +and clifflike to the sea on the right. No life was now in sight: even no +ship upon the pale blue sea. The great globe of the sky was unblemished +and royal in its blueness and its ringing cerulean light. Over the moors +a great hawk hovered. Rocks cropped out. It was a savage, dark-bushed, +sky-exposed land, forsaken to the sea and the sun. + + * * * * * + +We were alone in the _coupé_. The bus-mate had made one or two sets at +us, but he rather confused us. He was young--about twenty-two or three. +He was quite good-looking, with his rakish military cap and his +well-knitted figure in military clothes. But he had dark eyes that +seemed to ask too much, and his manner of approach was abrupt, +persistent, and disconcerting. Already he had asked us where we were +going, where we lived, whence we came, of what nationality we were, and +was I a painter. Already he knew so much. Further we rather fought shy +of him. We ate those pale Nuoro pastries--they were just flaky pastry, +good, but with nothing inside but a breath of air. And we gnawed slices +of very highly-flavoured Nuoro sausage. And we drank the tea. And we +were very hungry, for it was past noon, and we had eaten as good as +nothing. The sun was magnificent in heaven, we rushed at a great, +purring speed along that moorland road just above the sea. + +And then the bus-mate climbed in to share the coupé with us. He put his +dark, beseeching and yet persistent eyes on us, sat plumb in front of +us, his knees squared, and began to shout awkward questions in a strong +curious voice. Of course it was very difficult to hear, for the great +rushing bus made much noise. We had to try to yell in our Italian--and +he was as awkward as we were. + +However, although it said "Smoking Forbidden" he offered us both +cigarettes, and insisted we should smoke with him. Easiest to submit. He +tried to point us out features in the landscape: but there were none to +point, except that, where the hill ran to sea out of the moor, and +formed a cape, he said there was a house away under the cliffs where +coastguards lived. Nothing else. + +Then, however, he launched. He asked once more was I English and +was the q-b German. We said it was so. And then he started the +old story. Nations popped up and down again like Punch and Judy. +Italy--l'Italia--she had no quarrel with La Germania--never had +had--no--no, good friends the two nations. But once the war was started, +Italy had to come in. For why. Germany would beat France, occupy her +lands, march down and invade Italy. Best then join the war whilst the +enemy was only invading somebody else's territory. + +They are perfectly naïve about it. That's what I like. He went on to say +that he was a soldier: he had served eight years in the Italian cavalry. +Yes, he was a cavalryman, and had been all through the war. But he had +not therefore any quarrel with Germany. No--war was war, and it was +over. So let it be over. + +But France--_ma la Francia!_ Here he sat forward on his seat, with his +face near ours, and his pleading-dog's eyes suddenly took a look of +quite irrational blazing rage. France! There wasn't a man in Italy who +wasn't dying to get at the throat of France. France! Let there be war, +and every Italian would leap to arms, even the old. Even the old--_anche +i vecchi_. Yes, there must be war--with France. It was coming: it was +bound to come. Every Italian was waiting for it. Waiting to fly at the +French throat. For why? Why? He had served two years on the French +front, and he knew why. Ah, the French! For arrogance, for insolence, +Dio!--they were not to be borne. The French--they thought themselves +lords of the world--_signori del mondo!_ Lords of the world, and masters +of the world. Yes. They thought themselves no less--and what are they? +Monkeys! Monkeys! Not better than monkeys. But let there be war, and +Italy would show them. Italy would give them _signori del mondo_! Italy +was pining for war--all, all, pining for war. With no one, with no one +but France. Ah, with no one--Italy loved everybody else--but France! +France! + +We let him shout it all out, till he was at the end of it. The passion +and energy of him was amazing. He was like one possessed. I could only +wonder. And wonder again. For it is curious what fearful passions these +pleading, wistful souls fall into when they feel they have been +insulted. It was evident he felt he had been insulted, and he went just +beside himself. But dear chap, he shouldn't speak so loudly for all +Italy--even the old. The bulk of Italian men are only too anxious to +beat their bayonets into cigarette-holders, and smoke the cigarette of +eternal and everlasting peace, to coincide at all with our friend. Yet +there he was--raging at me in the bus as we dashed along the coast. + +And then, after a space of silence, he became sad again, wistful, and +looked at us once more with those pleading brown eyes, beseeching, +beseeching--he knew not what: and I'm sure I didn't know. Perhaps what +he really wants is to be back on a horse in a cavalry regiment: even at +war. + +But no, it comes out, what he thinks he wants. + +When are we going to London? And are there many motor-cars in +England?--many, many? In America too? Do they want men in America? I say +no, they have unemployment out there: they are going to stop immigration +in April: or at least cut it down. Why? he asks sharply. Because they +have their own unemployment problem. And the q-b quotes how many +millions of Europeans want to emigrate to the United States. His eye +becomes gloomy. Are all nations of Europe going to be forbidden? he +asks. Yes--and already the Italian Government will give no more +passports for America--to emigrants. No passports? then you can't go? +You can't go, say I. + +By this time his hot-souled eagerness and his hot, beseeching eyes have +touched the q-b. She asks him what he wants. And from his gloomy face it +comes out in a rap. "_Andare fuori dell'Italia._" To go out of Italy. To +go out--away--to go away--to go away. It has become a craving, a +neurasthenia with them. + +Where is his home? His home is at a village a few miles ahead--here on +this coast. We are coming to it soon. There is his home. And a few miles +inland from the village he also has a property: he also has land. But he +doesn't want to work it. He doesn't want it. In fact he won't bother +with it. He hates the land, he detests looking after vines. He can't +even bring himself to try any more. + +What does he want then? + +He wants to leave Italy, to go abroad--as a chauffeur. Again the long +beseeching look, as of a distraught, pleading animal. He would prefer to +be the chauffeur of a gentleman. But he would drive a bus, he would do +anything--in England. + +Now he has launched it. Yes, I say, but in England also we have more men +than jobs. Still he looks at me with his beseeching eyes--so desperate +too--and so young--and so full of energy--and so longing to _devote_ +himself--to devote himself: or else to go off in an unreasonable +paroxysm against the French. To my horror I feel he is believing in my +goodness of heart. And as for motor-cars, it is all I can do to own a +pair of boots, so how am I to set about employing a _chauffeur_? + + * * * * * + +We have all gone quiet again. So at last he climbs back and takes his +seat with the driver once more. The road is still straight, swinging on +through the moorland strip by the sea. And he leans to the silent, +nerve-tense Mr. Rochester, pleading again. And at length Mr. Rochester +edges aside, and lets him take the driving wheel. And so now we are all +in the hands of our friend the bus-mate. He drives--not very well. It is +evident he is learning. The bus can't quite keep in the grooves of this +wild bare road. And he shuts off when we slip down a hill--and there is +a great muddle on the upslope when he tries to change gear. But Mr. +Rochester sits squeezed and silently attentive in his corner. He puts +out his hand and swings the levers. There is no fear that he will let +anything go wrong. I would trust him to drive me down the bottomless pit +and up the other side. But still the beseeching mate holds the steering +wheel. And on we rush, rather uncertainly and hesitatingly now. And thus +we come to the bottom of a hill where the road gives a sudden curve. My +heart rises an inch in my breast. I know he can't do it. And he can't, +oh Lord--but the quiet hand of the freckled Rochester takes the wheel, +we swerve on. And the bus-mate gives up, and the nerve-silent driver +resumes control. + + * * * * * + +But the bus-mate now feels at home with us. He clambers back into the +coupé, and when it is too painfully noisy to talk, he simply sits and +looks at us with brown, pleading eyes. Miles and miles and miles goes +this coast road, and never a village. Once or twice a sort of lonely +watch-house and soldiers lying about by the road. But never a halt. +Everywhere moorland and desert, uninhabited. + +And we are faint with fatigue and hunger and this relentless travelling. +When, oh when shall we come to Siniscola, where we are due to eat our +midday meal? Oh yes, says the mate. There is an inn at Siniscola where +we can eat what we like. Siniscola--Siniscola! We feel we must get down, +we must eat, it is past one o'clock and the glaring light and the +rushing loneliness are still about us. + + * * * * * + +But it is behind the hill in front. We see the hill? Yes. Behind it is +Siniscola. And down there on the beach are the Bagni di Siniscola, where +many forestieri, strangers, come in the summer. Therefore we set high +hopes on Siniscola. From the town to the sea, two miles, the bathers +ride on asses. Sweet place. And it is coming near--really near. There +are stone-fenced fields--even stretches of moor fenced off. There are +vegetables in a little field with a stone wall--there is a strange white +track through the moor to a forsaken sea-coast. We are near. + +Over the brow of the low hill--and there it is, a grey huddle of a +village with two towers. There it is, we are there. Over the cobbles we +bump, and pull up at the side of the street. This is Siniscola, and here +we eat. + +We drop out of the weary bus. The mate asks a man to show us the +inn--the man says he won't, muttering. So a boy is deputed--and he +consents. This is the welcome. + +And I can't say much for Siniscola. It is just a narrow, crude, stony +place, hot in the sun, cold in the shade. In a minute or two we were at +the inn, where a fat, young man was just dismounting from his brown pony +and fastening it to a ring beside the door. + +The inn did not look promising--the usual cold room opening gloomily on +the gloomy street. The usual long table, with this time a foully +blotched table-cloth. And two young peasant madams in charge, in the +brown costume, rather sordid, and with folded white cloths on their +heads. The younger was in attendance. She was a full-bosomed young +hussy, and would be very queenly and cocky. She held her nose in the +air, and seemed ready to jibe at any order. It takes one some time to +get used to this cocky, assertive behaviour of the young damsels, the +who'll-tread-on-the-tail-of-my-skirt bearing of the hussies. But it is +partly a sort of crude defensiveness and shyness, partly it is barbaric +_méfiance_ or mistrust, and partly, without doubt, it is a tradition +with Sardinian women that they must hold their own and be ready to hit +first. This young sludge-queen was all hit. She flounced her posterior +round the table, planking down the lumps of bread on the foul cloth with +an air of take-it-as-a-condescension-that-I-wait-on-you, a subdued grin +lurking somewhere on her face. It is not meant to be offensive: yet it +is so. Truly, it is just uncouthness. But when one is tired and +hungry.... + +We were not the only feeders. There was the man off the pony, and a sort +of workman or porter or dazio official with him--and a smart young man: +and later our Hamlet driver. Bit by bit the young damsel planked down +bread, plates, spoons, glasses, bottles of black wine, whilst we sat at +the dirty table in uncouth constraint and looked at the hideous portrait +of His reigning Majesty of Italy. And at length came the inevitable +soup. And with it the sucking chorus. The little _maialino_ at Mandas +had been a good one. But the smart young man in the country beat him. As +water clutters and slavers down a choky gutter, so did his soup travel +upwards into his mouth with one long sucking stream of noise, +intensified as the bits of cabbage, etc., found their way through the +orifice. + +They did all the talking--the young men. They addressed the sludge-queen +curtly and disrespectfully, as if to say: "What's she up to?" Her airs +were finely thrown away. Still she showed off. What else was there to +eat? There was the meat that had been boiled for the soup. We knew what +that meant. I had as lief eat the foot of an old worsted stocking. +Nothing else, you sludge queen? No, what do you want anything else +for?--Beefsteak--what's the good of asking for beefsteak or any other +steak on a Monday. Go to the butcher's and see for yourself. + +The Hamlet, the pony rider, and the porter had the faded and tired +chunks of boiled meat. The smart young man ordered eggs in padella--two +eggs fried with a little butter. We asked for the same. The smart young +man got his first--and of course they were warm and liquid. So he fell +upon them with a fork, and once he had got hold of one end of the eggs +he just sucked them up in a prolonged and violent suck, like a long, +thin, ropy drink being sucked upwards from the little pan. It was a +genuine exhibition. Then he fell upon the bread with loud chews. + +What else was there? A miserable little common orange. So much for the +dinner. Was there cheese? No. But the sludge-queen--they are quite +good-natured really--held a conversation in dialect with the young men, +which I did not try to follow. Our pensive driver translated that there +_was_ cheese, but it wasn't good, so they wouldn't offer it us. And the +pony man interpolated that they didn't like to offer us anything that +was not of the best. He said it in all sincerity--after such a meal. +This roused my curiosity, so I asked for the cheese whether or not. And +it wasn't so bad after all. + +This meal cost fifteen francs, for the pair of us. + + * * * * * + +We made our way back to the bus, through the uncouth men who stood +about. To tell the truth, strangers are not popular nowadays--not +anywhere. Everybody has a grudge against them at first sight. This +grudge may or may not wear off on acquaintance. + +The afternoon had become hot--hot as an English June. And we had various +other passengers--for one a dark-eyed, long-nosed priest who showed his +teeth when he talked. There was not much room in the coupé, so the goods +were stowed upon the little rack. + +With the strength of the sun, and the six or seven people in it, the +coupé became stifling. The q-b opened her window. But the priest, one of +the loudtalking sort, said that a draught was harmful, very harmful, so +he put it up again. He was one of the gregarious sort, a loud talker, +nervy really, very familiar with all the passengers. And everything did +one harm--_fa male, fa male_. A draught _fa male, fa molto male_. _Non è +vero?_ this to all the men from Siniscola. And they all said Yes--yes. + +The bus-mate clambered into the _coupé_, to take the tickets of the +second-class passengers in the rotondo, through the little wicket. There +was great squeezing and shouting and reckoning change. And then we +stopped at a halt, and he dashed down with the post and the priest got +down for a drink with the other men. The Hamlet driver sat stiff in his +seat. He pipped the horn. He pipped again, with decision. Men came +clambering in. But it looked as if the offensive priest would be left +behind. The bus started venomously, the priest came running, his gown +flapping, wiping his lips. + +He dropped into his seat with a cackling laugh, showing his long teeth. +And he said that it was as well to take a drink, to fortify the stomach. +To travel with the stomach uneasy did one harm: _fa male, fa male--non +è vero?_ Chorus of "yes." + +The bus-mate resumed his taking the tickets through the little wicket, +thrusting his rear amongst us. As he stood like this, down fell his +sheepskin-lined military overcoat on the q-b's head. He was filled with +grief. He folded it and placed it on the seat, as a sort of cushion for +her, oh so gently! And how he would love to devote himself to a master +and mistress. + +He sat beside me, facing the q-b, and offered us an acid drop. We took +the acid drop. He smiled with zealous yearning at the q-b, and resumed +his conversations. Then he offered us cigarettes--insisted on our taking +cigarettes. + +The priest with the long teeth looked sideways at the q-b, seeing her +smoking. Then he fished out a long cigar, bit it, and spat. He was +offered a cigarette.--But no, cigarettes were harmful: _fanno male_. The +paper was bad for the health: oh, very bad. A pipe or a cigar. So he lit +his long cigar and spat large spits on the floor, continually. + +Beside me sat a big, bright-eyed, rather good-looking but foolish man. +Hearing me speak to the q-b, he said in confidence to the priest: "Here +are two Germans--eh? Look at them. The woman smoking. These are a couple +of those that were interned here. Sardinia can do without them now." + +Germans in Italy at the outbreak of the war were interned in Sardinia, +and as far as one hears, they were left very free and happy, and treated +very well, the Sardinians having been generous as all proud people are. +But now our bright-eyed fool made a great titter through the bus: quite +unaware that we understood. He said nothing offensive: but that sort of +tittering exultation of common people who think they have you at a +disadvantage annoyed me. However, I kept still to hear what they would +say. But it was only trivialities about the Germans having nearly all +gone now, their being free to travel, their coming back to Sardinia +because they liked it better than Germany. Oh yes--they all wanted to +come back. They all wanted to come back to Sardinia. Oh yes, they knew +where they were well off. They knew their own advantage. Sardinia was +this, that, and the other of advantageousness, and the Sardi were decent +people. It is just as well to put in a word on one's own behalf +occasionally. As for La Germania--she was down, down: bassa. What did +one pay for bread in Germany? Five francs a kilo, my boy. + + * * * * * + +The bus stopped again, and they trooped out into the hot sun. The priest +scuffled round the corner this time. Not to go round the corner was no +doubt harmful. We waited. A frown came between the bus Hamlet's brows. +He looked nerve-worn and tired. It was about three o'clock. We had to +wait for a man from a village, with the post. And he did not appear. + +"I am going! I won't wait," said the driver. + +"Wait--wait a minute," said the mate, pouring oil. And he went round to +look. But suddenly the bus started, with a vicious lurch. The mate came +flying and hung on to the footboard. He had really almost been left. The +driver glanced round sardonically to see if he were there. The bus flew +on. The mate shook his head in deprecation. + +"He's a bit _nervoso_, the driver," said the q-b. "A bit out of temper!" + +"Ah, poor chap!" said the good-looking young mate, leaning forward and +making such beseeching eyes of hot tolerance. "One has to be sorry for +him. Persons like him, they suffer so much from themselves, how should +one be angry with them! _Poverino._ We must have sympathy." + +Never was such a language of sympathy as the Italian. _Poverino! +Poverino!_ They are never happy unless they are sympathising pityingly +with somebody. And I rather felt that I was thrown in with the +_poverini_ who had to be pitied for being _nervosi_. Which did not +improve my temper. + +However, the bus-mate suddenly sat on the opposite seat between the +priest and the q-b. He turned over his official note book, and began to +write on the back cover very carefully, in the flourishing Italian hand. +Then he tore off what he had written, and with a very bright and zealous +look he handed me the paper saying: "You will find me a post in +England, when you go in the summer? You will find me a place in London +as a chauffeur--!" + +"If I can," said I. "But it is not easy." + +He nodded his head at me with the most complete bright confidence, quite +sure now that he had settled his case perfectly. + +On the paper he had written his name and his address, and if anyone +would like him as chauffeur they have only to say so. On the back of the +scrap of paper the inevitable goodwill: _Auguri infiniti e buon +Viaggio_. Infinite good wishes and a good journey. + +I folded the paper and put it in my waistcoat pocket, feeling a trifle +disconcerted by my new responsibility. He was such a dear fellow and +such bright trustful eyes. + + * * * * * + +This much achieved, there was a moment of silence. And the bus-mate +turned to take a ticket of a fat, comfortable man who had got in at the +last stop. There was a bit of flying conversation. + +"Where are they from?" asked the good-looking stupid man next to me, +inclining his head in our direction. + +"Londra," said our friend, with stern satisfaction: and they have said +so often to one another that London is the greatest city in the world, +that now the very word Londra conveys it all. You should have seen the +blank little-boy look come over the face of the big handsome fellow on +hearing that we were citizens of the greatest city in the world. + +"And they understand Italian?" he asked, rather nipped. + +"Sicuro!" said our friend scornfully. "How shouldn't they?" + +"Ah!" My large neighbour left his mouth open for a few moments. And then +another sort of smile came on to his face. He began to peep at us +sideways from his brown eyes, brightly, and was henceforth itching to +get into conversation with the citizens of the world's mistress-city. +His look of semi-impudence was quite gone, replaced by a look of +ingratiating admiration. + +Now I ask you, is this to be borne? Here I sit, and he talks +half-impudently and patronisingly about me. And here I sit, and he is +glegging at me as if he saw signs of an aureole under my grey hat. All +in ten minutes. And just because, instead of _la Germania_ I turn out to +be _l'Inghilterra_. I might as well be a place on a map, or a piece of +goods with a trade-mark. So little perception of the actual me! so much +going by labels! I now could have kicked him harder. I would have liked +to say I was ten times German, to see the fool change his smirk again. + + * * * * * + +The priest now chimed up, that he had been to America. He had been to +America and hence he dreaded not the crossing from Terranuova di +Sardegna to Cività Vecchia. For he had crossed the great Atlantic. + +Apparently, however, the natives had all heard this song of the raven +before, so he spat largely on the floor. Whereupon the new fat neighbour +asked him was it true that the Catholic Church was now becoming the one +Church in the United States? And the priest said there was no doubt +about it. + + * * * * * + +The hot afternoon wore on. The coast was rather more inhabited, but we +saw practically no villages. The view was rather desolate. From time to +time we stopped at a sordid-looking canteen house. From time to time we +passed natives riding on their ponies, and sometimes there was an +equestrian exhibition as the rough, strong little beasts reared and +travelled rapidly backwards, away from the horrors of our great +automobile. But the male riders sat heavy and unshakeable, with +Sardinian male force. Everybody in the bus laughed, and we passed, +looking back to see the pony still corkscrewing, but in vain, in the +middle of the lonely, grass-bordered high-road. + + * * * * * + +The bus-mate climbed in and out, coming in to sit near us. He was like a +dove which has at last found an olive bough to nest in. And we were the +olive bough in this world of waste waters. Alas, I felt a broken reed. +But he sat so serenely near us, now, like a dog that has found a master. + +The afternoon was declining, the bus pelted on at a great rate. Ahead we +saw the big lump of the island of Tavolara, a magnificient mass of rock +which fascinated me by its splendid, weighty form. It looks like a +headland, for it apparently touches the land. There it rests at the +sea's edge, in this lost afternoon world. Strange how this coast-country +does not belong to our present-day world. As we rushed along we saw +steamers, two steamers, steering south, and one sailing ship coming from +Italy. And instantly, the steamers seemed like our own familiar world. +But still this coast-country was forsaken, forgotten, not included. It +just is not included. + + * * * * * + +How tired one gets of these long, long rides! It seemed we should never +come up to Tavolara. But we did. We came right near to it, and saw the +beach with the waves rippling undisturbed, saw the narrow waters +between the rock-lump and the beach. For now the road was down at +sea-level. And we were not very far from Terranova. Yet all seemed still +forsaken, outside of the world's life. + +The sun was going down, very red and strong, away inland. In the bus all +were silent, subsiding into the pale travel-sleep. We charged along the +flat road, down on a plain now. And dusk was gathering heavily over the +land. + +We saw the high-road curve flat upon the plain. It was the harbour head. +We saw a magic, land-locked harbour, with masts and dark land encircling +a glowing basin. We even saw a steamer lying at the end of a long, thin +bank of land, in the shallow, shining, wide harbour, as if wrecked +there. And this was our steamer. But no, it looked in the powerful glow +of the sunset like some lonely steamer laid up in some land-locked bay +away at Spitzbergen, towards the North Pole: a solemn, mysterious, +blue-landed bay, lost, lost to mankind. + + * * * * * + +Our bus-mate came and told us we were to sit in the bus till the +post-work was done, then we should be driven to the hotel where we could +eat, and then he would accompany us on the town omnibus to the boat. We +need not be on board till eight o'clock: and now it was something after +five. So we sat still while the bus rushed and the road curved and the +view of the weird, land-locked harbour changed, though the bare masts of +ships in a bunch still pricked the upper glow, and the steamer lay away +out, as if wrecked on a sand-bank, and dark, mysterious land with bunchy +hills circled round, dark blue and wintry in a golden after-light, while +the great, shallow-seeming bay of water shone like a mirror. + +In we charged, past a railway, along the flat darkening road into a flat +God-lost town of dark houses, on the marshy bay-head. It felt more like +a settlement than a town. But it was Terranova-Pausanias. And after +bumping and rattling down a sombre uncouth, barren-seeming street, we +came up with a jerk at a doorway--which was the post-office. Urchins, +mudlarks, were screaming for the luggage. Everybody got out and set off +towards the sea, the urchins carrying luggage. We sat still. + + * * * * * + +Till I couldn't bear it. I did not want to stay in the automobile +another moment, and I did not, I did not want to be accompanied by our +new-found friend to the steamer. So I burst out, and the q-b followed. +She too was relieved to escape the new attachment, though she had a +great _tendre_ for him. But in the end one runs away from one's +_tendres_ much harder and more precipitately than from one's _durs_. + +The mudlarking urchins fell upon us. Had we any more luggage--were we +going to the steamer? I asked how one went to the steamer--did one walk? +I thought perhaps it would be necessary to row out. You go on foot, or +in a carriage, or in an aeroplane, said an impudent brat. How far? Ten +minutes. Could one go on board at once? Yes, certainly. + +So, in spite of the q-b's protests, I handed the sack to a wicked +urchin, to be led. She wanted us to go alone--but I did not know the +way, and am wary of stumbling into entanglements in these parts. + +I told the bus-Hamlet, who was abstract with nerve fatigue, please to +tell his comrade that I would not forget the commission: and I tapped my +waistcoat pocket, where the paper lay over my heart. He briefly +promised--and we escaped. We escaped any further friendship. + + * * * * * + +I bade the mud-lark lead me to the telegraph office: which of course was +quite remote from the post-office. Shouldering the sack, and clamouring +for the kitchenino which the q-b stuck to, he marched forward. By his +height he was ten years old: by his face with its evil mud-lark pallor +and good-looks, he was forty. He wore a cut-down soldier's tunic which +came nearly to his knees, was barefoot, and sprightly with that alert +mudlarking quickness which has its advantages. + +So we went down a passage and climbed a stair and came to an office +where one would expect to register births and deaths. But the urchin +said it was the telegraph-office. No sign of life. Peering through the +wicket I saw a fat individual seated writing in the distance. Feeble +lights relieved the big, barren, official spaces--I wonder the fat +official wasn't afraid to be up here alone. + +He made no move. I banged the shutter and demanded a telegraph blank. +His shoulders went up to his ears, and he plainly intimated his +intention to let us wait. But I said loudly to the urchin: "Is _that_ +the telegraph official?" and the urchin said: "Si signore"--so the fat +individual had to come. + + * * * * * + +After which considerable delay, we set off again. The bus, thank heaven, +had gone, the savage dark street was empty of friends. We turned away to +the harbour front. It was dark now. I saw a railway near at hand--a +bunch of dark masts--the steamer showing a few lights, far down at the +tip of a long spit of land, remote in mid-harbour. And so off we went, +the barefoot urchin twinkling a few yards ahead, on the road that +followed the spit of land. The spit was wide enough to carry this road, +and the railway. On the right was a silent house apparently built on +piles in the harbour. Away far down in front leaned our glimmering +steamer, and a little train was shunting trucks among the low sheds +beside it. Night had fallen, and the great stars flashed. Orion was in +the air, and his dog-star after him. We followed on down the dark bar +between the silent, lustrous water. The harbour was smooth as glass, and +gleaming like a mirror. Hills came round encircling it entirely--dark +land ridging up and lying away out, even to seaward. One was not sure +which was exactly seaward. The dark encircling of the land seemed +stealthy, the hills had a remoteness, guarding the waters in the +silence. Perhaps the great mass away beyond was Tavolara again. It +seemed like some lumpish berg guarding an arctic, locked-up bay where +ships lay dead. + +[Illustration: TERRANOVA] + +On and on we followed the urchin, till the town was left behind, until +it also twinkled a few meagre lights out of its low, confused blackness +at the bay-head, across the waters. We lad left the ship-masts and the +settlement. The urchin padded on, only turning now and again and +extending a thin, eager hand toward the kitchenino. Especially when some +men were advancing down the railway he wanted it: the q-b's carrying +it was a slur on his prowess. So the kitchenino was relinquished, and +the lark strode on satisfied. + + * * * * * + +Till at last we came to the low sheds that squatted between the steamer +and the railway-end. The lark led me into one, where a red-cap was +writing. The cap let me wait some minutes before informing me that this +was the goods office--the ticket office was further on. The lark flew at +him and said "Then you've changed it, have you?" And he led me on to +another shed, which was just going to shut up. Here they finally had the +condescension to give me two tickets--a hundred and fifty francs the +two. So we followed the lark who strode like Scipio Africanus up the +gangway with the sack. + + * * * * * + +It was quite a small ship. The steward put me in number one cabin--the +q-b in number seven. Each cabin had four berths. Consequently man and +woman must separate rigorously on this ship. Here was a blow for the +q-b, who knows what Italian female fellow-passengers can be. However, +there we were. All the cabins were down below, and all, for some +mysterious reason, inside--no portholes outside. It was hot and close +down below already. I pitched the sack on my berth, and there stood the +lark on the red carpet at the door. + +I gave him three francs. He looked at it as if it were my death-warrant. +He peered at the paper in the light of the lamp. Then he extended his +arm with a gesture of superb insolence, flinging me back my gold without +a word. + +"How!" said I. "Three francs are quite enough." + +"Three francs--two kilometers--and three pieces of luggage! No signore. +No! Five francs. Cinque franchi!" And averting his pallid, old +mudlarking face, and flinging his hand out at me, he stood the image of +indignant repudiation. And truly, he was no taller than my upper +waistcoat pocket. The brat! The brat! He was such an actor, and so +impudent, that I wavered between wonder and amusement and a great +inclination to kick him up the steps. I decided not to waste my energy +being angry. + +"What a beastly little boy! What a horrid little boy! What a _horrid_ +little boy! Really--a little thief. A little swindler!" I mused aloud. + +"Swindler!" he quavered after me. And he was beaten. "Swindler" doubled +him up: that and the quiet mildness of my tone of invocation. Now he +would have gone with his three francs. And now, in final contempt, I +gave him the other two. + +He disappeared like a streak of lightning up the gangway, terrified lest +the steward should come and catch him at his tricks. For later on I saw +the steward send other larks flying for demanding more than one-fifty. +The brat. + + * * * * * + +The question was now the cabin: for the q-b simply refused to entertain +the idea of sharing a cabin with three Italian women, who would all be +sick simply for the fuss of it, though the sea was smooth as glass. We +hunted up the steward. He said all the first-class cabins had four +berths--the second had three, but much smaller. How that was possible I +don't know. However, if no one came, he would give us a cabin to +ourselves. + +The ship was clean and civilised, though very poky. And there we were. + + * * * * * + +We went on deck. Would we eat on board, asked another person. No, we +wouldn't. We went out to a fourth little shed, which was a refreshment +stall, and bought bread and sardines and chocolate and apples. Then we +went on the upper deck to make our meal. In a sheltered place I lit the +spirit lamp, and put on water to boil. The water we had taken from the +cabin. Then we sat down alone in the darkness, on a seat which had its +back against the deck cabins, now appropriated by the staff. A thin, +cold wind was travelling. We wrapped the one plaid round us both and +snugged together, waiting for the tea to boil. I could just see the +point of the spirit-flame licking up, from where we sat. + + * * * * * + +The stars were marvellous in the soundless sky, so big, that one could +see them hanging orb-like and alone in their own space, yet all the +myriads. Particularly bright the evening-star. And he hung flashing in +the lower night with a power that made me hold my breath. Grand and +powerful he sent out his flashes, so sparkling that he seemed more +intense than any sun or moon. And from the dark, uprising land he sent +his way of light to us across the water, a marvellous star-road. So all +above us the stars soared and pulsed, over that silent, night-dark, +land-locked harbour. + + * * * * * + +After a long time the water boiled, and we drank our hot tea and ate our +sardines and bread and bits of remaining Nuoro sausage, sitting there +alone in the intense starry darkness of that upper deck. I said alone: +but no, two ghoulish ship's cats came howling at us for the bits. And +even when everything was eaten, and the sardine-tin thrown in the sea, +still they circled and prowled and howled. + +We sat on, resting under the magnificent deep heavens, wrapped together +in the old shepherd's shawl for which I have blessed so often a Scottish +friend, half sheltered from the cold night wind, and recovering somewhat +from the sixty miles bus-ride we had done that day. + +As yet there was nobody on the ship--we were the very first, at least in +the first class. Above, all was silent and deserted. Below, all was +lit-up and deserted. But it was a little ship, with accommodation for +some thirty first-class and forty second-class passengers. + +In the low deck forward stood two rows of cattle--eighteen cattle. They +stood tied up side by side, and quite motionless, as if stupefied. Only +two had lain down. The rest stood motionless, with tails dropped and +heads dropped, as if drugged or gone insensible. These cattle on the +ship fascinated the q-b. She insisted on going down to them, and +examining them minutely. But there they were--stiff almost as Noah's Ark +cows. What she could not understand was that they neither cried nor +struggled. Motionless--terribly motionless. In her idea cattle are wild +and indomitable creatures. She will not realise the horrid strength of +passivity and inertia which is almost the preponderant force in +domesticated creatures, men and beast alike. There are fowls too in +various coops--flappy and agitated these. + + * * * * * + +At last, at about half past seven the train from the island arrived, and +the people surged out in a mass. We stood hanging over the end of the +upper deck, looking down. On they poured, in a thick mass, up the +gangway, with all conceivable sorts of luggage: bundles, embroidered +carry-alls, bags, saddle-bags--the q-b lamenting she had not bought +one--a sudden surging mass of people and goods. There are soldiers +too--but these are lined upon the bit of a quay, to wait. + +Our interest is to see whether there will be any more first-class +passengers. Coming up the wide board which serves as gangway each +individual hands a ticket to the man at the top, and is shooed away to +his own region--usually second class. There are three sorts of +tickets--green first-class, white second, and pink third. The +second-class passengers go aft, the third class go forward, along the +passage past our cabins, into the steerage. And so we watch and watch +the excited people come on board and divide. Nearly all are +second-class--and a great many are women. We have seen a few first-class +men. But as yet no women. And every hat with ospreys gives the q-b a +qualm. + +For a long time we are safe. The women flood to the second-class. One +who is third, begs and beseeches to go with her friends in the second. I +am glad to say without success. And then, alas, an elderly man with a +daughter, first-class. They are very respectable and pleasant looking. +But the q-b wails: "I'm sure she will be sick." + + * * * * * + +Towards the end come three convicts, chained together. They wear the +brownish striped homespun, and do not look evil. They seem to be +laughing together, not at all in distress. The two young soldiers who +guard them, and who have guns, look nervous. So the convicts go forward +to the steerage, past our cabins. + + * * * * * + +At last the soldiers are straightened up, and turned on board. There +almost at once they start making a tent: drawing a huge tarpaulin over a +cross rope in the mid-deck below us, between the first and second class +regions. The great tarpaulin is pulled down well on either side and +fastened down, and it makes a big dark tent. The soldiers creep in and +place their bundles. + +And now it is the soldiers who fascinate the q-b. She hangs over the bar +above, and peers in. The soldiers arrange themselves in two rows. They +will sleep with their heads on their bundles on either side of the tent, +the two rows of feet coming together inwards. But first they must eat, +for it is eight o'clock and more. + +Out come their suppers: a whole roast fowl, hunks of kid, legs of lamb, +huge breads. The fowl is dismembered with a jack-knife in a twinkling, +and shared. Everything among the soldiers is shared. There they sit in +their pent-house with its open ends, crowded together and happy, chewing +with all their might and clapping one another on the shoulder lovingly, +and taking swigs at the wine bottles. We envy them their good food. + + * * * * * + +At last all are on board--the omnibus has driven up from town and gone +back. A last young lout dashes up in a carriage and scuffles aboard. The +crew begins to run about. The quay-porters have trotted on board with +the last bales and packages--all is stowed safely. The steamer hoots and +hoots. Two men and a girl kiss their friends all round and get off the +ship. The night re-echoes the steamer's hoots. The sheds have gone all +dark. Far off the town twinkles very sparsely. All is night-deserted. +And so the gangway is hauled up, and the rope hawsers quickly wound in. +We are drifting away from the quay side. The few watchers wave their +white handkerchiefs, standing diminutive and forlorn on the dark little +quay, in the heart of the dark, deserted harbour. One woman cries and +waves and weeps. A man makes exaggerated flag-wagging signals with his +white handky, and feels important. We drift--and the engines begin to +beat. We are moving in the land-locked harbour. + + * * * * * + +Everybody watches. The commander and the crew shout orders. And so, very +slowly, and without any fuss at all, like a man wheeling a barrow out of +a yard gate, we throb very slowly out of the harbour, past one point, +then past another, away from the encircling hills, away from the great +lump of Tavolara which is to southward, away from the outreaching land +to the north, and over the edge of the open sea. + + * * * * * + +And now to try for a cabin to ourselves. I approach the steward. Yes, he +says, he has it in mind. But there are eighty second-class passengers, +in an accommodation space for forty. The transit-controller is now +considering it. Most probably he will transfer some second-class women +to the vacant first-class cabins. If he does not do so, then the steward +will accommodate us. + +I know what this means--this equivocation. We decide not to bother any +more. So we make a tour of the ship--to look at the soldiers, who have +finished eating, sitting yarning to one another, while some are already +stretched out in the shadow, for sleep. Then to look at the cattle, +which stand rooted to the deck--which is now all messy. To look at the +unhappy fowls in their coops. And a peep at the third-class--rather +horrifying. + +And so to bed. Already the other three berths in my cabin are occupied, +the lights are switched off. As I enter I hear one young man tenderly +enquiring of the berth below: "Dost thou feel ill?" "Er--not much--not +much!" says the other faintly. + +Yet the sea is like glass, so smooth. + +I am quickly rolled in my lower berth, where I feel the trembling of the +machine-impelled ship, and hear the creaking of the berth above me as +its occupant rolls over: I listen to the sighs of the others, the wash +of dark water. And so, uneasily, rather hot and very airless, uneasy +with the machine-throbbing and the sighing of my companions, and with a +cock that crows shrilly from one of the coops, imagining the ship's +lights to be dawn, the night goes by. One sleeps--but a bad sleep. If +only there were cold air, not this lower-berth, inside cabin +airlessness. + + + + +VIII. + +BACK. + + +The sea being steady as a level road, nobody succeeded in being +violently sick. My young men rose at dawn--I was not long in following. +It was a gray morning on deck, a gray sea, a gray sky, and a gray, +spider-cloth, unimportant coast of Italy not far away. The q-b joined +me: and quite delighted with her fellow-passenger: such a nice girl, she +said! who, when she let down her ordinary-looking brown hair, it reached +rippling right to her feet! Voilà! You never know your luck. + +The cock that had crowed all night crowed again, hoarsely, with a sore +throat. The miserable cattle looked more wearily miserable, but still +were motionless, as sponges that grow at the bottom of the sea. The +convicts were out for air: grinning. Someone told us they were +war-deserters. Considering the light in which these people look on war, +desertion seemed to me the only heroism. But the q-b, brought up in a +military air, gazed upon them as upon men miraculously alive within the +shadow of death. According to her code they had been shot when +re-captured. The soldiers had unslung the tarpaulin, their home for the +night had melted with the darkness, they were mere fragments of gray +transit smoking cigarettes and staring overboard. + +We drew near to Cività Vecchia: the old, mediaeval looking port, with +its castle, and a round fortress-barracks at the entrance. Soldiers +aboard shouted and waved to soldiers on the ramparts. We backed +insignificantly into the rather scrubby, insignificant harbour. And in +five minutes we were out, and walking along the wide, desolate boulevard +to the station. The cab-men looked hard at us: but no doubt owing to the +knapsack, took us for poor Germans. + + * * * * * + +Coffee and milk--and then, only about three-quarters of an hour late, +the train from the north. It is the night express from Turin. There was +plenty of room--so in we got, followed by half a dozen Sardinians. We +found a large, heavy Torinese in the carriage, his eyes dead with +fatigue. It seemed quite a new world on the mainland: and at once one +breathed again the curious suspense that is in the air. Once more I read +the Corriere della Sera from end to end. Once more we knew ourselves in +the real active world, where the air seems like a lively wine +dissolving the pearl of the old order. I hope, dear reader, you like the +metaphor. Yet I cannot forbear repeating how strongly one is sensible of +the solvent property of the atmosphere, suddenly arriving on the +mainland again. And in an hour one changes one's psyche. The human being +is a most curious creature. He thinks he has got one soul, and he has +got dozens. I felt my sound Sardinian soul melting off me, I felt myself +evaporating into the real Italian uncertainty and momentaneity. So I +perused the Corriere whilst the metamorphosis took place. I like Italian +newspapers because they say what they mean, and not merely what is most +convenient to say. We call it naïveté--I call it manliness. Italian +newspapers read as if they were written by men, and not by calculating +eunuchs. + + * * * * * + +The train ran very heavily along the Maremma. It began to rain. Then we +stopped at a station where we should not stop--somewhere in the Maremma +country, the invisible sea not far off, the low country cultivated and +yet forlorn. Oh how the Turin man sighed, and wearily shifted his feet +as the train stood meaningless. There it sat--in the rain. Oh express! + +At last on again, till we were winding through the curious long troughs +of the Roman Campagna. There the shepherds minded the sheep: the +slender-footed merino sheep. In Sardinia the merinos were very white and +glistening, so that one thought of the Scriptural "white as wool." And +the black sheep among the flock were very black. But these Campagna were +no longer white, but dingy. And though the wildness of the Campagna is a +real wildness still, it is a historic wildness, familiar in its way as a +fireside is familiar. + +So we approach the hopeless sprawling of modern Rome--over the yellow +Tiber, past the famous pyramid tomb, skirting the walls of the city, +till at last we plunge in, into the well-known station, out of all the +chaos. + +We are late. It is a quarter to twelve. And I have to go out and change +money, and I hope to find my two friends.--The q-b and I dash down the +platform--no friends at the barrier. The station moderately empty. We +bolt across to the departure platforms. The Naples train stands ready. +In we pitch our bags, ask a naval man not to let anyone steal them, then +I fly out into town while the q-b buys food and wine at the buffet. + +It no longer rains, and Rome feels as ever--rather holiday-like and not +inclined to care about anything. I get a hundred and three lira for each +pound note: pocket my money at two minutes past twelve, and bolt back, +out of the Piazza delle Terme. Aha, there are the two missing ones, just +descending vaguely from a carriage, the one gazing inquiringly through +his monocle across the tram-lines, the other very tall and alert and +elegant, looking as if he expected us to appear out of the air for his +convenience. + +Which is exactly what happens. We fly into each other's arms. "Oh there +you _are_! Where's the q-b? Why are you here? We've been to the arrival +platform--no _sign_ of you. Of course I only got your wire half an hour +ago. We _flew_ here. Well, how nice to see you.--Oh, let the man +wait.--What, going on at once to Naples? But must you? Oh, but how +flighty you are! Birds of passage _veramente_! Then let us find the q-b, +quick!--And they won't let us on the platform. No, they're not issuing +platform tickets today.--Oh, merely the guests returning from that +Savoy-Bavarian wedding in the north, a few royal Duchesses about. Oh +well, we must try and wangle him." + +At the barrier a woman trying in vain to be let on to the station. But +what a Roman matron can't do, an elegant young Englishman can. So our +two heroes wangle their way in, and fall into the arms of the q-b by the +Naples train. Well, now, tell us all about it! So we rush into a +four-branched candlestick of conversation. In my ear murmurs he of the +monocle about the Sahara--he is back from the Sahara a week ago: the +winter sun in the Sahara! He with the smears of paint on his elegant +trousers is giving the q-b a sketchy outline of his now _grande +passion_. Click goes the exchange, and him of the monocle is detailing +to the q-b his trip to Japan, on which he will start in six weeks' time, +while him of the paint-smears is expatiating on the thrills of the +etching needle, and concocting a plan for a month in Sardinia in May, +with me doing the scribbles and he the pictures. What sort of pictures? +Out flies the name of Goya.--And well now, a general rush into oneness, +and won't they come down to Sicily to us for the almond blossom: in +about ten days' time. Yes they will--wire when the almond blossom is +just stepping on the stage and making its grand bow, and they will come +next day. Somebody has smitten the wheel of a coach two ringing smacks +with a hammer. This is a sign to get in. The q-b is terrified the train +will slip through her fingers. "I'm frightened, I must get in."--"Very +well then! You're sure you have everything you want? Everything? A +fiasco of vino? Oh _two_! All the better! Well then--ten days' time. All +right--quite sure--how nice to have seen you, if only a +_glimpse_.--Yes, yes, poor q-b! Yes, you're quite safe. Good-bye! +Good-bye!" + +The door is shut--we are seated--the train moves out of the station. And +quickly on this route Rome disappears. We are out on the wintry +Campagna, where crops are going. Away on the left we see the Tivoli +hills, and think of the summer that is gone, the heat, the fountains of +the Villa D'Este. The train rolls heavily over the Campagna, towards the +Alban Mounts, homewards. + + * * * * * + +So we fall on our food, and devour the excellent little beef-steaks and +rolls and boiled eggs, apples and oranges and dates, and drink the good +red wine, and wildly discuss plans and the latest news, and are +altogether thrilled about things. So thrilled that we are well away +among the romantic mountains of the south-centre before we realise that +there are other passengers besides ourselves in the carriage. Half the +journey is over. Why, there is the monastery on its high hill! In a wild +moment I suggest we shall get down and spend a night up there at +Montecassino, and see the other friend, the monk who knows so much about +the world, being out of it. But the q-b shudders, thinking of the awful +winter coldness of that massive stone monastery, which has no spark of +heating apparatus. And therefore the plan subsides, and at Cassino +station I only get down to procure coffee and sweet cakes. They always +have good things to eat at Cassino station: in summer, big fresh ices +and fruits and iced water, in winter toothsome sweet cakes which make an +awfully good finish to a meal. + + * * * * * + +I count Cassino half way to Naples. After Cassino the excitement of +being in the north begins quite to evaporate. The southern heaviness +descends upon us. Also the sky begins to darken: and the rain falls. I +think of the night before us, on the sea again. And I am vaguely +troubled lest we may not get a berth. However, we may spend the night in +Naples: or even sit on in this train, which goes forward, all through +the long long night, to the Straits of Messina. We must decide as we +near Naples. + +Half dozing, one becomes aware of the people about one. We are +travelling second class. Opposite is a little, hold-your-own +school-mistressy young person in pince-nez. Next her a hollow-cheeked +white soldier with ribbons on his breast. Then a fat man in a corner. +Then a naval officer of low rank. The naval officer is coming from +Fiume, and is dead with sleep and perhaps mortification. D'Annunzio has +just given up. Two compartments away we hear soldiers singing, martial +still though bruised with fatigue, the D'Annunzio-bragging songs of +Fiume. They are soldiers of the D'Annunzio legion. And one of them, I +hear the sick soldier saying, is very hot and republican still. Private +soldiers are not allowed, with their reduced tickets, to travel on the +express trains. But these legionaries are not penniless: they have paid +the excess and come along. For the moment they are sent to their homes. +And with heads dropping with fatigue, we hear them still defiantly +singing down the carriage for D'Annunzio. + +A regular officer went along--a captain of the Italian, not the Fiume +army. He heard the chants and entered the carriage. The legionaries were +quiet, but they lounged and ignored the entry of the officer. "On your +feet!" he yelled, Italian fashion. The vehemence did it. Reluctantly as +may be, they stood up in the compartment. "Salute!" And though it was +bitter, up went their hands in the salute, whilst he stood and watched +them. And then, very superb, he sauntered away again. They sat down +glowering. Of course they were beaten. Didn't they know it. The men in +our carriage smiled curiously: in slow and futile mockery of both +parties. + +The rain was falling outside, the windows were steamed quite dense, so +that we were shut in from the world. Throughout the length of the +train, which was not very full, could be felt the exhausted weariness +and the dispirited dejection of the poor D'Annunzio legionaries. In the +afternoon silence of the mist-enclosed, half-empty train the snatches of +song broke out again, and faded in sheer dispirited fatigue. We ran on +blindly and heavily. But one young fellow was not to be abashed. He was +well-built, and his thick black hair was brushed up, like a great fluffy +crest upon his head. He came slowly and unabated down the corridor, and +on every big, mist-opaque pane he scrawled with his finger W D'ANNUNZIO +GABRIELE--W D'ANNUNZIO GABRIELE. + +The sick soldier laughed thinly, saying to the schoolmistress: "Oh yes, +they are fine chaps. But it was folly. D'Annunzio is a world poet--a +world wonder--but Fiume was a mistake you know. And these chaps have got +to learn a lesson. They got beyond themselves. Oh, they aren't short of +money. D'Annunzio had wagon-loads of money there in Fiume, and he wasn't +altogether mean with it." The schoolmistress, who was one of the sharp +ones, gave a little disquisition to show _why_ it was a mistake, and +wherein she knew better than the world's poet and wonder. + +It always makes me sick to hear people chewing over newspaper pulp. + +The sick soldier was not a legionary. He had been wounded through the +lung. But it was healed, he said. He lifted the flap of his breast +pocket, and there hung a little silver medal. It was his wound-medal. He +wore it concealed: and over the place of the wound. He and the +schoolmistress looked at one another significantly. + +Then they talked pensions: and soon were on the old topic. The +schoolmistress had her figures pat, as a schoolmistress should. Why, the +ticket-collector, the man who punches one's tickets on the train, now +had twelve thousand Lira a year: twelve thousand Lira. Monstrous! Whilst +a fully-qualified _professore_, a schoolmaster who had been through all +his training and had all his degrees, was given five thousand. Five +thousand for a fully qualified _professore_, and twelve thousand for a +ticket puncher. The soldier agreed, and quoted other figures. But the +railway was the outstanding grievance. Every boy who left school now, +said the schoolmistress, wanted to go on the railway. Oh but--said the +soldier--the train-men--! + + * * * * * + +The naval officer, who collapsed into the most uncanny positions, blind +with sleep, got down at Capua to get into a little train that would +carry him back to his own station, where our train had not stopped. At +Caserta the sick soldier got out. Down the great avenue of trees the +rain was falling. A young man entered. Remained also the schoolmistress +and the stout man. Knowing we had been listening, the schoolmistress +spoke to us about the soldier. Then--she had said she was catching the +night boat for Palermo--I asked her if she thought the ship would be +very full. Oh yes, very full, she said. Why, hers was one of the last +cabin numbers, and she had got her ticket early that morning. The fat +man now joined in. He too was crossing to Palermo. The ship was sure to +be quite full by now. Were we depending on booking berths at the port of +Naples? We were. Whereupon he and the schoolmistress shook their heads +and said it was more than doubtful--nay, it was as good as impossible. +For the boat was the renowned _Città di Trieste_, that floating palace, +and such was the fame of her gorgeousness that everybody wanted to +travel by her. + +"First and second class alike?" I asked. + +"Oh yes, also first class," replied the school-marm rather spitefully. +So I knew she had a white ticket--second. + +I cursed the _Città di Trieste_ and her gorgeousness, and looked down my +nose. We had now two alternatives: to spend the night in Naples, or to +sit on all through the night and next morning, and arrive home, with +heaven's aid, in the early afternoon. Though these long-distance trains +think nothing of six hours late. But we were tired already. What we +should be like after another twenty-four hours' sitting, heaven knows. +And yet to struggle for a bed in a Naples hotel this night, in the rain, +all the hotels being at present crammed with foreigners, that was no +rosy prospect. Oh dear! + +However, I was not going to take their discouragement so easily. One has +been had that way before. They love to make the case look desperate. + +Were we English? asked the schoolmistress. We were. Ah, a fine thing to +be English in Italy now. _Why?_--rather tart from me. Because of the +_cambio_, the exchange. You English, with your money exchange, you come +here and buy everything for nothing, you take the best of everything, +and with your money you pay nothing for it. Whereas we poor Italians we +pay heavily for everything at an exaggerated price, and we can have +nothing. Ah, it is all very nice to be English in Italy now. You can +travel, you go to the hotels, you can see everything and buy everything, +and it costs you nothing. What is the exchange today? She whipped it +out. A hundred and four, twenty. + +This she told me to my nose. And the fat man murmured bitterly _già! +già!_--ay! ay! Her impertinence and the fat man's quiet bitterness +stirred my bile. Has not this song been sung at me once too often, by +these people? + +You are mistaken, said I to the schoolmistress. We don't by any means +live in Italy for nothing. Even with the exchange at a hundred and +three, we don't live for nothing. We pay, and pay through the nose, for +whatever we have in Italy: and you Italians see that we pay. What! You +put all the tariff you do on foreigners, and then say we live here for +nothing. I tell you I could live in England just as well, on the same +money--perhaps better. Compare the cost of things in England with the +cost here in Italy, and even considering the exchange, Italy costs +nearly as much as England. Some things are cheaper here--the railway +comes a little cheaper, and is infinitely more miserable. Travelling is +usually a misery. But other things, clothes of all sorts, and a good +deal of food is even more expensive here than in England, exchange +considered. + +Oh yes, she said, England had had to bring her prices down this last +fortnight. In her own interests indeed. + +"This last fortnight! This last six months," said I. "Whereas prices +rise every single day here." + +Here a word from the quiet young man who had got in at Caserta. + +"Yes," he said, "yes. I say, every nation pays in its own money, no +matter what the exchange. And it works out about equal." + +But I felt angry. Am I always to have the exchange flung in my teeth, as +if I were a personal thief? But the woman persisted. + +"Ah," she said, "we Italians, we are so nice, we are so good. Noi, siamo +così buoni. We are so good-natured. But others, they are not buoni, they +are not good-natured to us." And she nodded her head. And truly, I did +not feel at all good-natured towards her: which she knew. And as for the +Italian good-nature, it forms a sound and unshakeable basis nowadays for +their extortion and self-justification and spite. + + * * * * * + +Darkness was falling over the rich flat plains that lie around Naples, +over the tall uncanny vines with their brown thongs in the intensely +cultivated black earth. It was night by the time we were in that vast +and thievish station. About half-past five. We were not very late. +Should we sit on in our present carriage, and go down in it to the port, +along with the schoolmistress, and risk it? But first look at the coach +which was going on to Sicily. So we got down and ran along the train to +the Syracuse coach. Hubbub, confusion, a wedge in the corridor, and for +sure no room. Certainly no room to lie down a bit. We _could_ not sit +tight for twenty-four hours more. + +So we decided to go to the port--and to walk. Heaven knows when the +railway carriage would be shunted down. Back we went therefore for the +sack, told the schoolmistress our intention. + +"You can but try," she said frostily. + + * * * * * + +So there we are, with the sack over my shoulder and the kitchenino in +the q-b's hand, bursting out of that thrice-damned and annoying station, +and running through the black wet gulf of a Naples night, in a slow +rain. Cabmen look at us. But my sack saved me. I am weary of that +boa-constrictor, a Naples cabman after dark. By day there is +more-or-less a tariff. + +It is about a mile from the station to the quay where the ship lies. We +make our way through the deep, gulf-like streets, over the slippery +black cobbles. The black houses rise massive to a great height on either +side, but the streets are not in this part very narrow. We plunge +forwards in the unearthly half-darkness of this great uncontrolled city. +There are no lights at all from the buildings--only the small electric +lamps of the streets. + +So we emerge on the harbour front, and hurry past the great storehouses +in the rainy night, to where the actual entrances begin. The tram bangs +past us. We scuffle along that pavement-ridge which lies like an isthmus +down the vast black quicksands of that harbour road. One feels peril all +round. But at length we come to a gate by the harbour railway. No, not +that. On to the next iron gate of the railway crossing. And so we run +out past the great sheds and the buildings of the port station, till we +see a ship rearing in front, and the sea all black. But now where is +that little hole where one gets the tickets? We are at the back of +everywhere in this desert jungle of the harbour darkness. + + * * * * * + +A man directs us round the corner--and actually does not demand money. +It is the sack again. So--there, I see the knot of men, soldiers +chiefly, fighting in a bare room round a tiny wicket. I recognise the +place where I have fought before. + +So while the q-b stands guard over sack and bag, I plunge into the fray. +It literally is a fight. Some thirty men all at once want to get at a +tiny wicket in a blank wall. There are no queue-rails, there is no +order: just a hole in a blank wall, and thirty fellows, mostly military, +pressing at it in a mass. But I have done this before. The way is to +insert the thin end of oneself, and without any violence, by deadly +pressure and pertinacity come at the goal. One hand must be kept fast +over the money pocket, and one must be free to clutch the wicket-side +when one gets there. And thus one is ground small in those mills of God, +Demos struggling for tickets. It isn't very nice--so close, so +incomparably crushed. And never for a second must one be off one's guard +for one's watch and money and even hanky. When I first came to Italy +after the war I was robbed twice in three weeks, floating round in the +sweet old innocent confidence in mankind. Since then I have never ceased +to be on my guard. Somehow or other, waking and sleeping one's spirit +must be on its guard nowadays. Which is really what I prefer, now I have +learnt it. Confidence in the goodness of mankind is a very thin +protection indeed. _Integer vitae scelerisque purus_ will do nothing for +you when it comes to humanity, however efficacious it may be with lions +and wolves. Therefore, tight on my guard, like a screw biting into a bit +of wood, I bite my way through that knot of fellows, to the wicket, and +shout for two first-class. The clerk inside ignores me for some time, +serving soldiers. But if you stand like Doomsday you get your way. Two +firsts, says the clerk. Husband and wife, say I, in case there is a +two-berth cabin. Jokes behind. But I get my tickets. Impossible to put +my hand to my pocket. The tickets cost about a hundred and five francs +each. Clutching paper change and the green slips, with a last gasp I get +out of the knot. So--we've done it. As I sort my money and stow away, I +hear another ask for one first-class. Nothing left, says the clerk. So +you see how one must fight. + +I must say for these dense and struggling crowds, they are only intense, +not violent, and not in the least brutal. I always feel a certain +sympathy with the men in them. + + * * * * * + +Bolt through the pouring rain to the ship. And in two minutes we are +aboard. And behold, each of us has a deck cabin, I one to myself, the +q-b to herself next door. Palatial--not a cabin at all, but a proper +little bedroom with a curtained bed under the porthole windows, a +comfortable sofa, chairs, table, carpets, big wash-bowls with silver +taps--a whole _de luxe_. I dropped the sack on the sofa with a gasp, +drew back the yellow curtains of the bed, looked out of the porthole at +the lights of Naples, and sighed with relief. One could wash thoroughly, +refreshingly, and change one's linen. Wonderful! + + * * * * * + +The state-room is like a hotel lounge, many little tables with flowers +and periodicals, arm-chairs, warm carpet, bright but soft lights, and +people sitting about chatting. A loud group of English people in one +corner, very assured: two quiet English ladies: various Italians seeming +quite modest. Here one could sit in peace and rest, pretending to look +at an illustrated magazine. So we rested. After about an hour there +entered a young Englishman and his wife, whom we had seen on our train. +So, at last the coach had been shunted down to the port. Where should we +have been had we waited! + + * * * * * + +The waiters began to flap the white table-cloths and spread the tables +nearest the walls. Dinner would begin at half-past seven, immediately +the boat started. We sat in silence, till eight or nine tables were +spread. Then we let the other people take their choice. After which we +chose a table by ourselves, neither of us wanting company. So we sat +before the plates and the wine-bottles and sighed in the hopes of a +decent meal. Food by the way is not included in the hundred-and-five +francs. + +Alas, we were not to be alone: two young Neapolitans, pleasant, quiet, +blond, or semi-blond. They were well-bred, and evidently of northern +extraction. Afterwards we found out they were jewellers. But I liked +their quiet, gentle manners. The dinner began, and we were through the +soup, when up pranced another young fellow, rather strapping and loud, a +commercial traveller, for sure. He had those cocky assured manners of +one who is not sure of his manners. He had a rather high forehead, and +black hair brushed up in a showy wing, and a large ring on his finger. +Not that a ring signifies anything. Here most of the men wear several, +all massively jewelled. If one believed in all the jewels, why Italy +would be more fabulous than fabled India. But our friend the bounder was +smart, and smelled of cash. Not money, but cash. + +I had an inkling of what to expect when he handed the salt and said in +English "Salt, thenk you." But I ignored the advance. However, he did +not wait long. Through the windows across the room the q-b saw the +lights of the harbour slowly moving. "Oh," she cried, "are we going?" +And also in Italian: "Partiamo?" All watched the lights, the bounder +screwing round. He had one of the fine, bounderish backs. + +"Yes," he said. "We--_going_." + +"Oh," cried she. "Do you speak English?" + +"Ye-es. Some English--I speak." + +As a matter of fact he spoke about forty disconnected words. But his +accent was so good for these forty. He did not speak English, he +imitated an English voice making sounds. And the effect was startling. +He had served on the Italian front with the Scots Guards--so he told us +in Italian. He was Milanese. Oh, he had had a time with the Scots +Guards. Wheesky--eh? Wheesky. + +"Come along _bhoys_!" he shouted. + +And it was such a Scotch voice shouting, so loud-mouthed and actual, I +nearly went under the table. It struck us both like a blow. + +Afterwards he rattled away without misgiving. He was a traveller for a +certain type of machine, and was doing Sicily. Shortly he was going to +England--and he asked largely about first-class hotels. Then he asked +was the q-b French?--Was she Italian?--No, she was German. Ah--German. +And immediately out he came with the German word: "Deutsch! Deutsch, eh? +From Deutschland. Oh yes! Deutschland über alles! Ah, I know. No +more--what? Deutschland unter alles now? Deutschland unter alles." And +he bounced on his seat with gratification of the words. Of German as of +English he knew half a dozen phrases. + +"No," said the q-b, "Not Deutschland unter alles. Not for long, +anyhow." + +"How? Not for long? You think so? I think so too," said the bounder. +Then in Italian: "La Germania won't stand under all for long. No, no. At +present it is England über alles. _England über alles._ But Germany will +rise up again." + +"Of course," said the q-b. "How shouldn't she?" + +"Ah," said the bounder, "while England keeps the money in her pocket, we +shall none of us rise up. Italy won the war, and Germany lost it. And +Italy and Germany they both are down, and England is up. They both are +down, and England is up. England and France. Strange, isn't it? Ah, the +allies. What are the allies for? To keep England up, and France half +way, and Germany and Italy down." + +"Ah, they won't stay down for ever," said the q-b. + +"You think not? Ah! We will see. We will see how England goes on now." + +"England is not going on so marvellously, after all," say I. + +"How not? You mean Ireland?" + +"No, not only Ireland. Industry altogether. England is as near to ruin +as other countries." + +"Ma! With all the money, and we others with no money? How will she be +ruined?" + +"And what good would it be to you if she were?" + +"Oh well--who knows. If England were ruined--" a slow smile of +anticipation spread over his face. How he would love it--how they would +all love it, if England were ruined. That is, the business part of them, +perhaps, would not love it. But the human part would. The human part +fairly licks its lips at the thought of England's ruin. The commercial +part, however, quite violently disclaims the anticipations of the human +part. And there it is. The newspapers chiefly speak with the commercial +voice. But individually, when you are got at in a railway carriage or as +now on a ship, up speaks the human voice, and you know how they love +you. This is no doubt inevitable. When the exchange stands at a hundred +and six men go humanly blind, I suppose, however much they may keep the +commercial eye open. And having gone humanly blind they bump into one's +human self nastily: a nasty jar. You know then how they hate you. +Underneath, they hate us, and as human beings we are objects of envy and +malice. They hate us, with envy, and despise us, with jealousy. Which +perhaps doesn't hurt commercially. Humanly it is to me unpleasant. + +The dinner was over, and the bounder was lavishing cigarettes--Murattis, +if you please. We had all drunk two bottles of wine. Two other +commercial travellers had joined the bounder at our table--two smart +young fellows, one a bounder and one gentle and nice. Our two jewellers +remained quiet, talking their share, but quietly and so sensitively. One +could not help liking them. So we were seven people, six men. + +"Wheesky! Will you drink Wheesky, Mister?" said our original bounder. +"Yes, one small Scotch! One Scotch Wheesky." All this in a perfect +Scotty voice of a man standing at a bar calling for a drink. It was +comical, one could not but laugh: and very impertinent. He called for +the waiter, took him by the button-hole, and with a breast-to-breast +intimacy asked if there was whisky. The waiter, with the same tone of +you-and-I-are-men-who-have-the-same-feelings, said he didn't think there +was whisky, but he would look. Our bounder went round the table inviting +us all to whiskies, and pressing on us his expensive English cigarettes +with great aplomb. + +The whisky came--and five persons partook. It was fiery, oily stuff from +heaven knows where. The bounder rattled away, spouting his bits of +English and his four words of German. He was in high feather, wriggling +his large haunches on his chair and waving his hands. He had a peculiar +manner of wriggling from the bottom of his back, with fussy +self-assertiveness. It was my turn to offer whisky. + +I was able in a moment's lull to peer through the windows and see the +dim lights of Capri--the glimmer of Anacapri up on the black +shadow--the lighthouse. We had passed the island. In the midst of the +babel I sent out a few thoughts to a few people on the island. Then I +had to come back. + +The bounder had once more resumed his theme of l'Inghilterra, l'Italia, +la Germania. He swanked England as hard as he could. Of course England +was the top dog, and if he could speak some English, if he were talking +to English people, and if, as he said, he was going to England in April, +why he was so much the more top-doggy than his companions, who could not +rise to all these heights. At the same time, my nerves had too much to +bear. + +Where were we going and where had we been and where did we live? And ah, +yes, English people lived in Italy. Thousands, thousands of English +people lived in Italy. Yes, it was very nice for them. There used to be +many Germans, but now the Germans were down. But the English--what could +be better for them than Italy now: they had sun, they had warmth, they +had abundance of everything, they had a charming people to deal with, +and they had the _cambio_! Ecco! The other commercial travellers agreed. +They appealed to the q-b if it was not so. And altogether I had enough +of it. + +"Oh yes," said I, "it's very nice to be in Italy: especially if you are +not living in an hotel, and you have to attend to things for yourself. +It is very nice to be overcharged every time, and then insulted if you +say a word. It's very nice to have the _cambio_ thrown in your teeth, if +you say two words to any Italian, even a perfect stranger. It's very +nice to have waiters and shop-people and railway porters sneering in a +bad temper and being insulting in small, mean ways all the time. It's +very nice to feel what they all feel against you. And if you understand +enough Italian, it's very nice to hear what they say when you've gone +by. Oh very nice. Very nice indeed!" + +I suppose the whisky had kindled this outburst in me. They sat dead +silent. And then our bounder began, in his sugary deprecating voice. + +"Why no! Why no! It is not true, signore. No, it is not true. Why, +England is the foremost nation in the world--" + +"And you want to pay her out for it." + +"But no, signore. But no. What makes you say so? Why, we Italians are so +good-natured. Noi Italiani siamo così buoni. Siamo così buoni." + +It was the identical words of the schoolmistress. + +"Buoni," said I. "Yes--perhaps. Buoni when it's not a question of the +exchange and of money. But since it is always a question of _cambio_ +and _soldi_ now, one is always, in a small way, insulted." + +I suppose it must have been the whisky. Anyhow Italians can never bear +hard bitterness. The jewellers looked distressed, the bounders looked +down their noses, half exulting even now, and half sheepish, being +caught. The third of the _commis voyageurs_, the gentle one, made large +eyes and was terrified that he was going to be sick. He represented a +certain Italian liqueur, and he modestly asked us to take a glass of it. +He went with the waiter to secure the proper brand. So we drank--and it +was good. But he, the giver, sat with large and haunted eyes. Then he +said he would go to bed. Our bounder gave him various advice regarding +seasickness. There was a mild swell on the sea. So he of the liqueur +departed. + + * * * * * + +Our bounder thrummed on the table and hummed something, and asked the +q-b if she knew the _Rosencavalier_. He always appealed to her. She said +she did. And ah, he was passionately fond of music, said he. Then he +warbled, in a head voice, a bit more. He only knew classical music, said +he. And he mewed a bit of Moussorgsky. The q-b said Moussorgsky was her +favourite musician, for opera. Ah, cried the bounder, if there were but +a piano!--There is a piano, said his mate.--Yes, he replied, but it is +locked up.--Then let us get the key, said his mate, with aplomb. The +waiters, being men with the same feelings as our two, would give them +anything. So the key was forthcoming. We paid our bills--mine about +sixty francs. Then we went along the faintly rolling ship, up the curved +staircase to the drawing room. Our bounder unlocked the door of this +drawing room, and switched on the lights. + +It was quite a pleasant room, with deep divans upholstered in pale +colours, and palm-trees standing behind little tables, and a black +upright piano. Our bounder sat on the piano-stool and gave us an +exhibition. He splashed out noise on the piano in splashes, like water +splashing out of a pail. He lifted his head and shook his black mop of +hair, and yelled out some fragments of opera. And he wriggled his large, +bounder's back upon the piano stool, wriggling upon his well-filled +haunches. Evidently he had a great deal of feeling for music: but very +little prowess. He yelped it out, and wriggled, and splashed the piano. +His friend the other bounder, a quiet one in a pale suit, with stout +limbs, older than the wriggler, stood by the piano whilst the young one +exhibited. Across the space of carpet sat the two brother jewellers, +deep in a divan, their lean, semi-blond faces quite inscrutable. The +q-b sat next to me, asking for this and that music, none of which the +wriggler could supply. He knew four scraps, and a few splashes--not +more. The elder bounder stood near him quietly comforting, encouraging, +and admiring him, as a lover encouraging and admiring his _ingénue_ +betrothed. And the q-b sat bright-eyed and excited, admiring that a man +could perform so unself-consciously self-conscious, and give himself +away with such generous wriggles. For my part, as you may guess, I did +not admire. + +I had had enough. Rising, I bowed and marched off. The q-b came after +me. Good-night, said I, at the head of the corridor. She turned in, and +I went round the ship to look at the dark night of the sea. + + * * * * * + +Morning came sunny with pieces of cloud: and the Sicilian coast towering +pale blue in the distance. How wonderful it must have been to Ulysses to +venture into this Mediterranean and open his eyes on all the loveliness +of the tall coasts. How marvellous to steal with his ship into these +magic harbours. There is something eternally morning-glamourous about +these lands as they rise from the sea. And it is always the Odyssey +which comes back to one as one looks at them. All the lovely +morning-wonder of this world, in Homer's day! + +Our bounder was dashing about on deck, in one of those rain-coats +gathered in at the waist and ballooning out into skirts below the waist. +He greeted me with a cry of "It's a long, long way to Tipperary." "Very +long," said I. "Good-bye Piccadilly--" he continued. "Ciao," said I, as +he dashed jauntily down the steps. Soon we saw the others as well. But +it was morning, and I simply did not want to speak to them--except just +Good-day. For my life I couldn't say two more words to any of them this +morning: except to ask the mild one if he had been sick. He had not. + +So we waited for the great _Città di Trieste_ to float her way into +Palermo harbour. It looked so near--the town there, the great circle of +the port, the mass of the hills crowding round. Panormus, the +All-harbour. I wished the bulky steamer would hurry up. For I hated her +now. I hated her swankiness, she seemed made for commercial travellers +with cash. I hated the big picture that filled one end of the +state-room: an elegant and ideal peasant-girl, a sort of Italia, +strolling on a lovely and ideal cliff's edge, among myriad blooms, and +carrying over her arm, in a most sophisticated fashion, a bough of +almond blossom and a sheaf of anemones. I hated the waiters, and the +cheap elegance, the common _de luxe_. I disliked the people, who all +turned their worst, cash-greasy sides outwards on this ship. Vulgar, +vulgar post-war commercialism and dog-fish money-stink. I longed to get +off. And the bloated boat edged her way so slowly into the port, and +then more slowly still edged round her fat stern. And even then we were +kept for fifteen minutes waiting for someone to put up the gangway for +the first class. The second class, of course, were streaming off and +melting like thawed snow into the crowds of onlookers on the quay, long +before we were allowed to come off. + + * * * * * + +Glad, glad I was to get off that ship: I don't know why, for she was +clean and comfortable and the attendants were perfectly civil. Glad, +glad I was not to share the deck with any more commercial travellers. +Glad I was to be on my own feet, independent. No, I would _not_ take a +carriage. I carried my sack on my back to the hotel, looking with a +jaundiced eye on the lethargic traffic of the harbour front. It was +about nine o'clock. + + * * * * * + +Later on, when I had slept, I thought as I have thought before, the +Italians are not to blame for their spite against us. We, England, have +taken upon ourselves for so long the rôle of leading nation. And if now, +in the war or after the war, we have led them all into a real old +swinery--which we have, notwithstanding all Entente cant--then they have +a legitimate grudge against us. If you take upon yourself to lead, you +must expect the mud to be thrown at you if you lead into a nasty morass. +Especially if, once in the bog, you think of nothing else but scrambling +out over other poor devils' backs. Pretty behaviour of great nations! + +And still, for all that, I must insist that I am a single human being, +an individual, not a mere national unit, a mere chip of l'Inghilterra or +la Germania. I am not a chip of any nasty old block. I am myself. + + * * * * * + +In the evening the q-b insisted on going to the marionettes, for which +she has a sentimental passion. So the three of us--we were with the +American friend once more--chased through dark and tortuous side-streets +and markets of Palermo in the night, until at last a friendly man led us +to the place. The back streets of Palermo felt friendly, not huge and +rather horrible, like Naples near the port. + +The theatre was a little hole opening simply off the street. There was +no one in the little ticket box, so we walked past the door-screen. A +shabby old man with a long fennel-stalk hurried up and made us places on +the back benches, and hushed us when we spoke of tickets. The play was +in progress. A serpent-dragon was just having a tussle with a knight in +brilliant brass armour, and my heart came into my mouth. The audience +consisted mostly of boys, gazing with frantic interest on the bright +stage. There was a sprinkling of soldiers and elderly men. The place was +packed--about fifty souls crowded on narrow little ribbons of benches, +so close one behind the other that the end of the man in front of me +continually encroached and sat on my knee. I saw on a notice that the +price of entry was forty centimes. + +We had come in towards the end of the performance, and so sat rather +bewildered, unable to follow. The story was the inevitable Paladins of +France--one heard the names _Rinaldo!_ _Orlando!_ again and again. But +the story was told in dialect, hard to follow. + +I was charmed by the figures. The scene was very simple, showing the +interior of a castle. But the figures, which were about two-thirds of +human size, were wonderful in their brilliant, glittering gold armour, +and their martial prancing motions. All were knights--even the daughter +of the king of Babylon. She was distinguished only by her long hair. All +were in the beautiful, glittering armour, with helmets and visors that +could be let down at will. I am told this armour has been handed down +for many generations. It certainly is lovely. One actor alone was not +in armour, the wizard Magicce, or Malvigge, the Merlin of the Paladins. +He was in a long scarlet robe, edged with fur, and wore a three-cornered +scarlet hat. + +So we watched the dragon leap and twist and get the knight by the leg: +and then perish. We watched the knights burst into the castle. We +watched the wonderful armour-clashing embraces of the delivered knights, +Orlando and his bosom friend and the little dwarf, clashing their +armoured breasts to the breasts of their brothers and deliverers. We +watched the would-be tears flow.--And then the statue of the witch +suddenly go up in flames, at which a roar of exultation from the boys. +Then it was over. The theatre was empty in a moment, but the proprietors +and the two men who sat near us would not let us go. We must wait for +the next performance. + +My neighbour, a fat, jolly man, told me all about it. His neighbour, a +handsome tipsy man, kept contradicting and saying it wasn't so. But my +fat neighbour winked at me, not to take offence. + +This story of the Paladins of France lasted three nights. We had come on +the middle night--of course. But no matter--each night was a complete +story. I am sorry I have forgotten the names of the knights. But the +story was, that Orlando and his friend and the little dwarf, owing to +the tricks of that same dwarf, who belonged to the Paladins, had been +captured and immured in the enchanted castle of the ghastly old witch +who lived on the blood of Christians. It was now the business of Rinaldo +and the rest of the Paladins, by the help of Magicce the _good_ wizard, +to release their captured brethren from the ghoulish old witch. + +So much I made out of the fat man's story, while the theatre was +filling. He knew every detail of the whole Paladin cycle. And it is +evident the Paladin cycle has lots of versions. For the handsome tipsy +neighbour kept saying he was wrong, he was wrong, and giving different +stories, and shouting for a jury to come and say who was right, he or my +fat friend. A jury gathered, and a storm began to rise. But the stout +proprietor with a fennel-wand came and quenched the noise, telling the +handsome tipsy man he knew too much and wasn't asked. Whereupon the +tipsy one sulked. + +Ah, said my friend, couldn't I come on Friday. Friday was a great night. +On Friday they were giving I Beati Paoli: The Blessed Pauls. He pointed +to the walls where were the placards announcing The Blessed Pauls. These +Pauls were evidently some awful secret society with masking hoods and +daggers and awful eyes looking through the holes. I said were they +assassins like the Black Hand. By no means, by no means. The Blessed +Pauls were a society for the protection of the poor. Their business was +to track down and murder the oppressive rich. Ah, they were a wonderful, +a splendid society. Were they, said I, a sort of camorra? Ah, on the +contrary--here he lapsed into a tense voice--they hated the camorra. +These, the Blest Pauls, were the powerful and terrible enemy of the +grand camorra. For the Grand Camorra oppresses the poor. And therefore +the Pauls track down in secret the leaders of the Grand Camorra, and +assassinate them, or bring them to the fearful hooded tribunal which +utters the dread verdict of the Beati Paoli. And when once the Beati +Paoli have decreed a man's death--all over. Ah bellissimo, bellissimo! +Why don't I come on Friday? + +It seems to me a queer moral for the urchins thick-packed and gazing at +the drop scene. They are all males: urchins or men. I ask my fat friend +why there are no women--no girls. Ah, he says, the theatre is so small. +But, I say, if there is room for all the boys and men, there is the same +room for girls and women. Oh no--not in this small theatre. Besides this +is nothing for women. Not that there is anything improper, he hastens to +add. Not at all. But what should women and girls be doing at the +marionette show? It was an affair for males. + +I agreed with him really, and was thankful we hadn't a lot of smirking +twitching girls and lasses in the audience. This male audience was so +tense and pure in its attention. + +But hist! the play is going to begin. A lad is grinding a broken +street-piano under the stage. The padrone yells _Silenzio!_ with a roar, +and reaching over, pokes obstreperous boys with his long fennel-stalk, +like a beadle in church. When the curtain rises the piano stops, and +there is dead silence. On swings a knight, glittering, marching with +that curious hippety lilt, and gazing round with fixed and martial eyes. +He begins the prologue, telling us where we are. And dramatically he +waves his sword and stamps his foot, and wonderfully sounds his male, +martial, rather husky voice. Then the Paladins, his companions who are +to accompany him, swing one by one onto the stage, till they are five in +all, handsome knights, including the Babylonian Princess and the Knight +of Britain. They stand in a handsome, glittering line. And then comes +Merlin in his red robe. Merlin has a bright, fair, rather chubby face +and blue eyes, and seems to typify the northern intelligence. He now +tells them, in many words, how to proceed and what is to be done. + +So then, the glittering knights are ready. Are they ready? Rinaldo +flourishes his sword with the wonderful cry "Andiamo!" let us go--and +the others respond: "Andiamo". Splendid word. + +The first enemy were the knights of Spain, in red kirtles and half +turbans. With these a terrible fight. First of all rushes in the Knight +of Britain. He is the boaster, who always in words, does everything. But +in fact, poor knight of Britain, he falls lamed. The four Paladins have +stood shoulder to shoulder, glittering, watching the fray. Forth now +steps another knight, and the fight recommences. Terrible is the +smacking of swords, terrible the gasps from behind the dropped visors. +Till at last the knight of Spain falls--and the Paladin stands with his +foot on the dead. Then loud acclamations from the Paladins, and yells of +joy from the audience. + +"_Silenzio!_" yells the padrone, flourishing the fennel-stalk. + +Dead silence, and the story goes on. The Knight of Britain of course +claims to have slain the foe: and the audience faintly, jeeringly +hisses. "He's always the boaster, and he never does anything, the Knight +of Britain," whispers my fat friend. He has forgotten my nationality. I +wonder if the Knight of Britain is pure tradition, or if a political +touch of today has crept in. + +However, this fray is over--Merlin comes to advise for the next move. +And are we ready? We are ready. _Andiamo!_ Again the word is yelled out, +and they set off. At first one is all engaged watching the figures: +their brilliance, their blank, martial stare, their sudden, angular, +gestures. There is something extremely suggestive in them. How much +better they fit the old legend-tales than living people would do. Nay, +if we are going to have human beings on the stage, they should be masked +and disguised. For in fact drama is enacted by symbolic creatures formed +out of human consciousness: puppets if you like: but not human +_individuals_. Our stage is all wrong, so boring in its personality. + +Gradually, however, I found that my eyes were of minor importance. +Gradually it was the voice that gained hold of the blood. It is a +strong, rather husky, male voice that acts direct on the blood, not on +the mind. Again the old male Adam began to stir at the roots of my soul. +Again the old, first-hand indifference, the rich, untamed male blood +rocked down my veins. What does one care? What does one care for precept +and mental dictation? Is there not the massive brilliant, out-flinging +recklessness in the male soul, summed up in the sudden word: _Andiamo!_ +Andiamo! Let us go on. Andiamo!--let us go hell knows where, but let us +go on. The splendid recklessness and passion that knows no precept and +no school-teacher, whose very molten spontaneity is its own guide. + +I loved the voices of the Paladins--Rinaldo's voice, and Orlando's +voice: the voice of men once more, men who are not to be tutored. To be +sure there was Merlin making his long speeches in rather a chuntering, +prosy tone. But who was he? Was he a Paladin and a splendour? Not he. A +long-gowned chunterer. It is the reckless blood which achieves all, the +piff-piff-piffing of the mental and moral intelligence is but a +subsidiary help, a mere instrument. + +The dragon was splendid: I have seen dragons in Wagner, at Covent Garden +and at the Prinz-Regenten Theater in Munich, and they were ridiculous. +But this dragon simply frightened me, with his leaping and twisting. And +when he seized the knight by the leg, my blood ran cold. + +With smoke and sulphur leaps in Beelzebub. But he is merely the servant +of the great old witch. He is black and grinning, and he flourishes his +posterior and his tail. But he is curiously inefficacious: a sort of +lackey of wicked powers. + +The old witch with her grey hair and staring eyes succeeds in being +ghastly. With just a touch, she would be a tall, benevolent old lady. +But listen to her. Hear her horrible female voice with its scraping +yells of evil lustfulness. Yes, she fills me with horror. And I am +staggered to find how I believe in her as _the_ evil principle. +Beelzebub, poor devil, is only one of her instruments. + +It is her old, horrible, grinning female soul which locks up the heroes, +and which sends forth the awful and almost omnipotent malevolence. This +old, ghastly woman-spirit is the very core of mischief. And I felt my +heart getting as hot against her as the hearts of the lads in the +audience were. Red, deep hate I felt of that symbolic old ghoul-female. +Poor male Beelzebub is her loutish slave. And it takes all Merlin's +bright-faced intelligence, and all the surging hot urgency of the +Paladins, to conquer her. + +She will never be finally destroyed--she will never finally die, till +her statue, which is immured in the vaults of the castle, is +burned.--Oh, it was a very psychoanalytic performance altogether, and +one could give a very good Freudian analysis of it.--But behold this +image of the witch: this white, submerged _idea_ of woman which rules +from the deeps of the unconscious. Behold, the reckless, untamable male +knights will do for it. As the statue goes up in flame--it is only +paper over wires--the audience yells! And yells again. And would God the +symbolic act were really achieved. It is only little boys who yell. Men +merely smile at the trick. They know well enough the white image +endures. + +So it is over. The knights look at us once more. Orlando, hero of +heroes, has a slight inward cast of the eyes. This gives him that look +of almost fierce good-nature which these people adore: the look of a man +who does not think, but whose heart is all the time red hot with +burning, generous blood-passion. This is what they adore. + +So my knights go. They all have wonderful faces, and are so splendidly +glittering and male. I am sorry they will be laid in a box now. + +There is a great gasp of relief. The piano starts its lame rattle. +Somebody looking round laughs. And we all look round. And seated on the +top of the ticket office is a fat, solemn urchin of two or three years, +hands folded over his stomach, his forehead big and blank, like some +queer little Buddha. The audience laughs with that southern sympathy: +physical sympathy: that is what they love to feel and to arouse. + +But there is a little after-scene: in front of the drop-curtain jerks +out a little fat flat caricature of a Neapolitan, and from the opposite +side jerks the tall caricature of a Sicilian. They jerk towards one +another and bump into one another with a smack. And smack goes the +Neapolitan, down on his posterior. And the boys howl with joy. It is the +eternal collision between the two peoples, Neapolitan and Sicilian. Now +goes on a lot of fooling between the two clowns, in the two dialects. +Alas, I can hardly understand anything at all. But it sounds comic, and +looks very funny. The Neapolitan of course gets most of the knocks. And +there seems to be no indecency at all--unless once.--The boys howl and +rock with joy, and no one says Silenzio! + +But it is over. All is over. The theatre empties in a moment. And I +shake hands with my fat neighbour, affectionately, and in the right +spirit. Truly I loved them all in the theatre: the generous, hot +southern blood, so subtle and spontaneous, that asks for blood contact, +not for mental communion or spirit sympathy. I was sorry to leave them. + + +FINIS. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Sea and Sardinia, by D. H. Lawrence + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SEA AND SARDINIA *** + +***** This file should be named 37206-8.txt or 37206-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/7/2/0/37206/ + +Produced by Charlene Taylor, Mary Meehan and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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H. Lawrence + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Sea and Sardinia + +Author: D. H. Lawrence + +Illustrator: Jan Juta + +Release Date: August 26, 2011 [EBook #37206] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SEA AND SARDINIA *** + + + + +Produced by Charlene Taylor, Mary Meehan and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/cover.jpg" alt=""/> +</div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + + + +<h1>SEA AND SARDINIA</h1> + +<h2>BY D. H. LAWRENCE</h2> + + +<p class="center">WITH EIGHT PICTURES<br /> +IN COLOR BY<br /> +<span class="smcap">Jan Juta</span></p> + +<p class="center">NEW YORK<br /> +THOMAS SELTZER<br /> +1921</p> + +<p class="center">COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY<br /> +THOMAS SELTZER, INC.</p> + +<p class="center"><i>All rights reserved</i></p> + +<p class="center"><i>Printed in the United States of America</i></p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<div class="figcenter"> +<a name="illus1" id="illus1"></a> +<img src="images/illus1.jpg" alt=""/> +</div> + +<h3>OROSEI</h3> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + + +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> + + +<table width="50%"> +<tr><td align="right">I.</td><td> <a href="#I"><span class="smcap">As Far As Palermo</span></a></td><td align="right">11</td></tr> + +<tr><td align="right">II.</td><td> <a href="#II"><span class="smcap">The Sea</span></a></td><td align="right">44</td></tr> + +<tr><td align="right">III.</td><td> <a href="#III"><span class="smcap">Cagliari</span></a></td><td align="right">99</td></tr> + +<tr><td align="right">IV.</td><td> <a href="#IV"><span class="smcap">Mandas</span></a></td><td align="right">127</td></tr> + +<tr><td align="right">V.</td><td> <a href="#V"><span class="smcap">To Sorgono</span></a></td><td align="right">154</td></tr> + +<tr><td align="right">VI.</td><td> <a href="#VI"><span class="smcap">To Nuoro</span></a></td><td align="right">212</td></tr> + +<tr><td align="right">VII.</td><td> <a href="#VII"><span class="smcap">To Terranova and the Steamer</span></a></td><td align="right">260</td></tr> + +<tr><td align="right">VIII.</td><td> <a href="#VIII"><span class="smcap">Back</span></a></td><td align="right">312</td></tr> +</table> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS</h2> + + +<table width="50%"> +<tr><td><a href="#illus1"><span class="smcap">Orosei</span></a></td><td align="right"><i>Frontispiece</i></td></tr> + +<tr><td><a href="#illus2"><span class="smcap">Map—By D. H. Lawrence</span></a></td><td align="right">44</td></tr> + +<tr><td><a href="#illus3"><span class="smcap">Isili</span></a></td><td align="right">100</td></tr> + +<tr><td><a href="#illus4"><span class="smcap">Tonara</span></a></td><td align="right">148</td></tr> + +<tr><td><a href="#illus5"><span class="smcap">Sorgono</span></a></td><td align="right">180</td></tr> + +<tr><td><a href="#illus6"><span class="smcap">Fonni</span></a></td><td align="right">204</td></tr> + +<tr><td><a href="#illus7"><span class="smcap">Gavoi</span></a></td><td align="right">236</td></tr> + +<tr><td><a href="#illus8"><span class="smcap">Nuoro</span></a></td><td align="right">268</td></tr> + +<tr><td><a href="#illus9"><span class="smcap">Terranova</span></a></td><td align="right">300</td></tr> + +</table> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span></p> + +<h2><a name="SEA_AND_SARDINIA" id="SEA_AND_SARDINIA"></a>SEA AND SARDINIA</h2> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="I" id="I"></a>I.</h2> + +<h3>AS FAR AS PALERMO.</h3> + + +<p>Comes over one an absolute necessity to move. And what is more, to move +in some particular direction. A double necessity then: to get on the +move, and to know whither.</p> + +<p>Why can't one sit still? Here in Sicily it is so pleasant: the sunny +Ionian sea, the changing jewel of Calabria, like a fire-opal moved in +the light; Italy and the panorama of Christmas clouds, night with the +dog-star laying a long, luminous gleam across the sea, as if baying at +us, Orion marching above; how the dog-star Sirius looks at one, looks at +one! he is the hound of heaven, green, glamorous and fierce!—and then +oh regal evening star, hung westward flaring over the jagged dark +precipices of tall Sicily: then Etna, that wicked witch, resting her +thick white snow under heaven, and slowly, slowly rolling her +orange-coloured smoke. They called her the Pillar of Heaven, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span> +Greeks. It seems wrong at first, for she trails up in a long, magical, +flexible line from the sea's edge to her blunt cone, and does not seem +tall. She seems rather low, under heaven. But as one knows her better, +oh awe and wizardy! Remote under heaven, aloof, so near, yet never with +us. The painters try to paint her, and the photographers to photograph +her, in vain. Because why? Because the near ridges, with their olives +and white houses, these are with us. Because the river-bed, and Naxos +under the lemon groves, Greek Naxos deep under dark-leaved, many-fruited +lemon groves, Etna's skirts and skirt-bottoms, these still are our +world, our own world. Even the high villages among the oaks, on Etna. +But Etna herself, Etna of the snow and secret changing winds, she is +beyond a crystal wall. When I look at her, low, white, witch-like under +heaven, slowly rolling her orange smoke and giving sometimes a breath of +rose-red flame, then I must look away from earth, into the ether, into +the low empyrean. And there, in that remote region, Etna is alone. If +you would see her, you must slowly take off your eyes from the world and +go a naked seer to the strange chamber of the empyrean. Pedestal of +heaven! The Greeks had a sense of the magic truth of things. Thank +goodness one still knows enough about them to find one's kinship at +last. There are so many<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span> photographs, there are so infinitely many +water-colour drawings and oil paintings which purport to render Etna. +But pedestal of heaven! You must cross the invisible border. Between the +foreground, which is our own, and Etna, pivot of winds in lower heaven, +there is a dividing line. You must change your state of mind. A +metempsychosis. It is no use thinking you can see and behold Etna and +the foreground both at once. Never. One or the other. Foreground and a +transcribed Etna. Or Etna, pedestal of heaven.</p> + +<p>Why, then, must one go? Why not stay? Ah, what a mistress, this Etna! +with her strange winds prowling round her like Circe's panthers, some +black, some white. With her strange, remote communications and her +terrible dynamic exhalations. She makes men mad. Such terrible +vibrations of wicked and beautiful electricity she throws about her, +like a deadly net! Nay, sometimes, verily, one can feel a new current of +her demon magnetism seize one's living tissue and change the peaceful +life of one's active cells. She makes a storm in the living plasm and a +new adjustment. And sometimes it is like a madness.</p> + +<p>This timeless Grecian Etna, in her lower-heaven loveliness, so lovely, +so lovely, what a torturer! Not many men can really stand her, without +losing their souls. She is like Circe. Unless a man is very strong,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span> she +takes his soul away from him and leaves him not a beast, but an +elemental creature, intelligent and soulless. Intelligent, almost +inspired, and soulless, like the Etna Sicilians. Intelligent daimons, +and humanly, according to us, the most stupid people on earth. Ach, +horror! How many men, how many races, has Etna put to flight? It was she +who broke the quick of the Greek soul. And after the Greeks, she gave +the Romans, the Normans, the Arabs, the Spaniards, the French, the +Italians, even the English, she gave them all their inspired hour and +broke their souls.</p> + +<p>Perhaps it is she one must flee from. At any rate, one must go: and at +once. After having come back only at the end of October, already one +must dash away. And it is only the third of January. And one cannot +afford to move. Yet there you are: at the Etna bidding one goes.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Where does one go? There is Girgenti by the south. There is Tunis at +hand. Girgenti, and the sulphur spirit and the Greek guarding temples, +to make one madder? Never. Neither Syracuse and the madness of its great +quarries. Tunis? Africa? Not yet, not yet. Not the Arabs, not yet. +Naples, Rome, Florence? No good at all. Where then?</p> + +<p>Where then? Spain or Sardinia. Spain or Sardinia.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span> Sardinia, which is +like nowhere. Sardinia, which has no history, no date, no race, no +offering. Let it be Sardinia. They say neither Romans nor Phoenicians, +Greeks nor Arabs ever subdued Sardinia. It lies outside; outside the +circuit of civilisation. Like the Basque lands. Sure enough, it is +Italian now, with its railways and its motor-omnibuses. But there is an +uncaptured Sardinia still. It lies within the net of this European +civilisation, but it isn't landed yet. And the net is getting old and +tattered. A good many fish are slipping through the net of the old +European civilisation. Like that great whale of Russia. And probably +even Sardinia. Sardinia then. Let it be Sardinia.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>There is a fortnightly boat sailing from Palermo—next Wednesday, three +days ahead. Let us go, then. Away from abhorred Etna, and the Ionian +sea, and these great stars in the water, and the almond trees in bud, +and the orange trees heavy with red fruit, and these maddening, +exasperating, impossible Sicilians, who never knew what truth was and +have long lost all notion of what a human being is. A sort of +sulphureous demons. <i>Andiamo!</i></p> + +<p>But let me confess, in parenthesis, that I am not at all sure whether I +don't really prefer these demons to our sanctified humanity.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span></p> + +<p>Why does one create such discomfort for oneself! To have to get up in +the middle of the night—half past one—to go and look at the clock. Of +course this fraud of an American watch has stopped, with its impudent +phosphorescent face. Half past one! Half past one, and a dark January +night. Ah, well! Half past one! And an uneasy sleep till at last it is +five o'clock. Then light a candle and get up.</p> + +<p>The dreary black morning, the candle-light, the house looking +night-dismal. Ah, well, one does all these things for one's pleasure. So +light the charcoal fire and put the kettle on. The queen bee shivering +round half dressed, fluttering her unhappy candle.</p> + +<p>"It's fun," she says, shuddering.</p> + +<p>"Great," say I, grim as death.</p> + +<p>First fill the thermos with hot tea. Then fry bacon—good English bacon +from Malta, a god-send, indeed—and make bacon sandwiches. Make also +sandwiches of scrambled eggs. Make also bread and butter. Also a little +toast for breakfast—and more tea. But ugh, who wants to eat at this +unearthly hour, especially when one is escaping from bewitched Sicily.</p> + +<p>Fill the little bag we call the kitchenino. Methylated spirit, a small +aluminium saucepan, a spirit-lamp, two spoons, two forks, a knife, two +aluminium plates, salt, sugar, tea—what else? The thermos flask, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span> +various sandwiches, four apples, and a little tin of butter. So much for +the kitchenino, for myself and the queen bee. Then my knapsack and the +q-b's handbag.</p> + +<p>Under the lid of the half-cloudy night sky, far away at the rim of the +Ionian sea, the first light, like metal fusing. So swallow the cup of +tea and the bit of toast. Hastily wash up, so that we can find the house +decent when we come back. Shut the door-windows of the upper terrace and +go down. Lock the door: the upper half of the house made fast.</p> + +<p>The sky and sea are parting like an oyster shell, with a low red gape. +Looking across from the veranda at it, one shivers. Not that it is cold. +The morning is not at all cold. But the ominousness of it: that long red +slit between a dark sky and a dark Ionian sea, terrible old bivalve +which has held life between its lips so long. And here, at this house, +we are ledged so awfully above the dawn, naked to it.</p> + +<p>Fasten the door-windows of the lower veranda. One won't fasten at all. +The summer heat warped it one way, the masses of autumn rain warped it +another. Put a chair against it. Lock the last door and hide the key. +Sling the knapsack on one's back, take the kitchenino in one's hand and +look round. The dawn-red widening, between the purpling sea and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span> +troubled sky. A light in the capucin convent across there. Cocks crowing +and the long, howling, hiccuping, melancholy bray of an ass. "All +females are dead, all females—och! och! och!—hoooo! Ahaa!—there's one +left." So he ends on a moaning grunt of consolation. This is what the +Arabs tell us an ass is howling when he brays.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Very dark under the great carob tree as we go down the steps. Dark still +the garden. Scent of mimosa, and then of jasmine. The lovely mimosa tree +invisible. Dark the stony path. The goat whinnies out of her shed. The +broken Roman tomb which lolls right over the garden track does not fall +on me as I slip under its massive tilt. Ah, dark garden, dark garden, +with your olives and your wine, your medlars and mulberries and many +almond trees, your steep terraces ledged high up above the sea, I am +leaving you, slinking out. Out between the rosemary hedges, out of the +tall gate, on to the cruel steep stony road. So under the dark, big +eucalyptus trees, over the stream, and up towards the village. There, I +have got so far.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>It is full dawn—dawn, not morning, the sun will not have risen. The +village is nearly all dark in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span> red light, and asleep still. No one +at the fountain by the capucin gate: too dark still. One man leading a +horse round the corner of the Palazzo Corvaia. One or two dark men along +the Corso. And so over the brow, down the steep cobble-stone street +between the houses, and out to the naked hill front. This is the +dawn-coast of Sicily. Nay, the dawn-coast of Europe. Steep, like a vast +cliff, dawn-forward. A red dawn, with mingled curdling dark clouds, and +some gold. It must be seven o'clock. The station down below, by the sea. +And noise of a train. Yes, a train. And we still high on the steep +track, winding downwards. But it is the train from Messina to Catania, +half an hour before ours, which is from Catania to Messina.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>So jolt, and drop, and jolt down the old road that winds on the cliff +face. Etna across there is smothered quite low, quite low in a dense +puther of ink-black clouds. Playing some devilry in private, no doubt. +The dawn is angry red, and yellow above, the sea takes strange colors. I +hate the station, pigmy, drawn out there beside the sea. On this steep +face, especially in the windless nooks, the almond blossom is already +out. In little puffs and specks and stars, it looks very like bits of +snow scattered by winter. Bits of snow, bits of blossom, fourth day of +the year 1921. Only<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span> blossom. And Etna indescribably cloaked and +secretive in her dense black clouds. She has wrapped them quite round +her, quite low round her skirts.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>At last we are down. We pass the pits where men are burning +lime—red-hot, round pits—and are out on the high-way. Nothing can be +more depressing than an Italian high-road. From Syracuse to Airolo it is +the same: horrible, dreary, slummy high-roads the moment you approach a +village or any human habitation. Here there is an acrid smell of lemon +juice. There is a factory for making citrate. The houses flush on the +road, under the great lime-stone face of the hill, open their slummy +doors, and throw out dirty water and coffee dregs. We walk over the +dirty water and coffee dregs. Mules rattle past with carts. Other people +are going to the station. We pass the Dazio and are there.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Humanity is, externally, too much alike. Internally there are +insuperable differences. So one sits and thinks, watching the people on +the station: like a line of caricatures between oneself and the naked +sea and the uneasy, clouding dawn.</p> + +<p>You would look in vain this morning for the swarthy feline southerner of +romance. It might, as far as features are concerned, be an early morning +crowd<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span> waiting for the train on a north London suburb station. As far as +features go. For some are fair and some colorless and none racially +typical. The only one that is absolutely like a race caricature is a +tall stout elderly fellow with spectacles and a short nose and a +bristling moustache, and he is the German of the comic papers of twenty +years ago. But he is pure Sicilian.</p> + +<p>They are mostly young fellows going up the line to Messina to their job: +not artizans, lower middle class. And externally, so like any other +clerks and shop-men, only rather more shabby, much less <i>socially</i> +self-conscious. They are lively, they throw their arms round one +another's necks, they all but kiss. One poor chap has had earache, so a +black kerchief is tied round his face, and his black hat is perched +above, and a comic sight he looks. No one seems to think so, however. +Yet they view my arrival with a knapsack on my back with cold +disapprobation, as unseemly as if I had arrived riding on a pig. I ought +to be in a carriage, and the knapsack ought to be a new suit-case. I +know it, but am inflexible.</p> + +<p>That is how they are. Each one thinks he is as handsome as Adonis, and +as "fetching" as Don Juan. Extraordinary! At the same time, all flesh is +grass, and if a few trouser-buttons are missing or if a black hat +perches above a thick black face-muffle and a long<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span> excruciated face, it +is all in the course of nature. They seize the black-edged one by the +arm, and in profound commiseration: "Do you suffer? Are you suffering?" +they ask.</p> + +<p>And that also is how they are. So terribly physically all over one +another. They pour themselves one over the other like so much melted +butter over parsnips. They catch each other under the chin, with a +tender caress of the hand, and they smile with sunny melting tenderness +into each other's face. Never in the world have I seen such melting gay +tenderness as between casual Sicilians on railway platforms, whether +they be young lean-cheeked Sicilians or huge stout Sicilians.</p> + +<p>There must be something curious about the proximity of a volcano. Naples +and Catania alike, the men are hugely fat, with great macaroni paunches, +they are expansive and in a perfect drip of casual affection and love. +But the Sicilians are even more wildly exuberant and fat and all over +one another than the Neapolitans. They never leave off being amorously +friendly with almost everybody, emitting a relentless physical +familiarity that is quite bewildering to one not brought up near a +volcano.</p> + +<p>This is more true of the middle classes than of the lower. The working +men are perforce thinner and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span> less exuberant. But they hang together in +clusters, and can never be physically near enough.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>It is only thirty miles to Messina, but the train takes two hours. It +winds and hurries and stops beside the lavender grey morning sea. A +flock of goats trail over the beach near the lapping wave's edge, +dismally. Great wide deserts of stony river-beds run down to the sea, +and men on asses are picking their way across, and women are kneeling by +the small stream-channel washing clothes. The lemons hang pale and +innumerable in the thick lemon groves. Lemon trees, like Italians, seem +to be happiest when they are touching one another all round. Solid +forests of not very tall lemon trees lie between the steep mountains and +the sea, on the strip of plain. Women, vague in the orchard +under-shadow, are picking the lemons, lurking as if in the undersea. +There are heaps of pale yellow lemons under the trees. They look like +pale, primrose-smouldering fires. Curious how like fires the heaps of +lemons look, under the shadow of foliage, seeming to give off a pallid +burning amid the suave, naked, greenish trunks. When there comes a +cluster of orange trees, the oranges are red like coals among the darker +leaves. But lemons, lemons, innumerable, speckled like innumerable tiny +stars in the green firmament of leaves. So many<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span> lemons! Think of all +the lemonade crystals they will be reduced to! Think of America drinking +them up next summer.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>I always wonder why such vast wide river-beds of pale boulders come out +of the heart of the high-rearing, dramatic stone mountains, a few miles +to the sea. A few miles only: and never more than a few threading +water-trickles in river-beds wide enough for the Rhine. But that is how +it is. The landscape is ancient, and classic—romantic, as if it had +known far-off days and fiercer rivers and more verdure. Steep, craggy, +wild, the land goes up to its points and precipices, a tangle of +heights. But all jammed on top of one another. And in old landscapes, as +in old people, the flesh wears away, and the bones become prominent. +Rock sticks up fantastically. The jungle of peaks in this old Sicily.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The sky is all grey. The Straits are grey. Reggio, just across the +water, is white looking, under the great dark toe of Calabria, the toe +of Italy. On Aspromonte there is grey cloud. It is going to rain. After +such marvelous ringing blue days, it is going to rain. What luck!</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Aspromonte! Garibaldi! I could always cover my<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span> face when I see it, +Aspromonte. I wish Garibaldi had been prouder. Why did he go off so +humbly, with his bag of seed-corn and a flea in his ear, when His +Majesty King Victor Emmanuel arrived with his little short legs on the +scene. Poor Garibaldi! He wanted to be a hero and a dictator of free +Sicily. Well, one can't be a dictator and humble at the same time. One +must be a hero, which he was, and proud, which he wasn't. Besides people +don't nowadays choose proud heroes for governors. Anything but. They +prefer constitutional monarchs, who are paid servants and who know it. +That is democracy. Democracy admires its own servants and nothing else. +And you couldn't make a real servant even of Garibaldi. Only of His +Majesty King Victor Emmanuel. So Italy chose Victor Emmanuel, and +Garibaldi went off with a corn bag and a whack on the behind like a +humble ass.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>It is raining—dismally, dismally raining. And this is Messina coming. +Oh horrible Messina, earthquake-shattered and renewing your youth like a +vast mining settlement, with rows and streets and miles of concrete +shanties, squalor and a big street with shops and gaps and broken houses +still, just back of the tram-lines, and a dreary squalid +earthquake-hopeless port in a lovely harbor. People don't forget and +don't recover.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span> The people of Messina seem to be today what they were +nearly twenty years ago, after the earthquake: people who have had a +terrible shock, and for whom all life's institutions are really nothing, +neither civilization nor purpose. The meaning of everything all came +down with a smash in that shuddering earthquake, and nothing remains but +money and the throes of some sort of sensation. Messina between the +volcanoes, Etna and Stromboli, having known the death-agony's terror. I +always dread coming near the awful place, yet I have found the people +kind, almost feverishly so, as if they knew the awful need for kindness.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Raining, raining hard. Clambering down on to the wet platform and +walking across the wet lines to the cover. Many human beings scurrying +across the wet lines, among the wet trains, to get out into the ghastly +town beyond. Thank heaven one need not go out into the town. Two +convicts chained together among the crowd—and two soldiers. The +prisoners wear fawny homespun clothes, of cloth such as the peasants +weave, with irregularly occurring brown stripes. Rather nice handmade +rough stuff. But linked together, dear God! And those horrid caps on +their hairless foreheads. No hair. Probably they are going to a convict +station on the Lipari islands. The people take no notice.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span></p> + +<p>No, but convicts are horrible creatures: at least, the old one is, with +his long, nasty face: his long, clean-shaven, horrible face, without +emotions, or with emotions one cannot follow. Something cold, sightless. +A sightless, ugly look. I should loathe to have to touch him. Of the +other I am not so sure. He is younger, and with dark eyebrows. But a +roundish, softish face, with a sort of leer. No, evil is horrible. I +used to think there was no absolute evil. Now I know there is a great +deal. So much that it threatens life altogether. That ghastly +abstractness of criminals. They don't <i>know</i> any more what other people +feel. Yet some horrible force drives them.</p> + +<p>It is a great mistake to abolish the death penalty. If I were dictator, +I should order the old one to be hung at once. I should have judges with +sensitive, living hearts: not abstract intellects. And because the +instinctive heart recognised a man as evil, I would have that man +destroyed. Quickly. Because good warm life is now in danger.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Standing on Messina station—dreary, dreary hole—and watching the +winter rain and seeing the pair of convicts, I must remember again Oscar +Wilde on Reading platform, a convict. What a terrible mistake, to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span> let +oneself be martyred by a lot of canaille. A man must say his say. But +<i>noli me tangere</i>.</p> + +<p>Curious these people are. Up and down, up and down go a pair of +officials. The young one in a black gold-laced cap talks to the elder in +a scarlet gold-laced cap. And he walks, the young one, with a mad little +hop, and his fingers fly as if he wanted to scatter them to the four +winds of heaven, and his words go off like fireworks, with more than +Sicilian speed. On and on, up and down, and his eye is dark and excited +and unseeing, like the eye of a fleeing rabbit. Strange and beside +itself is humanity.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>What a lot of officials! You know them by their caps. Elegant tubby +little officials in kid-and-patent boots and gold-laced caps, tall +long-nosed ones in more gold-laced caps, like angels in and out of the +gates of heaven they thread in and out of the various doors. As far as I +can see, there are three scarlet station-masters, five black-and-gold +substation-masters, and a countless number of principalities and powers +in more or less broken boots and official caps. They are like bees round +a hive, humming in an important <i>conversazione</i>, and occasionally +looking at some paper or other, and extracting a little official honey. +But the <i>conversazione</i> is the affair of affairs. To an Italian +official, life seems<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span> to be one long and animated conversation—the +Italian word is better—interrupted by casual trains and telephones. And +besides the angels of heaven's gates, there are the mere ministers, +porters, lamp-cleaners, etc. These stand in groups and talk socialism. A +lamp-man slashes along, swinging a couple of lamps. Bashes one against a +barrow. Smash goes the glass. Looks down as if to say, What do you mean +by it? Glances over his shoulder to see if any member of the higher +hierarchies is looking. Seven members of higher hierarchies are +assiduously not looking. On goes the minister with the lamp, blithely. +Another pane or two gone. <i>Vogue la galère.</i></p> + +<p>Passengers have gathered again, some in hoods, some in nothing. Youths +in thin, paltry clothes stand out in the pouring rain as if they did not +know it was raining. One sees their coat-shoulders soaked. And yet they +do not trouble to keep under shelter. Two large station dogs run about +and trot through the standing trains, just like officials. They climb up +the footboard, hop into a train and hop out casually when they feel like +it. Two or three port-porters, in canvas hats as big as umbrellas, +literally, spreading like huge fins over their shoulders, are looking +into more empty trains. More and more people appear. More and more +official caps stand about. It rains and rains. The train for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span> Palermo +and the train for Syracuse are both an hour late already, coming from +the port. Flea-bite. Though these are the great connections from Rome.</p> + +<p>Loose locomotives trundle back and forth, vaguely, like black dogs +running and turning back. The port is only four minutes' walk. If it +were not raining so hard, we would go down, walk along the lines and get +into the waiting train down there. Anybody may please himself. There is +the funnel of the great unwieldy ferry-object—she is just edging in. +That means the connection from the mainland at last. But it is cold, +standing here. We eat a bit of bread and butter from the kitchenino in +resignation. After all, what is an hour and a half? It might just as +easily be five hours, as it was the last time we came down from Rome. +And the <i>wagon-lit</i>, booked to Syracuse, calmly left stranded in the +station of Messina, to go no further. All get out and find yourselves +rooms for the night in vile Messina. Syracuse or no Syracuse, Malta boat +or no Malta boat. We are the <i>Ferrovia dello Stato</i>.</p> + +<p>But there, why grumble. Noi Italiani siamo così buoni. Take it from +their own mouth.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Ecco! Finalmente! The crowd is quite joyful as the two express trains +surge proudly in, after their half-a-mile creep. Plenty of room, for +once. Though<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span> the carriage floor is a puddle, and the roof leaks. This +is second class.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Slowly, with two engines, we grunt and chuff and twist to get over the +break-neck heights that shut Messina in from the north coast. The +windows are opaque with steam and drops of rain. No matter—tea from the +thermos flask, to the great interest of the other two passengers who had +nervously contemplated the unknown object.</p> + +<p>"Ha!" says he with joy, seeing the hot tea come out. "It has the +appearance of a bomb."</p> + +<p>"Beautiful hot!" says she, with real admiration. All apprehension at +once dissipated, peace reigns in the wet, mist-hidden compartment. We +run through miles and miles of tunnel. The Italians have made wonderful +roads and railways.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>If one rubs the window and looks out, lemon groves with many wet-white +lemons, earthquake-broken houses, new shanties, a grey weary sea on the +right hand, and on the left the dim, grey complication of steep heights +from which issue stone river-beds of inordinate width, and sometimes a +road, a man on a mule. Sometimes near at hand, long-haired, melancholy +goats leaning sideways like tilted ships under the eaves of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span> some scabby +house. They call the house-eaves the dogs' umbrellas. In town you see +the dogs trotting close under the wall out of the wet. Here the goats +lean like rock, listing inwards to the plaster wall. Why look out?</p> + +<p>Sicilian railways are all single line. Hence, the <i>coincidenza</i>. A +<i>coincidenza</i> is where two trains meet in a loop. You sit in a world of +rain and waiting until some silly engine with four trucks puffs +alongside. Ecco la coincidenza! Then after a brief <i>conversazione</i> +between the two trains, <i>diretto</i> and <i>merce</i>, express and goods, the +tin horn sounds and away we go, happily, towards the next coincidence. +Clerks away ahead joyfully chalk up our hours of lateness on the +announcement slate. All adds to the adventurous flavour of the journey, +dear heart. We come to a station where we find the other diretto, the +express from the other direction, awaiting our coincidential arrival. +The two trains run alongside one another, like two dogs meeting in the +street and snuffing one another. Every official rushes to greet every +other official, as if they were all David and Jonathan meeting after a +crisis. They rush into each other's arms and exchange cigarettes. And +the trains can't bear to part. And the station can't bear to part with +us. The officials tease themselves and us with the word <i>pronto</i>, +meaning <i>ready!</i> Pronto! And<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span> again Pronto! And shrill whistles. +Anywhere else a train would go off its tormented head. But no! Here only +that angel's trump of an official little horn will do the business. And +get them to blow that horn if you can. They can't bear to part.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Rain, continual rain, a level grey wet sky, a level grey wet sea, a wet +and misty train winding round and round the little bays, diving through +tunnels. Ghosts of the unpleasant-looking Lipari islands standing a +little way out to sea, heaps of shadow deposited like rubbish heaps in +the universal greyness.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Enter more passengers. An enormously large woman with an extraordinarily +handsome face: an extraordinarily large man, quite young: and a +diminutive servant, a little girl-child of about thirteen, with a +beautiful face.—But the Juno—it is she who takes my breath away. She +is quite young, in her thirties still. She has that queenly stupid +beauty of a classic Hera: a pure brow with level dark brows, large, +dark, bridling eyes, a straight nose, a chiselled mouth, an air of +remote self-consciousness. She sends one's heart straight back to pagan +days. And—and—she is simply enormous, like a house. She wears a black +toque with sticking-up wings, and a black rabbit fur spread on her +shoulders.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span> She edges her way in carefully: and once seated, is +terrified to rise to her feet. She sits with that motionlessness of her +type, closed lips, face muted and expressionless. And she expects me to +admire her: I can see that. She expects me to pay homage to her beauty: +just to that: not homage to herself, but to her as a <i>bel pezzo</i>. She +casts little aloof glances at me under her eyelids.</p> + +<p>It is evident she is a country beauty become a <i>bourgeoise</i>. She speaks +unwillingly to the other squint-eyed passenger, a young woman who also +wears a black-rabbit fur, but without pretensions.</p> + +<p>The husband of Juno is a fresh-faced bourgeois young fellow, and he also +is simply huge. His waistcoat would almost make the overcoat of the +fourth passenger, the unshaven companion of the squinting young woman. +The young Jupiter wears kid gloves: a significant fact here. He, too, +has pretensions. But he is quite affable with the unshaven one, and +speaks Italian unaffectedly. Whereas Juno speaks the dialect with +affectation.</p> + +<p>No one takes any notice of the little maid. She has a gentle, virgin +moon-face, and those lovely grey Sicilian eyes that are translucent, and +into which the light sinks and becomes black sometimes, sometimes dark +blue. She carries the bag and the extra coat of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span> the huge Juno, and sits +on the edge of the seat between me and the unshaven, Juno having +motioned her there with a regal inclination of the head.</p> + +<p>The little maid is rather frightened. Perhaps she is an orphan +child—probably. Her nut-brown hair is smoothly parted and done in two +pigtails. She wears no hat, as is proper for her class. On her shoulders +one of those little knitted grey shoulder-capes that one associates with +orphanages. Her stuff dress is dark grey, her boots are strong.</p> + +<p>The smooth, moon-like, expressionless virgin face, rather pale and +touching, rather frightened, of the girl-child. A perfect face from a +mediaeval picture. It moves one strangely. Why? It is so unconscious, as +we are conscious. Like a little muted animal it sits there, in distress. +She is going to be sick. She goes into the corridor and is sick—very +sick, leaning her head like a sick dog on the window-ledge. Jupiter +towers above her—not unkind, and apparently feeling no repugnance. The +physical convulsion of the girl does not affect him as it affects us. He +looks on unmoved, merely venturing to remark that she had eaten too much +before coming on to the train. An obviously true remark. After which he +comes and talks a few common-places to me. By and by the girl-child +creeps in again and sits on the edge of the seat facing Juno. But no,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span> +says Juno, if she is sick she will be sick over me. So Jupiter +accommodatingly changes places with the girl-child, who is thus next to +me. She sits on the edge of the seat with folded little red hands, her +face pale and expressionless. Beautiful the thin line of her nut-brown +eyebrows, the dark lashes of the silent, pellucid dark eyes. Silent, +motionless, like a sick animal.</p> + +<p>But Juno tells her to wipe her splashed boots. The child gropes for a +piece of paper. Juno tells her to take her pocket handkerchief. Feebly +the sick girl-child wipes her boots, then leans back. But no good. She +has to go in the corridor and be sick again.</p> + +<p>After a while they all get out. Queer to see people so natural. Neither +Juno nor Jupiter is in the least unkind. He even seems kind. But they +are just not upset. Not half as upset as we are—the q-b wanting to +administer tea, and so on. We should have to hold the child's head. They +just quite naturally leave it alone to its convulsions, and are neither +distressed nor repelled. It just is so.</p> + +<p>Their naturalness seems unnatural to us. Yet I am sure it is best. +Sympathy would only complicate matters, and spoil that strange, remote +virginal quality. The q-b says it is largely stupidity.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Nobody washes out the corner of the corridor,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span> though we stop at +stations long enough, and there are two more hours journey. Train +officials go by and stare, passengers step over and stare, new-comers +stare and step over. Somebody asks <i>who</i>? Nobody thinks of just throwing +a pail of water. Why should they? It is all in the course of +nature.—One begins to be a bit chary of this same "nature", in the +south.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Enter two fresh passengers: a black-eyed, round-faced, bright-sharp man +in corduroys and with a gun, and a long-faced, fresh-colored man with +thick snowy hair, and a new hat and a long black overcoat of smooth +black cloth, lined with rather ancient, once expensive fur. He is +extremely proud of this long black coat and ancient fur lining. +Childishly proud he wraps it again over his knee, and gloats. The beady +black-eyes of the hunter look round with pleased alertness. He sits +facing the one in the overcoat, who looks like the last sprout of some +Norman blood. The hunter in corduroys beams abroad, with beady black +eyes in a round red face, curious. And the other tucks his fur-lined +long coat between his legs and gloats to himself: all to himself +gloating, and looking as if he were deaf. But no, he's not. He wears +muddy high-low boots.</p> + +<p>At Termini it is already lamp-light. Business men<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span> crowd in. We get five +business men: all stout, respected Palermitans. The one opposite me has +whiskers, and a many-colored, patched traveling rug over his fat knees. +Queer how they bring that feeling of physical intimacy with them. You +are never surprised if they begin to take off their boots, or their +collar-and-tie. The whole world is a sort of bedroom to them. One +shrinks, but in vain.</p> + +<p>There is some conversation between the black-eyed, beady hunter and the +business men. Also the young white-haired one, the aristocrat, tries to +stammer out, at great length, a few words. As far as I can gather the +young one is mad—or deranged—and the other, the hunter, is his keeper. +They are traveling over Europe together. There is some talk of "the +Count". And the hunter says the unfortunate "has had an accident." But +that is a southern gentleness presumably, a form of speech. Anyhow it is +queer: and the hunter in his corduroys, with his round, ruddy face and +strange black-bright eyes and thin black hair is a puzzle to me, even +more than the albino, long-coated, long-faced, fresh-complexioned, queer +last remnant of a baron as he is. They are both muddy from the land, and +pleased in a little mad way of their own.</p> + +<p>But it is half-past six. We are at Palermo, capital of Sicily. The +hunter slings his gun over his shoulder,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span> I my knapsack, and in the +throng we all disappear, into the Via Maqueda.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Palermo has two great streets, the Via Maqueda, and the Corso, which +cross each other at right-angles. The Via Maqueda is narrow, with narrow +little pavements, and is always choked with carriages and +foot-passengers.</p> + +<p>It had ceased raining. But the narrow road was paved with large, convex +slabs of hard stone, inexpressibly greasy. To cross the Via Maqueda +therefore was a feat. However, once accomplished, it was done. The near +end of the street was rather dark, and had mostly vegetable shops. +Abundance of vegetables—piles of white-and-green fennel, like celery, +and great sheaves of young, purplish, sea-dust-colored artichokes, +nodding their buds, piles of big radishes, scarlet and bluey purple, +carrots, long strings of dried figs, mountains of big oranges, scarlet +large peppers, a last slice of pumpkin, a great mass of colors and +vegetable freshnesses. A mountain of black-purple cauliflowers, like +niggers' heads, and a mountain of snow-white ones next to them. How the +dark, greasy, night-stricken street seems to beam with these vegetables, +all this fresh delicate flesh of luminous vegetables piled there in the +air, and in the recesses of the windowless little<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span> caverns of the shops, +and gleaming forth on the dark air, under the lamps. The q-b at once +wants to buy vegetables. "Look! Look at the snow-white broccoli. Look at +the huge finocchi. Why don't we get them? I <i>must</i> have some. Look at +those great clusters of dates—ten francs a kilo, and we pay sixteen. +It's monstrous. Our place is simply monstrous."</p> + +<p>For all that, one doesn't buy vegetables to take to Sardinia.</p> + +<p>Cross the Corso at that decorated maelstrom and death-trap of the +Quattro Canti. I, of course, am nearly knocked down and killed. Somebody +is nearly knocked down and killed every two minutes. But there—the +carriages are light, and the horses curiously aware creatures. They +would never tread on one.</p> + +<p>The second part of the Via Maqueda is the swell part: silks and plumes, +and an infinite number of shirts and ties and cuff-links and mufflers +and men's fancies. One realises here that man-drapery and man-underwear +is quite as important as woman's, if not more.</p> + +<p>I, of course, in a rage. The q-b stares at every rag and stitch, and +crosses and re-crosses this infernal dark stream of a Via Maqueda, +which, as I have said, is choked solid with strollers and carriages. Be +it remembered that I have on my back the brown knapsack, and the q-b +carries the kitchenino. This is enough to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span> make a travelling menagerie +of us. If I had my shirt sticking out behind, and if the q-b had +happened merely to catch up the table-cloth and wrap it round her as she +came out, all well and good. But a big brown knapsack! And a basket with +thermos flask, etc! No, one could not expect such things to pass in a +southern capital.</p> + +<p>But I am case-hardened. And I am sick of shops. True, we have not been +in a town for three months. But <i>can</i> I care for the innumerable +<i>fantasias</i> in the drapery line? Every wretched bit of would-be-extra +chic is called a fantasia. The word goes lugubriously to my bowels.</p> + +<p>Suddenly I am aware of the q-b darting past me like a storm. Suddenly I +see her pouncing on three giggling young hussies just in front—the +inevitable black velveteen tam, the inevitable white curly muffler, the +inevitable lower-class flappers. "Did you want something? Have you +something to say? Is there something that amuses you? Oh-h! You must +laugh, must you? Oh—laugh! Oh-h! Why? Why? You ask why? Haven't I heard +you! Oh—you spik Ingleesh! You spik Ingleesh! Yes—why! That's why! +Yes, that's why."</p> + +<p>The three giggling young hussies shrink together as if they would all +hide behind one another, after a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span> vain uprearing and a demand why? Madam +tells them why. So they uncomfortably squeeze together under the +unexpected strokes of the q-b's sledge-hammer Italian and more than +sledge-hammer retaliation, there full in the Via Maqueda. They edge +round one another, each attempting to get back of the other, away from +the looming q-b. I perceive that this rotary motion is equivalent to a +standstill, so feel called upon to say something in the manly line.</p> + +<p>"Beastly Palermo bad-manners," I say, and throw a nonchalant "Ignoranti" +at the end, in a tone of dismissal.</p> + +<p>Which does it. Off they go down-stream, still huddling and shrinking +like boats that are taking sails in, and peeping to see if we are +coming. Yes, my dears, we are coming.</p> + +<p>"Why do you bother?" say I to the q-b, who is towering with rage.</p> + +<p>"They've followed us the whole length of the street—with their <i>sacco +militario</i> and their <i>parlano inglese</i> and their <i>you spik Ingleesh</i>, +and their jeering insolence. But the English are fools. They always put +up with this Italian impudence."</p> + +<p>Which is perhaps true.—But this knapsack! It might be full of +bronze-roaring geese, it would not attract more attention!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span></p> + +<p>However, and however, it is seven o'clock, and the shops are beginning +to shut. No more shop-gazing. Only one lovely place: raw ham, boiled +ham, chickens in aspic, chicken vol-au-vents, sweet curds, curd-cheese, +rustic cheese-cake, smoked sausages, beautiful fresh mortadella, huge +Mediterranean red lobsters, and those lobsters without claws. "So good! +So good!" We stand and cry it aloud.</p> + +<p>But this shop too is shutting. I ask a man for the Hotel Pantechnico. +And treating me in that gentle, strangely tender southern manner, he +takes me and shows me. He makes me feel such a poor, frail, helpless +leaf. A foreigner, you know. A bit of an imbecile, poor dear. Hold his +hand and show him the way.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>To sit in the room of this young American woman, with its blue hangings, +and talk and drink tea till midnght! Ah these naïve Americans—they are +a good deal older and shrewder than we, once it nears the point. And +they all seem to feel as if the world were coming to an end. And they +are so truly generous of their hospitality, in this cold world.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="II" id="II"></a>II.</h2> + +<h3>THE SEA.</h3> + + +<p>The fat old porter knocks. Ah me, once more it is dark. Get up again +before dawn. A dark sky outside, cloudy. The thrilling tinkle of +innumerable goat-bells as the first flock enters the city, such a +rippling sound. Well, it must be morning, even if one shivers at it. And +at least it does not rain.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>That pale, bluish, theatrical light outside, of the first dawn. And a +cold wind. We come on to the wide, desolate quay, the curve of the +harbour Panormus. That horrible dawn-pallor of a cold sea out there. And +here, port mud, greasy: and fish: and refuse. The American girl is with +us, wrapped in her sweater. A coarse, cold, black-slimy world, she seems +as if she would melt away before it. But these frail creatures, what a +lot they can go through!</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<div class="figcenter"> +<a name="illus2" id="illus2"></a> +<img src="images/illus2.jpg" alt=""/> +</div> + +<h3>MAP FOR SEA AND SARDINIA</h3> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span></p> + +<p>Across the great, wide, badly paved, mud-greasy, despairing road of the +quay side, and to the sea. There lies our steamer, over there in the +dawn-dusk of the basin, half visible. "That one who is smoking her +cigarette," says the porter. She looks little, beside the huge <i>City of +Trieste</i> who is lying up next her.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Our row-boat is hemmed in by many empty boats, huddled to the side of +the quay. She works her way out like a sheepdog working his way out of a +flock of sheep, or like a boat through pack-ice. We are on the open +basin. The rower stands up and pushes the oars from him. He gives a +long, melancholy cry to someone on the quay. The water goes chock-chock +against the urging bows. The wind is chill. The fantastic peaks behind +Palermo show half-ghostly in a half-dark sky. The dawn seems reluctant +to come. Our steamer still smokes her cigarette—meaning the +funnel-smoke—across there. So, one sits still, and crosses the level +space of half-dark water. Masts of sailing-ships, and spars, cluster on +the left, on the undarkening sky.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Climb up, climb up, this is our ship. Up we go, up the ladder. "Oh but!" +says the American girl. "Isn't she small! Isn't she impossibly small! Oh +my, will you go in such a little thing? Oh dear!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span> Thirty two hours in +such a little boat? Why no, I wouldn't care for it at all."</p> + +<p>A bunch of stewards, cooks, waiters, engineers, pan-cleaners and +what-not, mostly in black canvas jackets. Nobody else on the ship. A +little black bunch of loutish crew with nothing to do, and we the first +passengers served up to be jeered at. There you are, in the grey light.</p> + +<p>"Who is going?"</p> + +<p>"We two—the signorina is not going."</p> + +<p>"Tickets!"</p> + +<p>These are casual proletarian manners.</p> + +<p>We are taken into the one long room with a long table and many +maple-golden doors, alternate panels having a wedge-wood blue-and-white +picture inserted—a would-be Goddess of white marble on a blue ground, +like a health-salts Hygeia advertisement. One of the plain panels +opens—our cabin.</p> + +<p>"Oh dear! Why it isn't as big as a china-closet. However will you get +in!" cries the American girl.</p> + +<p>"One at a time," say I.</p> + +<p>"But it's the tiniest place I <i>ever</i> saw."</p> + +<p>It really was tiny. One had to get into a bunk to shut the door. That +did not matter to me, I am no Titanic American. I pitched the knapsack +on one bunk, the kitchenino on the other, and we shut the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span> door. The +cabin disappeared into a maple-wood panel of the long, subterranean +state-room.</p> + +<p>"Why, is this the only place you've got to sit in?" cried the American +girl. "But how perfectly awful! No air, and so dark, and smelly. Why I +never saw such a boat! Will you really go? Will you really!"</p> + +<p>The state-room was truly rather subterranean and stuffy, with nothing +but a long table and an uncanny company of screw-pin chairs seated +thereat, and no outlet to the air at all, but it was not so bad +otherwise, to me who have never been out of Europe. Those maple-wood +panels and ebony curves—and those Hygeias! They went all round, even +round the curve at the dim, distant end, and back up the near side. Yet +how beautiful old, gold-coloured maple-wood is! how very lovely, with +the ebony curves of the door arch! There was a wonderful old-fashioned, +Victorian glow in it, and a certain splendour. Even one could bear the +Hygeias let in under glass—the colour was right, that wedge-wood and +white, in such lovely gold lustre. There was a certain homely grandeur +still in the days when this ship was built: a richness of choice +material. And health-salts Hygeias, wedge-wood Greek goddesses on +advertisement placards! Yet they <i>weren't</i> advertisements. That was +what<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span> really worried me. They never had been. Perhaps Weego's Health +Salts stole her later.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>We have no coffee—that goes without saying. Nothing doing so early. The +crew still stands in a gang, exactly like a gang of louts at a +street-corner. And they've got the street all to themselves—this ship. +We climb to the upper deck.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>She is a long, slender, old steamer with one little funnel. And she +seems so deserted, now that one can't see the street-corner gang of the +casual crew. They are just below. Our ship is deserted.</p> + +<p>The dawn is wanly blueing. The sky is a curdle of cloud, there is a bit +of pale gold eastwards, beyond Monte Pellegrino. The wind blows across +the harbour. The hills behind Palermo prick up their ears on the +sky-line. The city lies unseen, near us and level. There—a big ship is +coming in: the Naples boat.</p> + +<p>And the little boats keep putting off from the near quay, and coming to +us. We watch. A stout officer, cavalry, in grayey-green, with a big +dark-blue cloak lined with scarlet. The scarlet lining keeps flashing. +He has a little beard, and his uniform is not quite clean. He has big +wooden chests, tied with rope, for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span> luggage. Poor and of no class. Yet +that scarlet, splendid lining, and the spurs. It seems a pity they must +go second-class. Yet so it is, he goes forward when the dock porter has +hoisted those wooden boxes. No fellow-passenger yet.</p> + +<p>Boats still keep coming. Ha-ha! Here is the commissariat! Various sides +of kid, ready for roasting: various chickens: fennel like celery: wine +in a bottiglione: new bread: packages! Hand them up, hand them up. "Good +food!" cries the q-b in anticipation.</p> + +<p>It must be getting near time to go. Two more passengers—young thick men +in black broad-cloth standing up in the stern of a little boat, their +hands in their pockets, looking a little cold about the chin. Not quite +Italian, too sturdy and manly. Sardinians from Cagliari, as a matter of +fact.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>We go down from the chill upper-deck. It is growing full day. Bits of +pale gold are flying among delicate but cold flakes of cloud from the +east, over Monte Pellegrino, bits of very new turquoise sky come out. +Palermo on the left crouches upon her all-harbour—a little desolate, +disorderly, end-of-the-world, end-of-the-sea, along her quay front. Even +from here we can see the yellow carts rattling slowly, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span> mules +nodding their high weird plumes of scarlet along the broad weary +harbour-side. Oh painted carts of Sicily, with all history on your +panels!</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Arrives an individual at our side. "The captain fears it will not be +possible to start. There is much wind outside. Much wind!"</p> + +<p>How they <i>love</i> to come up with alarming, disquieting, or annoying news! +The joy it gives them. What satisfaction on all the faces: of course all +the other loafers are watching us, the street-corner loungers of this +deck. But we have been many times bitten.</p> + +<p>"Ah ma!" say I, looking at the sky, "not so much wind as all that."</p> + +<p>An air of quiet, shrugging indifference is most effectual: as if you +knew all about it, a good deal more than they knew.</p> + +<p>"Ah si! Molto vento! Molto vento! Outside! Outside!"</p> + +<p>With a long face and a dramatic gesture he points out of the harbour, to +the grey sea. I too look out of the harbour at the pale line of sea +beyond the mole. But I do not trouble to answer, and my eye is calm. So +he goes away, only half triumphant.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>"Things seem to get worse and worse!" cries the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span> American friend. "What +will you do on such a boat if you have an awful time out in the +Mediterranean here? Oh no—will you risk it, really? Won't you go from +Cività Vecchia?"</p> + +<p>"How awful it will be!" cries the q-b, looking round the grey harbour, +the many masts clustering in the grey sky on the right: the big Naples +boat turning her posterior to the quay-side a little way off, and +cautiously budging backwards: the almost entirely shut-in harbour: the +bits of blue and flying white cloud overhead: the little boats like +beetles scuttling hither and thither across the basin: the thick crowd +on the quay come to meet the Naples boat.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Time! Time! The American friend must go. She bids us goodbye, more than +sympathetically.</p> + +<p>"I shall be awfully interested to hear how you get on."</p> + +<p>So down the side she goes. The boatman wants twenty francs—wants +more—but doesn't get it. He gets ten, which is five too much. And so, +sitting rather small and pinched and cold-looking, huddled in her +sweater, she bibbles over the ripply water to the distant stone steps. +We wave farewell. But other traffic comes between us. And the q-b, +feeling nervous, is rather cross because the American friend's<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span> ideas of +luxury have put us in such a poor light. We feel like the poorest of +poor sea-faring relations.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Our ship is hooting for all she's worth. An important last-minuter comes +surging up. The rope hawsers are being wound clankily in. Seagulls—they +are never very many in the Mediterranean—seagulls whirl like a few +flakes of snow in the upper chill air. Clouds spin. And without knowing +it we are evaporating away from the shore, from our mooring, between the +great <i>City of Trieste</i> and another big black steamer that lies like a +wall. We breathe towards this second black wall of steamer: distinctly. +And of course an individual in an official cap is standing on the bottom +of our departure ladder just above the water, yelling Barca! +Barca!—shouting for a boat. And an old man on the sea stands up to his +oars and comes pushing his clumsy boat with gathering speed between us +and the other black wall. There he stands away below there, small, +firing his clumsy boat along, remote as if in a picture on the dark +green water. And our black side insidiously and evilly aspires to the +other huge black wall. He rows in the canyon between, and is nearly +here.</p> + +<p>When lo, the individual on the bottom step turns in the other direction. +Another boat from the open<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span> basin is sweeping up: it is a race: she is +near, she is nearer, she is up. With a curvet the boat from the open +rounds up at the ladder. The boat between the gulf backs its oars. The +official individual shouts and waves, the old man backing his oars in +the gulf below yells expostulation, the boat from the open carries off +its prey, our ship begins slowly to puddle-puddle-puddle, working her +screw, the man in the gulf of green water rows for his life—we are +floating into the open basin.</p> + +<p>Slowly, slowly we turn round: and as the ship turns, our hearts turn. +Palermo fades from our consciousness: the Naples boat, the disembarking +crowds, the rattling carriages to the land—the great <i>City of +Trieste</i>—all fades from our heart. We see only the open gap of the +harbour entrance, and the level, pale-grey void of the sea beyond. There +are wisps of gleamy light—out there.</p> + +<p>And out there our heart watches—though Palermo is near us, just behind. +We look round, and see it all behind us—but already it is gone, gone +from our heart. The fresh wind, the gleamy wisps of light, the running, +open sea beyond the harbour bars.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>And so we steam out. And almost at once the ship begins to take a long, +slow, dizzy dip, and a fainting<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span> swoon upwards, and a long, slow, dizzy +dip, slipping away from beneath one. The q-b turns pale. Up comes the +deck in that fainting swoon backwards—then down it fades in that +indescribable slither forwards. It is all quite gentle—quite, quite +gentle. But oh, so long, and so slow, and so dizzy.</p> + +<p>"Rather pleasant!" say I to the q-b.</p> + +<p>"Yes. Rather lovely <i>really</i>," she answers wistfully. To tell the truth +there is something in the long, slow lift of the ship, and her long, +slow slide forwards which makes my heart beat with joy. It is the motion +of freedom. To feel her come up—then slide slowly forward, with a sound +of the smashing of waters, is like the magic gallop of the sky, the +magic gallop of elemental space. That long, slow, waveringly rhythmic +rise and fall of the ship, with waters snorting as it were from her +nostrils, oh God what a joy it is to the wild innermost soul. One is +free at last—and lilting in a slow flight of the elements, winging +outwards. Oh God, to be free of all the hemmed-in life—the horror of +human tension, the absolute insanity of machine persistence. The agony +which a train is to me, really. And the long-drawn-out agony of a life +among tense, resistant people on land. And then to feel the long, slow +lift and drop of this almost empty ship, as she took the waters. Ah God, +liberty, liberty,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span> elemental liberty. I wished in my soul the voyage +might last forever, that the sea had no end, that one might float in +this wavering, tremulous, yet long and surging pulsation while ever time +lasted: space never exhausted, and no turning back, no looking back, +even.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The ship was almost empty—save of course for the street-corner louts +who hung about just below, on the deck itself. We stood alone on the +weather-faded little promenade deck, which has old oak seats with old, +carved little lions at the ends, for arm-rests—and a little cabin +mysteriously shut, which much peeping determined as the wireless office +and the operator's little curtained bed-niche.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Cold, fresh wind, a black-blue, translucent, rolling sea on which the +wake rose in snapping foam, and Sicily on the left: Monte Pellegrino, a +huge, inordinate mass of pinkish rock, hardly crisped with the faintest +vegetation, looming up to heaven from the sea. Strangely large in mass +and bulk Monte Pellegrino looks: and bare, like a Sahara in heaven: and +old-looking. These coasts of Sicily are very imposing, terrific, +fortifying the interior. And again one gets the feeling that age has +worn them bare: as if old, old civilisations had worn away and exhausted +the soil,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span> leaving a terrifying blankness of rock, as at Syracuse in +plateaus, and here in a great mass.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>There seems hardly any one on board but ourselves: we alone on the +little promenade deck. Strangely lonely, floating on a bare old ship +past the great bare shores, on a rolling sea, stooping and rising in the +wind. The wood of the fittings is all bare and weather-silvered, the +cabin, the seats, even the little lions of the seats. The paint wore +away long ago: and this timber will never see paint any more. Strange to +put one's hand on the old oaken wood, so sea-fibred. Good old +delicate-threaded oak: I swear it grew in England. And everything so +carefully done, so solidly and everlastingly. I look at the lions, with +the perfect-fitting oaken pins through their paws clinching them down, +and their little mouths open. They are as solid as they were in +Victorian days, as immovable. They will never wear away. What a joy in +the careful, thorough, manly, everlasting work put into a ship: at least +into this sixty-year-old vessel. Every bit of this old oak wood so +sound, so beautiful: and the whole welded together with joints and +wooden pins far more beautifully and livingly than iron welds. Rustless, +life-born, living-tissued old wood: rustless as flesh is rustless, and +happy-seeming as iron never can be. She<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span> rides so well, she takes the +sea so beautifully, as a matter of course.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Various members of the crew wander past to look at us. This little +promenade deck is over the first-class quarters, full in the stern. So +we see first one head then another come up the ladder—mostly bare +heads: and one figure after another slouches past, smoking a cigarette. +All crew. At last the q-b stops one of them—it is what they are all +waiting for, an opportunity to talk—and asks if the weird object on the +top of Pellegrino is a ruin. Could there be a more touristy question! +No, it is the semaphore station. Slap in the eye for the q-b! She +doesn't mind, however, and the member of the crew proceeds to converse. +He is a weedy, hollow-cheeked town-product: a Palermitan. He wears faded +blue over-alls and informs us he is the ship's carpenter: happily +unemployed for the rest of his life, apparently, and taking it as rather +less than his dues. The ship once did the Naples-Palermo course—a very +important course—in the old days of the General Navigation Company. The +General Navigation Company sold her for eighty thousand liras years ago, +and now she was worth two million. We pretend to believe: but I make a +poor show. I am thoroughly sick to death<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span> of the sound of liras. No man +can overhear ten words of Italian today without two thousand or two +million or ten or twenty or two liras flying like venomous mosquitoes +round his ears. Liras—liras—liras—nothing else. Romantic, poetic, +cypress-and-orange-tree Italy is gone. Remains an Italy smothered in the +filthy smother of innumerable Lira notes: ragged, unsavoury paper money +so thick upon the air that one breathes it like some greasy fog. Behind +this greasy fog some people may still see the Italian sun. I find it +hard work. Through this murk of Liras you peer at Michael Angelo and at +Botticelli and the rest, and see them all as through a glass, darkly. +For heavy around you is Italy's after-the-war atmosphere, darkly +pressing you, squeezing you, milling you into dirty paper notes. King +Harry was lucky that they only wanted to coin him into gold. Italy wants +to mill you into filthy paper Liras.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Another head—and a black alpaca jacket and a serviette this time—to +tell us coffee is ready. Not before it is time, too. We go down into the +subterranean state-room and sit on the screw-pin chairs, while the ship +does the slide-and-slope trot under us, and we drink a couple of cups of +coffee-and-milk, and eat a piece of bread and butter. At least one of +the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span> innumerable members of the crew gives me one cup, then casts me +off. It is most obviously his intention that I shall get no more: +because of course the innumerable members of the crew could all just do +with another coffee and milk. However, though the ship heaves and the +alpaca coats cluster menacingly in the doorway, I balance my way to the +tin buffet and seize the coffee pot and the milk pot, and am quite +successful in administering to the q-b and myself. Having restored the +said vessels to their tin altar, I resume my spin chair at the long and +desert board. The q-b and I are alone—save that in the distance a very +fat back with gold-braid collar sits sideways and a fat hand disposes of +various papers—he is part of the one-and-only table, of course. The +tall lean alpaca jacket, with a face of yellow stone and a big black +moustache moves from the outer doorway, glowers at our filled cups, and +goes to the tin altar and touches the handles of the two vessels: just +touches them to an arrangement: as one who should say: These are mine. +What dirty foreigner dares help himself!</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>As quickly as possible we stagger up from the long dungeon where the +alpaca jackets are swooping like blue-bottles upon the coffee pots, into +the air. There the carpenter is waiting for us, like a spider.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Isn't the sea a little quieter?" says the q-b wistfully. She is growing +paler.</p> + +<p>"No, Signora—how should it be?" says the gaunt-faced carpenter. "The +wind is waiting for us behind Cape Gallo. You see that cape?" he points +to a tall black cliff-front in the sea ahead. "When we get to that cape +we get the wind and the sea. Here—" he makes a gesture—"it is +moderate."</p> + +<p>"Ugh!" says the q-b, turning paler. "I'm going to lie down."</p> + +<p>She disappears. The carpenter, finding me stony ground, goes forward, +and I see him melting into the crowd of the innumerable crew, that +hovers on the lower-deck passage by the kitchen and the engines.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The clouds are flying fast overhead: and sharp and isolated come drops +of rain, so that one thinks it must be spray. But no, it is a handful of +rain. The ship swishes and sinks forward, gives a hollow thudding and +rears slowly backward, along this pinkish lofty coast of Sicily that is +just retreating into a bay. From the open sea comes the rain, come the +long waves.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>No shelter. One must go down. The q-b lies quietly in her bunk. The +state-room is stale like a passage on the underground railway. No +shelter,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span> save near the kitchen and the engines, where there is a bit of +warmth. The cook is busy cleaning fish, making the whiting bite their +tails venomously at a little board just outside his kitchen-hole. A slow +stream of kitchen-filth swilkers back and forth along the ship's side. A +gang of the crew leans near me—a larger gang further down. Heaven knows +what they can all be—but they never do anything but stand in gangs and +talk and eat and smoke cigarettes. They are mostly young—mostly +Palermitan—with a couple of unmistakable Neapolitans, having the +peculiar Neapolitan hang-dog good looks, the chiselled cheek, the little +black moustache, the large eyes. But they chew with their cheeks bulged +out, and laugh with their fine, semi-sarcastic noses. The whole gang +looks continually sideways. Nobody ever commands them—there seems to be +absolutely no control. Only the fat engineer in grey linen looks as +clean and as competent as his own machinery. Queer how machine-control +puts the pride and self-respect into a man.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The rain over, I go and squat against the canvas that is spread over the +arched sky-lights on the small promenade deck, sitting on the seat that +is fixed to the sky-light sides. The wind is cold: there are snatches of +sun and spits of rain. The big cape has<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span> come and is being left behind: +we are heading for a far-off cape like a cloud in the grey air. A +dimness comes over one's mind: a sort of stupefaction owing to the wind +and the relentless slither-and-rearing of the ship. Not a sickness, but +a sort of dim faintness. So much motion, such moving, powerful air. And +withal a constant triumph in the long, slow sea-gallop of the ship.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>A great loud bell: midday and the crew going to eat, rushing to eat. +After some time we are summoned. "The Signora isn't eating?" asks the +waiter eagerly: hoping she is not. "Yes, she is eating," say I. I fetch +the q-b from her berth. Rather wanly she comes and gets into her spin +chair. Bash comes a huge plate of thick, oily cabbage soup, very full, +swilkering over the sides. We do what we can with it. So does the third +passenger: a young woman who never wears a hat, thereby admitting +herself simply as one of "the people," but who has an expensive +complicated dress, nigger-coloured thin silk stockings, and suede +high-heeled shoes. She is handsome, sturdy, with large dark eyes and a +robust, frank manner: far too robustly downright for Italy. She is from +Cagliari—and can't do much with the cabbage soup: and tells the waiter +so, in her deep, hail-fellow-well-met<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span> voice. In the doorway hovers a +little cloud of alpaca jackets grinning faintly with malignant +anticipation of food, hoping, like blow-flies, we shall be too ill to +eat. Away goes the soup and appears a massive yellow omelette, like some +log of bilious wood. It is hard, and heavy, and cooked in the usual +rank-tasting olive oil. The young woman doesn't have much truck with it: +neither do we. To the triumph of the blow-flies, who see the yellow +monster borne to their altar. After which a long long slab of the +inevitable meat cut into innumerable slices, tasting of dead nothingness +and having a thick sauce of brown neutrality: sufficient for twelve +people at least. This, with masses of strong-tasting greenish +cauliflower liberally weighted with oil, on a ship that was already +heaving its heart out, made up the dinner. Accumulating malevolent +triumph among the blow-flies in the passage. So on to a dessert of +oranges, pears with wooden hearts and thick yellowish wash-leather +flesh, and apples. Then coffee.</p> + +<p>And we had sat through it, which is something. The alpaca blue-bottles +buzzed over the masses of food that went back on the dishes to the tin +altar. Surely it had been made deliberately so that we should not eat +it! The Cagliarese young woman talked to us. Yes, she broke into that +awful language which<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span> the Italians—the quite ordinary ones—call +French, and which they insist on speaking for their own glorification: +yea, when they get to heaven's gate they will ask St. Peter for:</p> + +<p>"OOn bigliay pour ung—trozzième classe."</p> + +<p>Fortunately or unfortunately her inquisitiveness got the better of her, +and she fell into her native Italian. What were we, where did we come +from, where were we going, <i>why</i> were we going, had we any children, did +we want any, etc. After every answer she nodded her head and said Ahu! +and watched us with energetic dark eyes. Then she ruminated over our +nationalities and said, to the unseeing witnesses: Una bella coppia, a +fine couple. As at the moment we felt neither beautiful nor coupled, we +only looked greener. The grim man-at-arms coming up to ask us again if +we weren't going to have a little wine, she lapsed into her ten-pounder +French, which was most difficult to follow. And she said that on a +sea-voyage one must eat, one must eat, if only a little. But—and she +lapsed into Italian—one must by no means drink wine—no—no! One didn't +want to, said I sadly. Whereupon the grim man-at-arms, whom, of course, +we had cheated out of the bottle we refused to have opened for us, said +with a lost sarcasm that wine made a man of a man, etc., etc. I was too +weary of that underground,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span> however. All I knew was that he wanted wine, +wine, wine, and we hadn't ordered any. He didn't care for food.</p> + +<p>The Cagliarese told us she came now from Naples, and her husband was +following in a few days. He was doing business in Naples. I nearly asked +if he was a little dog-fish—this being the Italian for profiteer, but +refrained in time. So the two ladies retired to lie down, I went and sat +under my tarpaulin.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>I felt very dim, and only a bit of myself. And I dozed blankly. The +afternoon grew more sunny. The ship turned southwards, and with the wind +and waves behind, it became much warmer, much smoother. The sun had the +lovely strong winey warmth, golden over the dark-blue sea. The old +oak-wood looked almost white, the afternoon was sweet upon the sea. And +in the sunshine and the swishing of the sea, the speedier running of the +empty ship, I slept a warm, sweet hour away, and awoke new. To see ahead +pale, uplooming islands upon the right: the windy Egades: and on the +right a mountain or high conical hill, with buildings on the summit: and +in front against the sea, still rather far away, buildings rising upon a +quay, within a harbor: and a mole, and a castle forward to sea, all +small and far away, like a view. The buildings<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span> were square and fine. +There was something impressive—magical under the far sunshine and the +keen wind, the square and well-proportioned buildings waiting far off, +waiting like a lost city in a story, a Rip van Winkle city. I knew it +was Trapani, the western port of Sicily, under the western sun.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>And the hill near us was Mount Eryx. I had never seen it before. So I +had imagined a mountain in the sky. But it was only a hill, with +undistinguishable cluster of a village on the summit, where even now +cold wisps of vapour caught. They say it is 2,500 feet high. Still it +looks only a hill.</p> + +<p>But why in the name of heaven should my heart stand still as I watch +that hill which rises above the sea? It is the Etna of the west: but +only a town-crowned hill. To men it must have had a magic almost greater +than Etna's. Watching Africa! Africa, showing her coast on clear days. +Africa the dreaded. And the great watch-temple of the summit, +world-sacred, world-mystic in the world that was. Venus of the +aborigines, older than Greek Aphrodite. Venus of the aborigines, from +her watch-temple looking at Africa, beyond the Egatian isles. The +world-mystery, the smiling Astarte. This, one of the world centres, +older than old! and the woman-goddess watching Africa! <i>Erycina +ridens.</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span> Laughing, the woman-goddess, at this centre of an ancient, +quite-lost world.</p> + +<p>I confess my heart stood still. But is mere historical fact so strong, +that what one learns in bits from books can move one so? Or does the +very word call an echo out of the dark blood? It seems so to me. It +seems to me from the darkest recesses of my blood comes a terrible echo +at the name of Mount Eryx: something quite unaccountable. The name of +Athens hardly moves me. At Eryx—my darkness quivers. Eryx, looking west +into Africa's sunset. <i>Erycina ridens.</i></p> + +<p>There is a tick-tocking in the little cabin against which I lean. The +wireless operator is busy communicating with Trapani, no doubt. He is a +fat young man with fairish curly hair and an important bearing. Give a +man control of some machine, and at once his air of importance and +more-than-human dignity develops. One of the unaccountable members of +the crew lounges in the little doorway, like a chicken on one foot, +having nothing to do. The girl from Cagliari comes up with two young +men—also Sardinians by their thick-set, independent look, and the touch +of pride in their dark eyes. She has no wraps at all: just her elegant +fine-cloth dress, her bare head from which the wisps of hair blow across +her brow, and the transparent "nigger" silk stockings. Yet she does not +seem cold. She talks<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span> with great animation, sitting between the two +young men. And she holds the hand of the one in the overcoat +affectionately. She is always holding the hand of one or other of the +two young men: and wiping wisps of wind-blown hair from her brow: and +talking in her strong, nonchalant voice, rapidly, ceaselessly, with +massive energy. Heaven knows if the two young men—they are third-class +passengers—were previous acquaintances. But they hold her hand like +brothers—quite simply and nicely, not at all sticky and libidinous. It +all has an air of "Why not?"</p> + +<p>She shouts at me as I pass, in her powerful, extraordinary French:</p> + +<p>"Madame votre femme, elle est au lit?"</p> + +<p>I say she is lying down.</p> + +<p>"Ah!" she nods. "Elle a le mal de mer?"</p> + +<p>No, she is not sea-sick, just lying down.</p> + +<p>The two young men, between whom she is sitting as between two pillows, +watch with the curious Sardinian dark eyes that seem alert and show the +white all round. They are pleasant—a bit like seals. And they have a +numb look for the moment, impressed by this strange language. She +proceeds energetically to translate into Sardinian, as I pass on.</p> + +<p>We do not seem to be going to Trapani. There lies the town on the left, +under the hill, the square buildings<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span> that suggest to me the factories +of the East India Company shining in the sun along the curious, +closed-in harbour, beyond the running, dark blue sea. We seem to be +making for the island bulk of Levanzo. Perhaps we shall steer away to +Sardinia without putting in to Trapani.</p> + +<p>On and on we run—and always as if we were going to steer between the +pale blue, heaped-up islands, leaving Trapani behind us on our left. The +town has been in sight for an hour or more: and still we run out to sea +towards Levanzo. And the wireless-operator busily tick-tocks and throbs +in his little cabin on this upper deck. Peeping in, one sees his bed and +chair behind a curtain, screened off from his little office. And all so +tidy and pleased-looking.</p> + +<p>From the islands one of the Mediterranean sailing ships is beating her +way, across our track, to Trapani. I don't know the name of ships but +the carpenter says she is a schooner: he says it with that Italian +misgiving which doesn't really know but which can't bear not to know. +Anyhow on she comes, with her tall ladder of square sails white in the +afternoon light, and her lovely prow, curved in with a perfect hollow, +running like a wild animal on a scent across the waters. There—the +scent leads her north again. She changes her tack from the harbour +mouth, and goes coursing away, passing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span> behind us. Lovely she is, nimble +and quick and palpitating, with all her sails white and bright and +eager.</p> + +<p>We are changing our course. We have all the time been heading for the +south of Levanzo. Now I see the island slowly edging back, as if +clearing out of the way for us, like a man in the street. The island +edges and turns aside: and walks away. And clearly we are making for the +harbour mouth. We have all this time been running, out at sea, round the +back of the harbour. Now I see the fortress-castle, an old thing, out +forward to sea: and a little lighthouse and the way in. And beyond, the +town-front with great palm trees and other curious dark trees, and +behind these the large square buildings of the south rising imposingly, +as if severe, big palaces upon the promenade. It all has a stately, +southern, imposing appearance, withal remote from our modern centuries: +standing back from the tides of our industrial life.</p> + +<p>I remember the Crusaders, how they called here so often on their way to +the East. And Trapani seems waiting for them still, with its palm trees +and its silence, full in the afternoon sun. It has not much to do but +wait, apparently.</p> + +<p>The q-b emerges into the sun, crying out how lovely! And the sea is +quieter: we are already in the lea of the harbour-curve. From the north +the many-sailed ship<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span> from the islands is running down towards us, with +the wind. And away on the south, on the sea-level, numerous short +windmills are turning their sails briskly, windmill after windmill, +rather stumpy, spinning gaily in the blue, silent afternoon, among the +salt-lagoons stretching away towards Marsala. But there is a whole +legion of windmills, and Don Quixote would have gone off his head. There +they spin, hither and thither, upon the pale-blue sea-levels. And +perhaps one catches a glitter of white salt-heaps. For these are the +great salt-lagoons which make Trapani rich.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>We are entering the harbour-basin, however, past the old castle out on +the spit, past the little lighthouse, then through the entrance, +slipping quietly on the now tranquil water. Oh, and how pleasant the +fulness of the afternoon sun flooding this round, fast-sleeping harbour, +along whose side the tall palms drowse, and whose waters are fast +asleep. It seems quite a small, cosy harbour, with the great buildings +warm-colored in the sun behind the dark tree-avenue of the marina. The +same silent, sleeping, endlessly sun-warmed stateliness.</p> + +<p>In the midst of this tranquillity we slowly turn round upon the shining +water, and in a few moments are moored. There are other ships moored +away to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span> right: all asleep, apparently, in the flooding of the +afternoon sun. Beyond the harbour entrance runs the great sea and the +wind. Here all is still and hot and forgotten.</p> + +<p>"Vous descendez en terre?" shouts the young woman, in her energetic +French—she leaves off holding the young men's hands for the moment. We +are not quite sure: and we don't want her to come with us, anyhow, for +her French is not our French.</p> + +<p>The land sleeps on: nobody takes any notice of us: but just one boat +paddles out the dozen yards to our side. We decide to set foot on shore.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>One should not, and we knew it. One should never enter into these +southern towns that look so nice, so lovely, from the outside. However, +we thought we would buy some cakes. So we crossed the avenue which looks +so beautiful from the sea, and which, when you get into it, is a cross +between an outside place where you throw rubbish and a humpy unmade road +in a raw suburb, with a few iron seats, and litter of old straw and rag. +Indescribably dreary in itself: yet with noble trees, and lovely +sunshine, and the sea and the islands gleaming magic beyond the harbour +mouth, and the sun, the eternal sun full focussed. A few mangy, +nothing-to-do people stand disconsolately about, in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span> southern fashion, +as if they had been left there, water-logged, by the last flood, and +were waiting for the next flood to wash them further. Round the corner +along the quay a Norwegian steamer dreams that she is being loaded, in +the muddle of the small port.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>We looked at the cakes—heavy and wan they appeared to our sea-rolled +stomachs. So we strolled into a main street, dark and dank like a sewer. +A tram bumped to a standstill, as if now at last was the end of the +world. Children coming from school ecstatically ran at our heels, with +bated breath, to hear the vocal horrors of our foreign speech. We turned +down a dark side alley, about forty paces deep: and were on the northern +bay, and on a black stench that seemed like the perpetual sewer, a bank +of mud.</p> + +<p>So we got to the end of the black main street, and turned in haste to +the sun. Ah—in a moment we were in it. There rose the palms, there lay +our ship in the shining, curving basin—and there focussed the sun, so +that in a moment we were drunk or dazed by it. Dazed. We sat on an iron +seat in the rubbish-desolate, sun-stricken avenue.</p> + +<p>A ragged and dirty girl was nursing a fat and moist and immovable baby +and tending to a grimy fat infant boy. She stood a yard away and gazed +at us as one<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span> would gaze at a pig one was going to buy. She came nearer, +and examined the q-b. I had my big hat down over my eyes. But no, she +had taken her seat at my side, and poked her face right under my hat +brim, so that her towzled hair touched me, and I thought she would kiss +me. But again no. With her breath on my cheek she only gazed on my face +as if it were a wax mystery. I got up hastily.</p> + +<p>"Too much for me," said I to the q-b.</p> + +<p>She laughed, and asked what the baby was called. The baby was called +Beppina, as most babies are.</p> + +<p>Driven forth, we wandered down the desolate avenue of shade and sun +towards the ship, and turned once more into the town. We had not been on +shore more than ten minutes. This time we went to the right, and found +more shops. The streets were dark and sunless and cold. And Trapani +seemed to me to sell only two commodities: cured rabbit skins and +cat-skins, and great, hideous, modern bed-spread arrangements of heavy +flowered silk and fabulous price. They seem to think nothing of +thousands of liras, in Trapani.</p> + +<p>But most remarkable was bunny and pussy. Bunny and pussy, flattened out +like pressed leaves, dangling in clusters everywhere. Furs! white bunny, +black bunny in great abundance, piebald bunny, grey bunny:—then pussy, +tabby pussy, and tortoiseshell<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span> pussy, but mostly black pussy, in a +ghastly semblance of life, all flat, of course. Just single furs. +Clusters, bunches, heaps, and dangling arrays of plain-superficies puss +and bun-bun! Puss and bun by the dozen and the twenty, like dried +leaves, for your choice. If a cat from a ship should chance to find +itself in Trapani streets, it would give a mortal yell, and go mad, I am +sure.</p> + +<p>We strolled for ten more minutes in this narrow, tortuous, unreal town, +that seemed to have plenty of flourishing inhabitants, and a fair number +of Socialists, if one was to judge by the great scrawlings on the walls: +<span class="smcap">W. Lenin</span> and <span class="smcap">Abasso La Borghesia</span>. Don't imagine, by the way, that Lenin +is another Wille on the list. The apparent initial stands for <i>Evviva</i>, +the double V.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Cakes one dared not buy, after looking at them. But we found macaroon +biscuits, and a sort of flat plaster-casts of the Infant Jesus under a +dove, of which we bought two. The q-b ate her macaroon biscuits all +through the streets, and we went towards the ship. The fat boatman +hailed us to take us back. It was just about eight yards of water to +row, the ship being moored on the quay: one could have jumped it. I gave +the fat boatman two liras, two francs. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span> immediately put on the +socialist-workman indignation, and thrust the note back at me. Sixty +centimes more! The fee was thirteen sous each way! In Venice or Syracuse +it would be two sous. I looked at him and gave him the money and said: +"Per Dio, we are in Trapani!" He muttered back something about +foreigners. But the hateful, unmanly insolence of these lords of toil, +now they have their various "unions" behind them and their "rights" as +working men, sends my blood black. They are ordinary men no more: the +human, happy Italian is most marvellously vanished. New honors come upon +them, etc. The dignity of human labour is on its hind legs, busy giving +every poor innocent who isn't ready for it a kick in the mouth.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>But, once more in parenthesis, let me remind myself that it is our own +English fault. We have slobbered about the nobility of toil, till at +last the nobles naturally insist on eating the cake. And more than that, +we have set forth, politically, on such a high and Galahad quest of holy +liberty, and been caught so shamelessly filling our pockets, that no +wonder the naïve and idealistic south turns us down with a bang.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Well, we are back on the ship. And we want tea. On the list by the door +it says we are to have coffee,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span> milk and butter at 8.30: luncheon at +11.30: tea, coffee or chocolate at 3.00: and dinner at 6.30. And +moreover: "The company will feed the passengers for the normal duration +of the voyage only." Very well—very well. Then where is tea? Not any +signs! and the alpaca jackets giving us a wide berth. But we find our +man, and demand our rights: at least the q-b does.</p> + +<p>The tickets from Palermo to Cagliari cost, together, 583 liras. Of this, +250 liras was for the ticket, and 40 liras each for the food. This, for +two tickets, would make 580 liras. The odd three for usual stamps. The +voyage was supposed to last about thirty or thirty-two hours: from eight +of the morning of departure to two or four of the following afternoon. +Surely we pay for our tea.</p> + +<p>The other passengers have emerged: a large, pale, fat, "handsome" +Palermitan who is going to be professor at Cagliari: his large, fat, but +high-coloured wife: and three children, a boy of fourteen like a thin, +frail, fatherly girl, a little boy in a rabbit-skin overcoat, coming +rather unfluffed, and a girl-child on the mother's knee. The +one-year-old girl-child being, of course, the only man in the party.</p> + +<p>They have all been sick all day, and look washed out. We sympathise. +They lament the cruelties of the journey—and <i>senza servizio! senza +servizio!</i> without<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span> any maid servant. The mother asks for coffee, and a +cup of milk for the children: then, seeing our tea with lemon, and +knowing it by repute, she will have tea. But the rabbit-boy will have +coffee—coffee and milk—and nothing else. And an orange. And the baby +will have lemon, pieces of lemon. And the fatherly young "miss" of an +adolescent brother laughs indulgently at all the whims of these two +young ones: the father laughs and thinks it all adorable and expects us +to adore. He is almost too washed-out to attend properly, to give the +full body of his attention.</p> + +<p>So the mother gets her cup of tea—and puts a piece of lemon in—and +then milk on top of that. The rabbit boy sucks an orange, slobbers in +the tea, insists on coffee and milk, tries a piece of lemon, and gets a +biscuit. The baby, with weird faces, chews pieces of lemon: and drops +them in the family cup: and fishes them out with a little sugar, and +dribbles them across the table to her mouth, throws them away and +reaches for a new sour piece. They all think it humorous and adorable. +Arrives the milk, to be treated as another loving cup, mingled with +orange, lemon, sugar, tea, biscuit, chocolate, and cake. Father, +mother, and elder brother partake of nothing, they haven't the +stomach. But they are charmed, of course, by the pretty pranks and +messes of the infants. They have extraordinary<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span> amiable patience, +and find the young ones a perpetual source of charming amusement. +They look at one another, the elder ones, and laugh and comment, +while the two young ones mix themselves and the table into a +lemon-milk-orange-tea-sugar-biscuit-cake-chocolate mess. This inordinate +Italian amiable patience with their young monkeys is astonishing. It +makes the monkeys more monkey-like, and self-conscious incredibly, so +that a baby has all the tricks of a Babylonian harlot, making eyes and +trying new pranks. Till at last one sees the southern Holy Family as an +unholy triad of imbecility.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile I munched my Infant-Jesus-and-Dove arrangement, which was +rather like eating thin glass, so hard and sharp. It was made of almond +and white of egg presumably, and was not so bad if you could eat it at +all. It was a Christmas relic.—And I watched the Holy Family across the +narrow board, and tried not to look all I felt.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Going on deck as soon as possible, we watched the loading of barrels of +wine into the hold—a mild and happy-go-lucky process. The ship seemed +to be almost as empty of cargo as of passengers. Of the latter, we were +apparently twelve adults, all told, and the three children. And as for +cargo, there were the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span> wooden chests of the officer, and these fourteen +barrels of wine from Trapani. The last were at length settled more or +less firm, the owner, or the responsible landsman seeing to it. No one +on the ship seemed to be responsible for anything. And four of the +innumerable crew were replacing the big planks over the hold. It was +curious how forlorn the ship seemed to feel, now she was ready for sea +again. Her innumerable crew did not succeed in making her alive. She ran +her course like a lost soul across the Mid-Mediterranean.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Outside the harbour the sun was sinking, gorgeous gold and red the sky, +and vast, beyond the darkening islands of the Egades group. Coming as we +did from the east side of the island, where dawn beyond the Ionian sea +is the day's great and familiar event: so decisive an event, that as the +light appears along the sea's rim, so do my eyes invariably open and +look at it, and know it is dawn, and as the night-purple is fused back, +and a little scarlet thrills towards the zenith, invariably, day by day, +I feel I must get up: coming from the east, shut off hermetically from +the west by the steep spikes of the mountains at our back, we felt this +sunset in the African sea terrible and dramatic. It seemed much more +magnificent and tragic than our<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span> Ionian dawn, which has always a +suggestion of a flower opening. But this great red, trumpet-flaring +sunset had something African, half-sinister, upon the sea: and it seemed +so far off, in an unknown land. Whereas our Ionian dawn always seems +near and familiar and happy.</p> + +<p>A different goddess the Eryx Astarte, the woman Ashtaroth, <i>Erycina +ridens</i> must have been, in her prehstoric dark smiling, watching the +fearful sunsets beyond the Egades, from our gold-lighted Apollo of the +Ionian east. She is a strange goddess to me, this Erycina Venus, and the +west is strange and unfamiliar and a little fearful, be it Africa or be +it America.</p> + +<p>Slowly at sunset we moved out of the harbour. And almost as we passed +the bar, away in front we saw, among the islands, the pricking of a +quick pointed light. Looking back, we saw the light at the harbour +entrance twitching: and the remote, lost town beginning to glimmer. And +night was settling down upon the sea, through the crimsoned purple of +the last afterglow.</p> + +<p>The islands loomed big as we drew nearer, dark in the thickening +darkness. Overhead a magnificent evening-star blazed above the open sea, +giving me a pang at the heart, for I was so used to see her hang just +above the spikes of the mountains, that I felt she might fall, having +the space beneath.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span></p> + +<p>Levanzo and the other large island were quite dark: absolutely dark, +save for one beam of a lighthouse low down in the distance. The wind was +again strong and cold: the ship had commenced her old slither and heave, +slither and heave, which mercifully we had forgotten. Overhead were +innumerable great stars active as if they were alive in the sky. I saw +Orion high behind us, and the dog-star glaring. And <i>swish!</i> went the +sea as we took the waves, then after a long trough, <i>swish!</i> This +curious rhythmic swishing and hollow drumming of a steamer at sea has a +narcotic, almost maddening effect on the spirit, a long, hissing burst +of waters, then the hollow roll, and again the upheaval to a sudden +hiss-ss-ss!</p> + +<p>A bell had clanged and we knew the crew were once more feeding. At every +moment of the day and presumably of the night, feeding was going on—or +coffee-drinking.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>We were summoned to dinner. Our young woman was already seated: and a +fat uniformed mate or purser or official of some sort was finishing off +in the distance. The pale professor also appeared: and at a certain +distance down the table sat a little hard-headed grey man in a long grey +alpaca travelling coat. Appeared the beloved macaroni with tomato sauce: +no food for the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span> sea. I put my hopes on the fish. Had I not seen the +cook making whiting bite their own tails viciously?—The fish appeared. +And what was it? Fried ink-pots. A <i>calamaio</i> is an ink-pot: also it is +a polyp, a little octopus which, alas, frequents the Mediterranean and +squirts ink if offended. This polyp with its tentacles is cut up and +fried, and reduced to the consistency of boiled celluloid. It is +esteemed a delicacy: but is tougher than indiarubber, gristly through +and through.</p> + +<p>I have a peculiar aversion to these ink-pots. Once in Liguria we had a +boat of our own and paddled with the peasant paddlers. Alessandro caught +ink-pots: and like this. He tied up a female by a string in a cave—the +string going through a convenient hole in her end. There she lived, like +an Amphitrite's wire-haired terrier tied up, till Alessandro went +a-fishing. Then he towed her, like a poodle behind. And thus, like a +poodly-bitch, she attracted hangers-on in the briny seas. And these poor +polyp inamorati were the victims. They were lifted as prey on board, +where I looked with horror on their grey, translucent tentacles and +large, cold, stony eyes. The she-polyp was towed behind again. But after +a few days she died.</p> + +<p>And I think, even for creatures so awful-looking, this method is +indescribably base, and shows how much lower than an octopus even, is +lordly man.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span></p> + +<p>Well, we chewed a few ends of oil-fried ink-pots, and gave it up. The +Cagliari girl gave up too: the professor had not even tried. Only the +hard-headed grey man in the alpaca coat chewed animatedly, with bouncing +jaws. Mountains of calamaio remained for the joyous blue-bottles.</p> + +<p>Arrived the inevitable meat—this long piece of completely tasteless +undercut in innumerable grey-brown slices. Oh, Italy! The professor +fled.</p> + +<p>Arrived the wash-leather pears, the apples, the oranges—we saved an +apple for a happier hour.</p> + +<p>Arrived coffee, and, as a magnificent treat, a few well-known pastries. +They all taste wearily alike. The young woman shakes her head. I shake +mine, but the q-b, like a child, is pleased. Most pleased of all, +however, are the blue-bottles, who dart in a black-alpaca bunch to the +tin altar, and there loudly buzz, wildly, above the sallow cakes.</p> + +<p>The citron-cheeked, dry one, however, cares darkly nothing for cakes. He +comes once more to twit us about wine. So much so that the Cagliari girl +orders a glass of Marsala: and I must second her. So there we are, three +little glasses of brown liquid. The Cagliari girl sips hers and suddenly +flees. The q-b sips hers with infinite caution, and quietly retires. I +finish the q-b's little glass, and my own, and the voracious<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span> blow-flies +buzz derisively and excited. The yellow-cheeked one has disappeared with +the bottle.</p> + +<p>From the professorial cabin faint wails, sometimes almost fierce, as one +or another is going to be ill. Only a thin door is between this +state-room and them. The most down-trodden frayed ancient rag of a man +goes discreetly with basins, trying not to let out glimpses of the awful +within. I climb up to look at the vivid, drenching stars, to breathe the +cold wind, to see the dark sea sliding. Then I too go to the cabin, and +watch the sea run past the porthole for a minute, and insert myself like +the meat in a sandwich into the tight lower bunk. Oh, infinitesimal +cabin, where we sway like two matches in a match box! Oh strange, but +even yet excellent gallop of a ship at sea.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>I slept not so badly through the stifled, rolling night—in fact later +on slept soundly. And the day was growing bright when I peered through +the porthle, the sea was much smoother. It was a brilliant clear +morning. I made haste and washed myself cursorily in the saucer that +dribbled into a pail in a corner: there was not space even for one +chair, this saucer was by my bunk-head. And I went on deck.</p> + +<p>Ah the lovely morning! Away behind us the sun was just coming above the +sea's horizon, and the sky<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span> all golden, all a joyous, fire-heated gold, +and the sea was glassy bright, the wind gone still, the waves sunk into +long, low undulations, the foam of the wake was pale ice-blue in the +yellow air. Sweet, sweet wide morning on the sea, with the sun coming, +swimming up, and a tall sailing bark, with her flat fore-ladder of sails +delicately across the light, and a far-far steamer on the electric vivid +morning horizon.</p> + +<p>The lovely dawn: the lovely pure, wide morning in the mid-sea, so +golden-aired and delighted, with the sea like sequins shaking, and the +sky far, far, far above, unfathomably clear. How glad to be on a ship! +What a golden hour for the heart of man! Ah if one could sail for ever, +on a small quiet, lonely ship, from land to land and isle to isle, and +saunter through the spaces of this lovely world, always through the +spaces of this lovely world. Sweet it would be sometimes to come to the +opaque earth, to block oneself against the stiff land, to annul the +vibration of one's flight against the inertia of our <i>terra firma!</i> but +life itself would be in the flight, the tremble of space. Ah the +trembling of never-ended space, as one moves in flight! Space, and the +frail vibration of space, the glad lonely wringing of the heart. Not to +be clogged to the land any more. Not to be any more like a donkey with a +log<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span> on its leg, fastened to weary earth that has no answer now. But to +be off.</p> + +<p>To find three masculine, world-lost souls, and world-lost saunter, and +saunter on along with them, across the dithering space, as long as life +lasts! Why come to anchor? There is nothing to anchor for. Land has no +answer to the soul any more. It has gone inert. Give me a little ship, +kind gods, and three world-lost comrades. Hear me! And let me wander +aimless across this vivid outer world, the world empty of man, where +space flies happily.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The lovely, celandine-yellow morning of the open sea, paling towards a +rare, sweet blue! The sun stood above the horizon, like the great +burning stigma of the sacred flower of day. Mediterranean sailing-ships, +so mediaeval, hovered on the faint morning wind, as if uncertain which +way to go, curious, odd-winged insects of the flower. The steamer, +hull-down, was sinking towards Spain. Space rang clear about us: the +level sea!</p> + +<p>Appeared the Cagliari young woman and her two friends. She was looking +handsome and restored now the sea was easy. Her two male friends stood +touching her, one at either shoulder.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Bonjour, Monsieur!" she barked across at me. "Vous avez pris le café?"</p> + +<p>"Pas encore. Et vous?"</p> + +<p>"Non! Madame votre femme...."</p> + +<p>She roared like a mastiff dog: and then translated with unction to her +two uninitiated friends. How it was they did not understand her French I +do not know, it was so like travestied Italian.</p> + +<p>I went below to find the q-b.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>When we came up, the faint shape of land appeared ahead, more +transparent than thin pearl. Already Sardinia. Magic are high lands seen +from the sea, when they are far, far off, and ghostly translucent like +ice-bergs. This was Sardinia, looming like fascinating shadows in +mid-sea. And the sailing ships, as if cut out of frailest pearl +translucency, were wafting away towards Naples. I wanted to count their +sails—five square ones which I call the ladder, one above the +other—but how many wing-blades? That remained yet to be seen.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Our friend the carpenter spied us out: at least, he was not my friend. +He didn't find me <i>simpatico</i>, I am sure. But up he came, and proceeded +to entertain us with weary banality. Again the young woman<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span> called, had +we had coffee? We said we were just going down. And then she said that +whatever we had today we had to pay for: our food ended with the one +day. At which the q-b was angry, feeling swindled. But I had known +before.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>We went down and had our coffee notwithstanding. The young woman came +down, and made eyes at one of the alpaca blue-bottles. After which we +saw a cup of coffee and milk and two biscuits being taken to her into +her cabin, discreetly. When Italians are being discreet and on the sly, +the very air about them becomes tell-tale, and seems to shout with a +thousand tongues. So with a thousand invisible tongues clamouring the +fact, the young woman had her coffee secretly and <i>gratis</i>, in her +cabin.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>But the morning was lovely. The q-b and I crept round the bench at the +very stern of the ship and sat out of the wind and out of sight, just +above the foaming of the wake. Before us was the open morning—and the +glisten of our ship's track, like a snail's path, trailing across the +sea: straight for a little while, then giving a bend to the left, always +a bend towards the left: and coming at us from the pure horizon, like a +bright snail-path. Happy it was to sit there in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span> stillness, with +nothing but the humanless sea to shine about us.</p> + +<p>But no, we were found out. Arrived the carpenter.</p> + +<p>"Ah, you have found a fine place—!"</p> + +<p>"Molto bello!" This from the q-b. I could not bear the irruption.</p> + +<p>He proceeded to talk—and as is inevitable, the war. Ah, the war—it was +a terrible thing. He had become ill—very ill. Because, you see, not +only do you go without proper food, without proper rest and warmth, but, +you see, you are in an agony of fear for your life all the time. An +agony of fear for your life. And that's what does it. Six months in +hospital—! The q-b, of course, was sympathetic.</p> + +<p>The Sicilians are quite simple about it. They just tell you they were +frightened to death, and it made them ill. The q-b, woman-like, loves +them for being so simple about it. I feel angry somewhere. For they +<i>expect</i> a full-blown sympathy. And however the great god Mars may have +shrunk and gone wizened in the world, it still annoys me to hear him +<i>so</i> blasphemed.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Near us the automatic log was spinning, the thin rope trailing behind us +in the sea. Erratically it jerked and spun, with spasmodic torsion. He +explained that the little screw at the end of the line spun to the +speed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span> of travelling. We were going from ten to twelve Italian miles to +the hour. Ah, yes, we <i>could</i> go twenty. But we went no faster than ten +or twelve, to save the coal.</p> + +<p>The coal—il carbone! I knew we were in for it. England—l'Inghilterra +she has the coal. And what does she do? She sells it very dear. +Particularly to Italy. Italy won the war and now can't even have coal. +Because why! The price. The exchange! <i>Il cambio.</i> Now I am doubly in +for it. Two countries had been able to keep their money high—England +and America. The English sovereign—la sterlina—and the American +dollar—<i>sa</i>, these were money. The English and the Americans flocked to +Italy, with their <i>sterline</i> and their <i>dollari</i>, and they bought what +they wanted for nothing, for nothing. Ecco! Whereas we poor Italians—we +are in a state of ruination—proper ruination. The allies, etc., etc.</p> + +<p>I am so used to it—I am so wearily used to it. I can't walk a stride +without having this wretched <i>cambio</i>, the exchange, thrown at my head. +And this with an injured petulant spitefulness which turns my blood. For +I assure them, whatever I have in Italy I pay for: and I am not England. +I am not the British Isles on two legs.</p> + +<p>Germany—La Germania—she did wrong to make the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span> war. But—there you +are, that was war. Italy and Germany—l'Italia e la Germania—they had +always been friends. In Palermo....</p> + +<p>My God, I felt I could not stand it another second. To sit above the +foam and have this miserable creature stuffing wads of chewed newspaper +into my ear—no, I could not bear it. In Italy, there is no escape. Say +two words, and the individual starts chewing old newspaper and stuffing +it into you. No escape. You become—if you are English—<i>l'Inghilterra</i>, +<i>il carbone</i>, and <i>il cambio</i>; and as England, coal and exchange you are +treated. It is more than useless to try to be human about it. You are a +State usury system, a coal fiend and an exchange thief. Every Englishman +has disappeared into this triple abstraction, in the eyes of the +Italian, of the proletariat particularly. Try and get them to be human, +try and get them to see that you are simply an individual, if you can. +After all, I am no more than a single human man wandering my lonely way +across these years. But no—to an Italian I am a perfected abstraction, +England—coal—exchange. The Germans were once devils for inhuman +theoretic abstracting of living beings. But now the Italians beat them. +I am a walking column of statistics, which adds up badly for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span> Italy. +Only this and nothing more. Which being so, I shut my mouth and walk +away.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>For the moment the carpenter is shaken off. But I am in a rage, fool +that I am. It is like being pestered by their mosquitoes. The sailing +ships are near—and I count fifteen sails. Beautiful they look! Yet if I +were on board somebody would be chewing newspaper at me, and addressing +me as England—coal—exchange.</p> + +<p>The mosquito hovers—and hovers. But the stony blank of the side of my +cheek keeps him away. Yet he hovers. And the q-b feels sympathetic +towards him: quite sympathetic. Because of course he treats her—a <i>bel +pezzo</i>—as if he would lick her boots, or anything else that she would +let him lick.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Meanwhile we eat the apples from yesterday's dessert, and the remains of +the q-b's Infant-Jesus-and-dove cake. The land is drawing nearer—we can +see the shape of the end promontory and peninsula—and a white speck +like a church. The bulk of the land is forlorn and rather shapeless, +coming towards us: but attractive.</p> + +<p>Looking ahead towards the land gives us away. The mosquito swoops on us. +Yes—he is not sure—he thinks the white speck is a church—or a +lighthouse.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span> When you pass the cape on the right, and enter the wide bay +between Cape Spartivento and Cape Carbonara, then you have two hours +sail to Cagliari. We shall arrive between two and three o'clock. It is +now eleven.</p> + +<p>Yes, the sailing ships are probably going to Naples. There is not much +wind for them now. When there is wind they go fast, faster than our +steamer. Ah Naples—bella, bella, eh? A little dirty, say I. But what do +you want? says he. A great city! Palermo of course is better.</p> + +<p>Ah—the Neapolitan women—he says, à propos or not. They do their hair +so fine, so neat and beautiful—but underneath—sotto—sotto—they are +dirty. This being received in cold silence, he continues: <i>Noi giriamo +il mondo! Noi, chi giriamo, conosciamo il mondo.</i> <i>We</i> travel about, +and <i>we</i> know the world. Who <i>we</i> are, I do not know: his highness the +Palermitan carpenter lout, no doubt. But <i>we</i>, who travel, know the +world. He is preparing his shot. The Neapolitan women, and the English +women, in this are equal: that they are dirty underneath. Underneath, +they are dirty. The women of London—</p> + +<p>But it is getting too much for me.</p> + +<p>"You who look for dirty women," say I, "find dirty women everywhere."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span></p> + +<p>He stops short and watches me.</p> + +<p>"No! No! You have not understood me. No! I don't mean that. I mean that +the Neapolitan women and the English women have dirty underclothing—"</p> + +<p>To which he gets no answer but a cold look and a cold cheek. Whereupon +he turns to the q-b, and proceeds to be <i>simpatica</i>. And after a few +moments he turns again to me:</p> + +<p>"Il signore is offended! He is offended with me."</p> + +<p>But I turn the other way. And at last he clears out: in triumph, I must +admit: like a mosquito that has bitten one in the neck. As a matter of +fact one should <i>never</i> let these fellows get into conversation +nowadays. They are no longer human beings. They hate one's Englishness, +and leave out the individual.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>We walk forward, towards the fore-deck, where the captain's lookout +cabin is. The captain is an elderly man, silent and crushed: with the +look of a gentleman. But he looks beaten down. Another, still another +member of the tray-carrying department is just creeping up his ladder +with a cup of black coffee. Returning, we peep down the sky-light into +the kitchen. And there we see roast chicken and sausages—roast chicken +and sausages! Ah, this is where the sides of kid and the chickens and +the good things go: all down the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span> throats of the crew. There is no more +food for us, until we land.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>We have passed the cape—and the white thing is a lighthouse. And the +fattish, handsome professor has come up carrying the little girl-child, +while the femalish elder brother leads the rabbit-fluffy small boy by +the hand. So <i>en famille</i>: so terribly <i>en famille</i>. They deposit +themselves near us, and it threatens another conversation. But not for +anything, my dears!</p> + +<p>The sailors—not sailors, some of the street-corner loafers, are +hoisting the flag, the red-white-and-green Italian tricolor. It floats +at the mast-head, and the femalish brother, in a fine burst of feeling, +takes off his funny hat with a flourish and cries:</p> + +<p>"Ecco la bandiera italiana!"</p> + +<p>Ach, the hateful sentimentalism of these days.</p> + +<p>The land passes slowly, very slowly. It is hilly, but barren looking, +with few trees. And it is not spikey and rather splendid, like Sicily. +Sicily has style. We keep along the east side of the bay—away in the +west is Cape Spartivento. And still no sight of Cagliari.</p> + +<p>"Two hours yet!" cries the Cagliari girl. "Two hours before we eat. Ah, +when I get on land, what a good meal I shall eat."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span></p> + +<p>The men haul in the automatic log. The sky is clouding over with that +icy curd which comes after midday when the bitter north wind is blowing. +It is no longer warm.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Slowly, slowly we creep along the formless shore. An hour passes. We see +a little fort ahead, done in enormous black-and-white checks, like a +fragment of gigantic chess-board. It stands at the end of a long spit of +land—a long, barish peninsula that has no houses and looks as if it +might be golf-links. But it is not golf-links.</p> + +<p>And suddenly there is Cagliari: a naked town rising steep, steep, +golden-looking, piled naked to the sky from the plain at the head of the +formless hollow bay. It is strange and rather wonderful, not a bit like +Italy. The city piles up lofty and almost miniature, and makes me think +of Jerusalem: without trees, without cover, rising rather bare and +proud, remote as if back in history, like a town in a monkish, +illuminated missal. One wonders how it ever got there. And it seems like +Spain—or Malta: not Italy. It is a steep and lonely city, treeless, as +in some old illumination. Yet withal rather jewel-like: like a sudden +rose-cut amber jewel naked at the depth of the vast indenture. The air +is cold, blowing bleak and bitter, the sky is all curd.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span> And that is +Cagliari. It has that curious look, as if it could be seen, but not +entered. It is like some vision, some memory, something that has passed +away. Impossible that one can actually <i>walk</i> in that city: set foot +there and eat and laugh there. Ah, no! Yet the ship drifts nearer, +nearer, and we are looking for the actual harbour.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The usual sea-front with dark trees for a promenade and palatial +buildings behind, but here not so pink and gay, more reticent, more +sombre of yellow stone. The harbour itself a little basin of water, into +which we are slipping carefully, while three salt-barges laden with salt +as white as snow creep round from the left, drawn by an infinitesimal +tug. There are only two other forlorn ships in the basin. It is cold on +deck. The ship turns slowly round, and is being hauled to the quay side. +I go down for the knapsack, and a fat blue-bottle pounces at me.</p> + +<p>"You pay nine francs fifty."</p> + +<p>I pay them, and we get off that ship.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="III" id="III"></a>III.</h2> + +<h3>CAGLIARI.</h3> + + +<p>There is a very little crowd waiting on the quay: mostly men with their +hands in their pockets. But, thank Heaven, they have a certain aloofness +and reserve. They are not like the tourist-parasites of these post-war +days, who move to the attack with a terrifying cold vindictiveness the +moment one emerges from any vehicle. And some of these men look really +poor. There are no poor Italians any more: at least, loafers.</p> + +<p>Strange the feeling round the harbour: as if everybody had gone away. +Yet there are people about. It is "festa" however, Epiphany. But it is +so different from Sicily: none of the suave Greek-Italian charms, none +of the airs and graces, none of the glamour. Rather bare, rather stark, +rather cold and yellow—somehow like Malta, without Malta's foreign +liveliness. Thank Goodness no one wants to carry my knapsack. Thank +Goodness no one has a fit at the sight of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span> it. Thank Heaven no one takes +any notice. They stand cold and aloof, and don't move.</p> + +<p>We make our way through the Customs: then through the Dazio, the City +Customs-house. Then we are free. We set off up a steep, new, broad road, +with little trees on either side. But stone, arid, new, wide stone, +yellowish under the cold sky—and abandoned-seeming. Though, of course, +there are people about. The north wind blows bitingly.</p> + +<p>We climb a broad flight of steps, always upwards, up the wide, +precipitous, dreary boulevard with sprouts of trees. Looking for the +Hotel, and dying with hunger.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>At last we find it, the Scala di Ferro: through a courtyard with green +plants. And at last a little man with lank, black hair, like an esquimo, +comes smiling. He is one brand of Sardinian—esquimo looking. There is +no room with two beds: only single rooms. And thus we are led off, if +you please, to the "bagnio": the bathing-establishment wing, on the dank +ground floor. Cubicles on either side a stone passage, and in every +cubicle a dark stone bath, and a little bed. We can have each a little +bath cubicle. If there's nothing else for it, there isn't: but it seems +dank and cold and horrid, underground. And one thinks of all the +unsavory "assignations" at these old bagnio places. True, at the end of +the passage are seated two carabinieri. But whether to ensure +respectibility or not, Heaven knows. We are in the baths, that's all.</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<div class="figcenter"> +<a name="illus3" id="illus3"></a> +<img src="images/illus3.jpg" alt=""/> +</div> + +<h3>ISILI</h3> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span></p> + +<p>The esquimo returns after five minutes, however. There <i>is</i> a bedroom in +the house. He is pleased, because he didn't like putting us into the +bagnio. Where he found the bedroom I don't know. But there it was, +large, sombre, cold, and over the kitchen fumes of a small inner court +like a well. But perfectly clean and all right. And the people seemed +warm and good-natured, like human beings. One has got so used to the +non-human ancient-souled Sicilians, who are suave and so completely +callous.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>After a really good meal we went out to see the town. It was after three +o'clock and everywhere was shut up like an English Sunday. Cold, stony +Cagliari: in summer you must be sizzling hot, Cagliari, like a kiln. The +men stood about in groups, but without the intimate Italian watchfulness +that never leaves a passer-by alone.</p> + +<p>Strange, stony Cagliari. We climbed up a street like a corkscrew +stairway. And we saw announcements of a children's fancy-dress ball. +Cagliari is very steep. Half-way up there is a strange place called the +bastions,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span> a large, level space like a drill-ground with trees, +curiously suspended over the town, and sending off a long shoot like a +wide viaduct, across above the corkscrew street that comes climbing up. +Above this bastion place the town still rises steeply to the Cathedral +and the fort. What is so curious is that this terrace or bastion is so +large, like some big recreation ground, that it is almost dreary, and +one cannot understand its being suspended in mid-air. Down below is the +little circle of the harbour. To the left a low, malarial-looking sea +plain, with tufts of palm trees and Arab-looking houses. From this runs +out the long spit of land towards that black-and-white watch-fort, the +white road trailing forth. On the right, most curiously, a long strange +spit of sand runs in a causeway far across the shallows of the bay, with +the open sea on one hand, and vast, end-of-the-world lagoons on the +other. There are peaky, dark mountains beyond this—just as across the +vast bay are gloomy hills. It is a strange, strange landscape: as if +here the world left off. The bay is vast in itself; and all these +curious things happening at its head: this curious, craggy-studded town, +like a great stud of house-covered rock jutting up out of the bay flats: +around it on one side the weary, Arab-looking palm-desolated malarial +plain, and on the other side great salt lagoons, dead beyond the +sand-bar: these<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span> backed again by serried, clustered mountains, suddenly, +while away beyond the plain, hills rise to sea again. Land and sea both +seem to give out, exhausted, at the bay head: the world's end. And into +this world's end starts up Cagliari, and on either side, sudden, +serpent-crest hills.</p> + +<p>But it still reminds me of Malta: lost between Europe and Africa and +belonging to nowhere. Belonging to nowhere, never having belonged to +anywhere. To Spain and the Arabs and the Phœnicians most. But as if +it had never really had a fate. No fate. Left outside of time and +history.</p> + +<p>The spirit of the place is a strange thing. Our mechanical age tries to +override it. But it does not succeed. In the end the strange, sinister +spirit of the place, so diverse and adverse in differing places, will +smash our mechanical oneness into smithereens, and all that we think the +real thing will go off with a pop, and we shall be left staring.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>On the great parapet above the Municipal Hall and above the corkscrew +high-street a thick fringe of people is hanging, looking down. We go to +look too: and behold, below there is the entrance to the ball. Yes, +there is a china shepherdess in pale blue and powdered hair, crook, +ribbons, Marie Antoinette satin daintiness<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span> and all, slowly and +haughtily walking up the road, and gazing superbly round. She is not +more than twelve years old, moreover. Two servants accompany her. She +gazes supremely from right to left as she goes, mincingly, and I would +give her the prize for haughtiness. She is perfect—a little too haughty +for Watteau, but "marquise" to a T. The people watch in silence. There +is no yelling and screaming and running. They watch in a suitable +silence.</p> + +<p>Comes a carriage with two fat bay horses slithering, almost swimming up +the corkscrew high-street. That in itself is a "tour-de-force": for +Cagliari doesn't have carriages. Imagine a street like a corkscrew +stair, paved with slippery stone. And imagine two bay horses rowing +their way up it: they did not walk a single stride. But they arrived. +And there fluttered out three strangely exquisite children, two frail, +white satin Pierrots and a white satin Pierrette. They were like fragile +winter butterflies with black spots. They had a curious, indefinable +remote elegance, something conventional and "fin-de-siècle". But not our +century. The wonderful artificial delicacy of the eighteenth. The boys +had big, perfect ruffs round their necks: and behind were slung old, +cream-colored Spanish shawls, for warmth. They were frail as tobacco +flowers, and with remote, cold elegance they fluttered by the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span> carriage, +from which emerged a large black-satin Mama. Fluttering their queer +little butterfly feet on the pavement, hovering round the large Mama +like three frail-tissued ghosts, they found their way past the solid, +seated Carabinieri into the hall.</p> + +<p>Arrived a primrose-brocade beau, with ruffles, and his hat under his +arm: about twelve years old. Walking statelily, without a qualm up the +steep twist of the street. Or perhaps so perfect in his +self-consciousness that it became an elegant "aplomb" in him. He was a +genuine eighteenth-century exquisite, rather stiffer than the French, +maybe, but completely in the spirit. Curious, curious children! They had +a certain stand-offish superbness, and not a single trace of misgiving. +For them, their "noblesse" was indisputable. For the first time in my +life I recognized the true cold superbness of the old "noblesse". They +had not a single qualm about their own perfect representing of the +higher order of being.</p> + +<p>Followed another white satin "marquise", with a maid-servant. They are +strong on the eighteenth century in Cagliari. Perhaps it is the last +bright reality to them. The nineteenth hardly counts.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Curious the children in Cagliari. The poor seem thoroughly +poor-bare-footed urchins, gay and wild in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span> the narrow dark streets. But +the more well-to-do children are so fine: so extraordinarily elegantly +dressed. It quite strikes one of a heap. Not so much the grown-ups. The +children. All the "chic," all the fashion, all the originality is +expended on the children. And with a great deal of success. Better than +Kensington Gardens very often. And they promenade with Papa and Mama +with such alert assurance, having quite brought it off, their +fashionable get-up. Who would have expected it?</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Oh narrow, dark, and humid streets going up to the Cathedral, like +crevices. I narrowly miss a huge pail of slop-water which comes crashing +down from heaven. A small boy who was playing in the street, and whose +miss is not quite a clean miss, looks up with that naïve, impersonal +wonder with which children stare at a star or a lamp-lighter.</p> + +<p>The Cathedral must have been a fine old pagan stone fortress once. Now +it has come, as it were, through the mincing machine of the ages, and +oozed out baroque and sausagey, a bit like the horrible baldachins in +St. Peter's at Rome. None the less it is homely and hole-and-cornery, +with a rather ragged high mass trailing across the pavement towards the +high altar, since it is almost sunset, and Epiphany.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span> It feels as if one +might squat in a corner and play marbles and eat bread and cheese and be +at home: a comfortable old-time churchey feel.</p> + +<p>There is some striking filet lace on the various altar-cloths. And St. +Joseph must be a prime saint. He has an altar and a verse of invocation +praying for the dying.</p> + +<p>"Oh, St. Joseph, true potential father of Our Lord." What can it profit +a man, I wonder, to be the potential father of anybody! For the rest I +am not Baedeker.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The top of Cagliari is the fortress: the old gate, the old ramparts, of +honey-combed, fine yellowish sandstone. Up in a great sweep goes the +rampart wall, Spanish and splendid, dizzy. And the road creeping down +again at the foot, down the back of the hill. There lies the country: +that dead plain with its bunch of palms and a fainting sea, and inland +again, hills. Cagliari must be on a single, loose, lost bluff of rock.</p> + +<p>From the terrace just below the fortress, above the town, not behind it, +we stand and look at the sunset. It is all terrible, taking place beyond +the knotted, serpent-crested hills that lie, bluey and velvety, beyond +the waste lagoons. Dark, sultry, heavy crimson the west is, hanging +sinisterly, with those gloomy blue cloud-bars and cloud-banks drawn +across. All behind<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span> the blue-gloomy peaks stretches the curtain of +sinister, smouldering red, and away to the sea. Deep below lie the +sea-meres. They seem miles and miles, and utterly waste. But the +sand-bar crosses like a bridge, and has a road. All the air is dark, a +sombre bluish tone. The great west burns inwardly, sullenly, and gives +no glow, yet a deep red. It is cold.</p> + +<p>We go down the steep streets, smelly, dark, dank, and very cold. No +wheeled vehicle can scramble up them, presumably. People live in one +room. Men are combing their hair or fastening their collars in the +doorways. Evening is here, and it is a feast day.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>At the bottom of the street we come to a little bunch of masked youths, +one in a long yellow frock and a frilled bonnet, another like an old +woman, another in red twill. They are arm in arm and are accosting the +passers-by. The q-b gives a cry, and looks for escape. She has a terror +of maskers, a terror that comes from childhood. To say the truth, so +have I. We hasten invisibly down the far side of the street, and come +out under the bastions. Then we go down our own familiar wide, short, +cold boulevard to the sea.</p> + +<p>At the bottom, again, is a carriage with more maskers. Carnival is +beginning. A man dressed as a peasant woman in native costume is +clambering with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span> his great wide skirts and wide strides on to the box, +and, flourishing his ribboned whip, is addressing a little crowd of +listeners. He opens his mouth wide and goes on with a long yelling +harangue of taking a drive with his mother—another man in old-woman's +gaudy finery and wig who sits already bobbing on the box. The would-be +daughter flourishes, yells, and prances up there on the box of the +carriage. The crowd listens attentively and mildly smiles. It all seems +real to them. The q-b hovers in the distance, half-fascinated, and +watches. With a great flourish of whip and legs—showing his frilled +drawers—the masker pulls round to drive along the boulevard by the +sea—the only place where one can drive.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The big street by the sea is the Via Roma. It has the cafés on one side +and across the road the thick tufts of trees intervening between the sea +and us. Among these thick tufts of sea-front trees the little steam +tram, like a little train, bumps to rest, after having wound round the +back of the town.</p> + +<p>The Via Roma is all social Cagliari. Including the cafés with their +outdoor tables on the one side of the road, and the avenue strand on the +other, it is very wide, and at evening it contains the whole town. Here, +and here alone carriages can spank along, very slowly,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span> officers can +ride, and the people can promenade "en masse."</p> + +<p>We were amazed at the sudden crowd we found ourselves amongst—like a +short, dense river of people streaming slowly in a mass. There is +practically no vehicular traffic—only the steady dense streams of human +beings of all sorts, all on a human footing. It must have been something +like this in the streets of imperial Rome, where no chariots might drive +and humanity was all on foot.</p> + +<p>Little bunches of maskers, and single maskers danced and strutted along +in the thick flow under the trees. If you are a mask you don't walk like +a human being: you dance and prance along extraordinarily like the +life-size marionettes, conducted by wires from above. That is how you +go: with that odd jauntiness as if lifted and propelled by wires from +the shoulders. In front of me went a charming coloured harlequin, all in +diamond-shaped colours, and beautiful as a piece of china. He tripped +with the light, fantastic trip, quite alone in the thick crowd, and +quite blithe. Came two little children hand in hand in brilliant scarlet +and white costumes, sauntering calmly. They did not do the mask trip. +After a while a sky-blue girl with a high hat and full skirts, very +short, that went flip-flip-flip, as a ballet dancer's, whilst she<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span> +strutted; after her a Spanish grandee capering like a monkey. They +threaded among the slow stream of the crowd. Appeared Dante and +Beatrice, in Paradise apparently, all in white sheet-robes, and with +silver wreaths on their heads, arm in arm, and prancing very slowly and +majestically, yet with the long lilt as if hitched along by wires from +above. They were very good: all the well-known vision come to life, +Dante incorporate, and white as a shroud, with his tow-haired, +silver-crowned, immortal Beatrice on his arm, strutting the dark +avenues. He had the nose and cheek-bones and banded cheek, and the +stupid wooden look, and offered a modern criticism on the Inferno.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>It had become quite dark, the lamps were lighted. We crossed the road to +the Café Roma, and found a table on the pavement among the crowd. In a +moment we had our tea. The evening was cold, with ice in the wind. But +the crowd surged on, back and forth, back and forth, slowly. At the +tables were seated mostly men, taking coffee or vermouth or aqua vitae, +all familiar and easy, without the modern self-consciousness. There was +a certain pleasant, natural robustness of spirit, and something of a +feudal free-and-easiness. Then<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span> arrived a family, with children, and +nurse in her native costume. They all sat at table together, perfectly +easy with one another, though the marvellous nurse seemed to be seated +below the salt. She was bright as a poppy, in a rose-scarlet dress of +fine cloth, with a curious little waistcoat of emerald green and purple, +and a bodice of soft, homespun linen with great full sleeves. On her +head she had a rose-scarlet and white head-dress, and she wore great +studs of gold filigree, and similar ear-rings. The feudal-bourgeois +family drank its syrup-drinks and watched the crowd. Most remarkable is +the complete absence of self-consciousness. They all have a perfect +natural "sang-froid," the nurse in her marvellous native costume is as +thoroughly at her ease as if she were in her own village street. She +moves and speaks and calls to a passer-by without the slightest +constraint, and much more, without the slightest presumption. She is +below the invisible salt, the invisible but insuperable salt. And it +strikes me the salt-barrier is a fine thing for both parties: they both +remain natural and human on either side of it, instead of becoming +devilish, scrambling and pushing at the barricade.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The crowd is across the road, under the trees near the sea. On this side +stroll occasional pedestrians.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span> And I see my first peasant in costume. +He is an elderly, upright, handsome man, beautiful in the +black-and-white costume. He wears the full-sleeved white shirt and the +close black bodice of thick, native frieze, cut low. From this sticks +out a short kilt or frill, of the same black frieze, a band of which +goes between the legs, between the full loose drawers of coarse linen. +The drawers are banded below the knee into tight black frieze gaiters. +On his head he has the long black stocking cap, hanging down behind. How +handsome he is, and so beautifully male! He walks with his hands loose +behind his back, slowly, upright, and aloof. The lovely +unapproachableness, indomitable. And the flash of the black and white, +the slow stride of the full white drawers, the black gaiters and black +cuirass with the bolero, then the great white sleeves and white breast +again, and once more the black cap—what marvellous massing of the +contrast, marvellous, and superb, as on a magpie.—How beautiful +maleness is, if it finds its right expression.—And how perfectly +ridiculous it is made in modern clothes.</p> + +<p>There is another peasant too, a young one with a swift eye and hard +cheek and hard, dangerous thighs. He has folded his stocking cap, so +that it comes forward to his brow like a phrygian cap. He wears close +knee breeches and close sleeved waistcoat of thick brownish<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span> stuff that +looks like leather. Over the waistcoat a sort of cuirass of black, rusty +sheepskin, the curly wool outside. So he strides, talking to a comrade. +How fascinating it is, after the soft Italians, to see these limbs in +their close knee-breeches, so definite, so manly, with the old +fierceness in them still. One realises, with horror, that the race of +men is almost extinct in Europe. Only Christ-like heroes and +woman-worshipping Don Juans, and rabid equality-mongrels. The old, +hardy, indomitable male is gone. His fierce singleness is quenched. The +last sparks are dying out in Sardinia and Spain. Nothing left but the +herd-proletariat and the herd-equality mongrelism, and the wistful +poisonous self-sacrificial cultured soul. How detestable.</p> + +<p>But that curious, flashing, black-and-white costume! I seem to have +known it before: to have worn it even: to have dreamed it. To have +dreamed it: to have had actual contact with it. It belongs in some way +to something in me—to my past, perhaps. I don't know. But the uneasy +sense of blood-familiarity haunts me. I <i>know</i> I have known it before. +It is something of the same uneasiness I feel before Mount Eryx: but +without the awe this time.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>In the morning the sun was shining from a blue,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span> blue sky, but the +shadows were deadly cold, and the wind like a flat blade of ice. We went +out running to the sun. The hotel could not give us coffee and milk: +only a little black coffee. So we descended to the sea-front again, to +the Via Roma, and to our café. It was Friday: people seemed to be +bustling in from the country with huge baskets.</p> + +<p>The Café Roma had coffee and milk, but no butter. We sat and watched the +movement outside. Tiny Sardinian donkeys, the tiniest things ever seen, +trotted their infinitesimal little paws along the road, drawing little +wagons like handcarts. Their proportion is so small, that they make a +boy walking at their side look like a tall man, while a natural man +looks like a Cyclops stalking hugely and cruelly. It is ridiculous for a +grown man to have one of these little creatures, hardly bigger than a +fly, hauling his load for him. One is pulling a chest of drawers on a +cart, and it seems to have a whole house behind it. Nevertheless it +plods bravely, away beneath the load, a wee thing.</p> + +<p>They tell me there used to be flocks of these donkeys, feeding half wild +on the wild, moor-like hills of Sardinia. But the war—and also the +imbecile wantonness of the war-masters—consumed these flocks too, so +that few are left. The same with the cattle. Sardinia, home of cattle, +hilly little Argentine of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span> Mediterranean, is now almost deserted. It +is war, say the Italiana.—And also the wanton, imbecile, foul +lavishness of the war-masters. It was not alone the war which exhausted +the world. It was the deliberate evil wastefulness of the war-makers in +their own countries. Italy ruined Italy.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Two peasants in black-and-white are strolling in the sun, flashing. And +my dream of last evening was not a dream. And my nostalgia for something +I know not what was not an illusion. I feel it again, at once, at the +sight of the men in frieze and linen, a heart yearning for something I +have known, and which I want back again.</p> + +<p>It is market day. We turn up the Largo Carlo-Felice, the second wide gap +of a street, a vast but very short boulevard, like the end of something. +Cagliari is like that: all bits and bobs. And by the side of the +pavement are many stalls, stalls selling combs and collar-studs, cheap +mirrors, handkerchiefs, shoddy Manchester goods, bed-ticking, +boot-paste, poor crockery, and so on. But we see also Madame of Cagliari +going marketing, with a servant accompanying her, carrying a huge +grass-woven basket: or returning from marketing, followed by a small +boy<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span> supporting one of these huge grass-woven baskets—like huge +dishes—on his head, piled with bread, eggs, vegetables, a chicken, and +so forth. Therefore we follow Madame going marketing, and find ourselves +in the vast market house, and it fairly glows with eggs: eggs in these +great round dish-baskets of golden grass: but eggs in piles, in mounds, +in heaps, a Sierra Nevada of eggs, glowing warm white. How they glow! I +have never noticed it before. But they give off a warm, pearly +effulgence into the air, almost a warmth. A pearly-gold heat seems to +come out of them. Myriads of eggs, glowing avenues of eggs.</p> + +<p>And they are marked—60 centimes, 65 centimes. Ah, cries the q-b, I must +live in Cagliari—For in Sicily the eggs cost 1.50 each.</p> + +<p>This is the meat and poultry and bread market. There are stalls of new, +various-shaped bread, brown and bright: there are tiny stalls of +marvellous native cakes, which I want to taste, there is a great deal of +meat and kid: and there are stalls of cheese, all cheeses, all shapes, +all whitenesses, all the cream-colours, on into daffodil yellow. Goat +cheese, sheeps cheese, Swiss cheese, Parmegiano, stracchino, +caciocavallo, torolone, how many cheeses I don't know the names of! But +they cost about the same as in Sicily, eighteen francs, twenty francs, +twenty-five francs the kilo. And there is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span> lovely ham—thirty and +thirty-five francs the kilo. There is a little fresh butter too—thirty +or thirty-two francs the kilo. Most of the butter, however, is tinned in +Milan. It costs the same as the fresh. There are splendid piles of +salted black olives, and huge bowls of green salted olives. There are +chickens and ducks and wild-fowl: at eleven and twelve and fourteen +francs a kilo. There is mortadella, the enormous Bologna sausage, thick +as a church pillar: 16 francs: and there are various sorts of smaller +sausage, salami, to be eaten in slices. A wonderful abundance of food, +glowing and shining. We are rather late for fish, especially on Friday. +But a barefooted man offers us two weird objects from the Mediterranean, +which teems with marine monsters.</p> + +<p>The peasant women sit behind their wares, their home-woven linen skirts, +hugely full, and of various colours, ballooning round them. The yellow +baskets give off a glow of light. There is a sense of profusion once +more. But alas no sense of cheapness: save the eggs. Every month, up +goes the price of everything.</p> + +<p>"I must come and live in Cagliari, to do my shopping here," says the +q-b. "I must have one of those big grass baskets."</p> + +<p>We went down to the little street—but saw more baskets emerging from a +broad flight of stone stairs,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span> enclosed. So up we went-and found +ourselves in the vegetable market. Here the q-b was happier still. +Peasant women, sometimes barefoot, sat in their tight little bodices and +voluminous, coloured skirts behind the piles of vegetables, and never +have I seen a lovelier show. The intense deep green of spinach seemed to +predominate, and out of that came the monuments of curd-white and +black-purple cauliflowers: but marvellous cauliflowers, like a +flower-show, the purple ones intense as great bunches of violets. From +this green, white, and purple massing struck out the vivid rose-scarlet +and blue crimson of radishes, large radishes like little turnips, in +piles. Then the long, slim, grey-purple buds of artichokes, and dangling +clusters of dates, and piles of sugar-dusty white figs and +sombre-looking black figs, and bright burnt figs: basketfuls and +basketfuls of figs. A few baskets of almonds, and many huge walnuts. +Basket-pans of native raisins. Scarlet peppers like trumpets: +magnificent fennels, so white and big and succulent: baskets of new +potatoes: scaly kohlrabi: wild asparagus in bunches, yellow-budding +sparacelli: big, clean-fleshed carrots: feathery salads with white +hearts: long, brown-purple onions and then, of course pyramids of big +oranges, pyramids of pale apples, and baskets of brilliant shiny +mandarini, the little tangerine orange with their green-black<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span> leaves. +The green and vivid-coloured world of fruit-gleams I have never seen in +such splendour as under the market roof at Cagliari: so raw and +gorgeous. And all quite cheap, the one remaining cheapness, except +potatoes. Potatoes of any sort are 1.40 or 1.50 the kilo.</p> + +<p>"Oh!" cried the q-b, "If I don't live at Cagliari and come and do my +shopping here, I shall die with one of my wishes unfulfilled."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>But out of the sun it was cold, nevertheless. We went into the streets +to try and get warm. The sun was powerful. But alas, as in southern +towns generally, the streets are sunless as wells.</p> + +<p>So the q-b and I creep slowly along the sunny bits, and then perforce +are swallowed by shadow. We look at the shops. But there is not much to +see. Little, frowsy provincial shops, on the whole.</p> + +<p>But a fair number of peasants in the streets, and peasant women in +rather ordinary costume: tight-bodiced, volume-skirted dresses of +hand-woven linen or thickish cotton. The prettiest is of +dark-blue-and-red, stripes-and-lines, intermingled, so made that the +dark-blue gathers round the waist into one colour, the myriad pleats +hiding all the rosy red. But when she walks, the full-petticoated +peasant woman, then the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span> red goes flash-flash-flash, like a bird showing +its colours. Pretty that looks in the sombre street. She has a plain, +light bodice with a peak: sometimes a little vest, and great full white +sleeves, and usually a handkerchief or shawl loose knotted. It is +charming the way they walk, with quick, short steps. When all is said +and done, the most attractive costume for women in my eye, is the tight +little bodice and the many-pleated skirt, full and vibrating with +movement. It has a charm which modern elegance lacks completely—a +bird-like play in movement.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>They are amusing, these peasant girls and women: so brisk and defiant. +They have straight backs, like little walls, and decided, well-drawn +brows. And they are amusingly on the alert. There is no eastern +creeping. Like sharp, brisk birds they dart along the streets, and you +feel they would fetch you a bang over the head as leave as look at you. +Tenderness, thank heaven, does not seem to be a Sardinian quality. Italy +is so tender—like cooked macaroni—yards and yards of soft tenderness +ravelled round everything. Here men don't idealise women, by the looks +of things. Here they don't make these great leering eyes, the inevitable +yours-to-command look of Italian males. When the men from the country +look at these women,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span> then it is Mind-yourself, my lady. I should think +the grovelling Madonna-worship is not much of a Sardinian feature. These +women have to look out for themselves, keep their own back-bone stiff +and their knuckles hard. Man is going to be male Lord if he can. And +woman isn't going to give him too much of his own way, either. So there +you have it, the fine old martial split between the sexes. It is tonic +and splendid, really, after so much sticky intermingling and +backboneless Madonna-worship. The Sardinian isn't looking for the "noble +woman nobly planned." No, thank you. He wants that young madam over +there, a young stiff-necked generation that she is. Far better sport +than with the nobly-planned sort: hollow frauds that they are. Better +sport too than with a Carmen, who gives herself away too much, In these +women there is something shy and defiant and un-get-atable. The defiant, +splendid split between the sexes, each absolutely determined to defend +his side, her side, from assault. So the meeting has a certain wild, +salty savour, each the deadly unknown to the other. And at the same +time, each his own, her own native pride and courage, taking the +dangerous leap and scrambling back.</p> + +<p>Give me the old, salty way of love. How I am<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span> nauseated with sentiment +and nobility, the macaroni slithery-slobbery mess of modern adorations.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>One sees a few fascinating faces in Cagliari: those great dark unlighted +eyes. There are fascinating dark eyes in Sicily, bright, big, with an +impudent point of light, and a curious roll, and long lashes: the eyes +of old Greece, surely. But here one sees eyes of soft, blank darkness, +all velvet, with no imp looking out of them. And they strike a stranger, +older note: before the soul became self-conscious: before the mentality +of Greece appeared in the world. Remote, always remote, as if the +intelligence lay deep within the cave, and never came forward. One +searches into the gloom for one second, while the glance lasts. But +without being able to penetrate to the reality. It recedes, like some +unknown creature deeper into its lair. There is a creature, dark and +potent. But what?</p> + +<p>Sometimes Velasquez, and sometimes Goya gives us a suggestion of these +large, dark, unlighted eyes. And they go with fine, fleecy black +hair—almost as fine as fur. I have not seen them north of Cagliari.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The q-b spies some of the blue-and-red stripe-and-line cotton stuff of +which the peasants make their dress: a large roll in the doorway of a +dark shop. In we<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span> go, and begin to feel it. It is just soft, thickish +cotton stuff—twelve francs a metre. Like most peasant patterns, it is +much more complicated and subtle than appears: the curious placing of +the stripes, the subtle proportion, and a white thread left down one +side only of each broad blue block. The stripes, moreover, run <i>across</i> +the cloth, not lengthwise with it. But the width would be just long +enough for a skirt—though the peasant skirts have almost all a band at +the bottom with the stripes running round-ways.</p> + +<p>The man—he is the esquimo type, simple, frank and aimiable—says the +stuff is made in France, and this the first roll since the war. It is +the old, old pattern, quite correct—but the material not <i>quite</i> so +good. The q-b takes enough for a dress.</p> + +<p>He shows us also cashmeres, orange, scarlet, sky-blue, royal blue: good, +pure-wool cashmeres that were being sent to India, and were captured +from a German mercantile sub-marine. So he says. Fifty francs a +metre—very, very wide. But they are too much trouble to carry in a +knapsack, though their brilliance fascinates.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>So we stroll and look at the shops, at the filigree gold jewelling of +the peasants, at a good bookshop. But there is little to see and +therefore the question is, shall we go on? Shall we go forward?<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span></p> + +<p>There are two ways of leaving Cagliari for the north: the State railway +that runs up the west side of the island, and the narrow-gauge secondary +railway that pierces the centre. But we are too late for the big trains. +So we will go by the secondary railway, wherever it goes.</p> + +<p>There is a train at 2.30, and we can get as far as Mandas, some fifty +miles in the interior. When we tell the queer little waiter at the +hotel, he says he comes from Mandas, and there are two inns. So after +lunch—a strictly fish menu—we pay our bill. It comes to sixty odd +francs—for three good meals each, with wine, and the night's lodging, +this is cheap, as prices now are in Italy.</p> + +<p>Pleased with the simple and friendly Scala di Ferre, I shoulder my sack +and we walk off to the second station. The sun is shining hot this +afternoon—burning hot, by the sea. The road and the buildings look dry +and desiccated, the harbour rather weary and end of the world.</p> + +<p>There is a great crowd of peasants at the little station. And almost +every man has a pair of woven saddle-bags—a great flat strip of +coarse-woven wool, with flat pockets at either end, stuffed with +purchases. These are almost the only carrying bags. The men<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span> sling them +over their shoulder, so that one great pocket hangs in front, one +behind.</p> + +<p>These saddle bags are most fascinating. They are coarsely woven in bands +of raw black-rusty wool, with varying bands of raw white wool or hemp or +cotton—the bands and stripes of varying widths going cross-wise. And on +the pale bands are woven sometimes flowers in most lovely colours, +rose-red and blue and green, peasant patterns—and sometimes fantastic +animals, beasts, in dark wool again. So that these striped zebra bags, +some wonderful gay with flowery colours on their stripes, some weird +with fantastic, griffin-like animals, are a whole landscape in +themselves.</p> + +<p>The train has only first and third class. It costs about thirty francs +for the two of us, third class to Mandas, which is some sixty miles. In +we crowd with the joyful saddle-bags, into the wooden carriage with its +many seats.</p> + +<p>And, wonder of wonders, punctually to the second, off we go, out of +Cagliari. En route again.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="IV" id="IV"></a>IV.</h2> + +<h3>MANDAS.</h3> + + +<p>The coach was fairly full of people, returning from market. On these +railways the third class coaches are not divided into compartments. They +are left open, so that one sees everybody, as down a room. The +attractive saddle-bags, <i>bercole</i>, were disposed anywhere, and the bulk +of the people settled down to a lively <i>conversazione</i>. It is much +nicest, on the whole, to travel third class on the railway. There is +space, there is air, and it is like being in a lively inn, everybody in +good spirits.</p> + +<p>At our end was plenty of room. Just across the gangway was an elderly +couple, like two children, coming home very happily. He was fat, fat all +over, with a white moustache and a little not-unamiable frown. She was a +tall lean, brown woman, in a brown full-skirted dress and black apron, +with huge pocket. She wore no head covering, and her iron grey hair was +parted smoothly. They were rather pleased and excited being in the +train. She took all her money<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span> out of her big pocket, and counted it and +gave it to him: all the ten Lira notes, and the five Lira and the two +and the one, peering at the dirty scraps of pink-backed one-lira notes +to see if they were good. Then she gave him her half-pennies. And he +stowed them away in the trouser pocket, standing up to push them down +his fat leg. And then one saw, to one's amazement, that the whole of his +shirt-tail was left out behind, like a sort of apron worn backwards. +Why—a mystery. He was one of those fat, good-natured, unheeding men +with a little masterful frown, such as usually have tall, lean, +hard-faced, obedient wives.</p> + +<p>They were very happy. With amazement he watched us taking hot tea from +the Thermos flask. I think he too had suspected it might be a bomb. He +had blue eyes and standing-up white eyebrows.</p> + +<p>"Beautiful hot—!" he said, seeing the tea steam. It is the inevitable +exclamation. "Does it do you good?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," said the q-b. "Much good." And they both nodded complacently. +They were going home.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The train was running over the malarial-looking sea-plain—past the +down-at-heel palm trees, past the mosque-looking buildings. At a level +crossing the woman crossing-keeper darted out vigorously with her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span> red +flag. And we rambled into the first village. It was built of sun-dried +brick-adobe houses, thick adobe garden-walls, with tile ridges to keep +off the rain. In the enclosures were dark orange trees. But the +clay-coloured villages, clay-dry, looked foreign: the next thing to mere +earth they seem, like fox-holes or coyote colonies.</p> + +<p>Looking back, one sees Cagliari bluff on her rock, rather fine, with the +thin edge of the sea's blade curving round. It is rather hard to believe +in the real sea, on this sort of clay-pale plain.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>But soon we begin to climb to the hills. And soon the cultivation begins +to be intermittent. Extraordinary how the heathy, moor-like hills come +near the sea: extraordinary how scrubby and uninhabited the great spaces +of Sardinia are. It is wild, with heath and arbutus scrub and a sort of +myrtle, breast-high. Sometimes one sees a few head of cattle. And then +again come the greyish arable-patches, where the corn is grown. It is +like Cornwall, like the Land's End region. Here and there, in the +distance, are peasants working on the lonely landscape. Sometimes it is +one man alone in the distance, showing so vividly in his black-and-white +costume, small and far-off like a solitary magpie, and curiously +distinct. All the strange<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span> magic of Sardinia is in this sight. Among the +low, moor-like hills, away in a hollow of the wide landscape one +solitary figure, small but vivid black-and-white, working alone, as if +eternally. There are patches and hollows of grey arable land, good for +corn. Sardinia was once a great granary.</p> + +<p>Usually, however, the peasants of the South have left off the costume. +Usually it is the invisible soldiers' grey-green cloth, the Italian +khaki. Wherever you go, wherever you be, you see this khaki, this +grey-green war-clothing. How many millions of yards of the thick, +excellent, but hateful material the Italian government must have +provided I don't know: but enough to cover Italy with a felt carpet, I +should think. It is everywhere. It cases the tiny children in stiff and +neutral frocks and coats, it covers their extinguished fathers, and +sometimes it even encloses the women in its warmth. It is symbolic of +the universal grey mist that has come over men, the extinguishing of all +bright individuality, the blotting out of all wild singleness. Oh +democracy! Oh khaki democracy!</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>This is very different from Italian landscape. Italy is almost always +dramatic, and perhaps invariably romantic. There is drama in the plains +of Lombardy, and romance in the Venetian lagoons, and sheer scenic<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span> +excitement in nearly all the hilly parts of the peninsula. Perhaps it is +the natural floridity of lime-stone formations. But Italian landscape is +really eighteenth-century landscape, to be represented in that +romantic-classic manner which makes everything rather marvelous and very +topical: aqueducts, and ruins upon sugar-loaf mountains, and craggy +ravines and Wilhelm Meister water-falls: all up and down.</p> + +<p>Sardinia is another thing. Much wider, much more ordinary, not +up-and-down at all, but running away into the distance. Unremarkable +ridges of moor-like hills running away, perhaps to a bunch of dramatic +peaks on the southwest. This gives a sense of space, which is so lacking +in Italy. Lovely space about one, and traveling distances—nothing +finished, nothing final. It is like liberty itself, after the peaky +confinement of Sicily. Room—give me room—give me room for my spirit: +and you can have all the toppling crags of romance.</p> + +<p>So we ran on through the gold of the afternoon, across a wide, almost +Celtic landscape of hills, our little train winding and puffing away +very nimbly. Only the heath and scrub, breast-high, man-high, is too big +and brigand-like for a Celtic land. The horns of black, wild-looking +cattle show sometimes.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span></p> + +<p>After a long pull, we come to a station after a stretch of loneliness. +Each time, it looks as if there were nothing beyond—no more +habitations. And each time we come to a station.</p> + +<p>Most of the people have left the train. And as with men driving in a +gig, who get down at every public-house, so the passengers usually +alight for an airing at each station. Our old fat friend stands up and +tucks his shirt-tail comfortably in his trousers, which trousers all the +time make one hold one's breath, for they seem at each very moment to be +just dropping right down: and he clambers out, followed by the long, +brown stalk of a wife.</p> + +<p>So the train sits comfortably for five or ten minutes, in the way the +trains have. At last we hear whistles and horns, and our old fat friend +running and clinging like a fat crab to the very end of the train as it +sets off. At the same instant a loud shriek and a bunch of shouts from +outside. We all jump up. There, down the line, is the long brown stork +of a wife. She had just walked back to a house some hundred yards off, +for a few words, and has now seen the train moving.</p> + +<p>Now behold her with her hands thrown to heaven, and hear the wild shriek +"Madonna!" through all the hubbub. But she picks up her two skirt-knees, +and with her thin legs in grey stockings starts with a mad<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span> rush after +the train. In vain. The train inexorably pursues its course. Prancing, +she reaches one end of the platform as we leave the other end. Then she +realizes it is not going to stop for her. And then, oh horror, her long +arms thrown out in wild supplication after the retreating train: then +flung aloft to God: then brought down in absolute despair on her head. +And this is the last sight we have of her, clutching her poor head in +agony and doubling forward. She is left—she is abandoned.</p> + +<p>The poor fat husband has been all the time on the little outside +platform at the end of the carriage, holding out his hand to her and +shouting frenzied scolding to her and frenzied yells for the train to +stop. And the train has not stopped. And she is left—left on that +God-forsaken station in the waning light.</p> + +<p>So, his face all bright, his eyes round and bright as two stars, +absolutely transfigured by dismay, chagrin, anger and distress, he comes +and sits in his seat, ablaze, stiff, speechless. His face is almost +beautiful in its blaze of conflicting emotions. For some time he is as +if unconscious in the midst of his feelings. Then anger and resentment +crop out of his consternation. He turns with a flash to the long-nosed, +insidious, Phœnician-looking guard. Why couldn't they stop the train +for her! And immediately, as if someone had set<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span> fire to him, off flares +the guard. Heh!—the train can't stop for every person's convenience! +The train is a train—the time-table is a time-table. What did the old +woman want to take her trips down the line for? Heh! She pays the +penalty for her own inconsiderateness. Had <i>she</i> paid for the +train—heh? And the fat man all the time firing off his unheeding and +unheeded answers. One minute—only one minute—if he, the conductor had +told the driver! if he, the conductor, had shouted! A poor woman! Not +another train! What was she going to do! Her ticket? And no money. A +poor woman—</p> + +<p>There was a train back to Cagliari that night, said the conductor, at +which the fat man nearly burst out of his clothing like a bursting +seed-pod. He bounced on his seat. What good was that? What good was a +train back to Cagliari, when their home was in Snelli! Making matters +worse—</p> + +<p>So they bounced and jerked and argued at one another, to their hearts' +content. Then the conductor retired, smiling subtly, in a way they have. +Our fat friend looked at us with hot, angry, ashamed, grieved eyes and +said it was a shame. Yes, we chimed, it <i>was</i> a shame. Whereupon a +self-important miss who said she came from some Collegio at Cagliari +advanced and asked a number of impertinent questions in a tone of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span> pert +sympathy. After which our fat friend, left alone, covered his clouded +face with his hand, turned his back on the world, and gloomed.</p> + +<p>It had all been so dramatic that in spite of ourselves we laughed, even +while the q-b shed a few tears.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Well, the journey lasted hours. We came to a station, and the conductor +said we must get out: these coaches went no further. Only two coaches +would proceed to Mandas. So we climbed out with our traps, and our fat +friend with his saddle-bag, the picture of misery.</p> + +<p>The one coach into which we clambered was rather crowded. The only other +coach was most of it first-class. And the rest of the train was freight. +We were two insignificant passenger wagons at the end of a long string +of freight-vans and trucks.</p> + +<p>There was an empty seat, so we sat on it: only to realize after about +five minutes, that a thin old woman with two children—her +grandchildren—was chuntering her head off because it was <i>her</i> +seat—why she had left it she didn't say. And under my legs was her +bundle of bread. She nearly went off her head. And over my head, on the +little rack, was her bercola, her saddle-bag. Fat soldiers laughed at +her good-naturedly, but she fluttered and flipped like a tart, +featherless<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span> old hen. Since she had another seat and was quite +comfortable, we smiled and let her chunter. So she clawed her bread +bundle from under my legs, and, clutching it and a fat child, sat tense.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>It was getting quite dark. The conductor came and said that there was no +more paraffin. If what there was in the lamps gave out, we should have +to sit in the dark. There was no more paraffin all along the line.—So +he climbed on the seats, and after a long struggle, with various boys +striking matches for him, he managed to obtain a light as big as a pea. +We sat in this <i>clair-obscur</i>, and looked at the sombre-shadowed faces +round us: the fat soldier with a gun, the handsome soldier with huge +saddle-bags, the weird, dark little man who kept exchanging a baby with +a solid woman who had a white cloth tied round her head, a tall +peasant-woman in costume, who darted out at a dark station and returned +triumphant with a piece of chocolate: a young and interested young man, +who told us every station. And the man who spat: there is always one.</p> + +<p>Gradually the crowd thinned. At a station we saw our fat friend go by, +bitterly, like a betrayed soul, his bulging saddle-bag hanging before +and after, but no comfort in it now—no comfort. The pea of light<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span> from +the paraffin lamp grew smaller. We sat in incredible dimness, and the +smell of sheeps-wool and peasant, with only our fat and stoic young man +to tell us where we were. The other dusky faces began to sink into a +dead, gloomy silence. Some took to sleep. And the little train ran on +and on, through unknown Sardinian darkness. In despair we drained the +last drop of tea and ate the last crusts of bread. We knew we must +arrive some time.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>It was not much after seven when we came to Mandas. Mandas is a junction +where these little trains sit and have a long happy chat after their +arduous scramble over the downs. It had taken us somewhere about five +hours to do our fifty miles. No wonder then that when the junction at +last heaves in sight everybody bursts out of the train like seeds from +an exploding pod, and rushes somewhere for something. To the station +restaurant, of course. Hence there is a little station restaurant that +does a brisk trade, and where one can have a bed.</p> + +<p>A quite pleasant woman behind the little bar: a brown woman with brown +parted hair and brownish eyes and brownish, tanned complexion and tight +brown velveteen bodice. She led us up a narrow winding stone stair, as +up a fortress, leading on with her candle,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span> and ushered us into the +bedroom. It smelled horrid and sourish, as shutup bedrooms do. We threw +open the window. There were big frosty stars snapping ferociously in +heaven.</p> + +<p>The room contained a huge bed, big enough for eight people, and quite +clean. And the table on which stood the candle actually had a cloth. But +imagine that cloth! I think it had been originally white: now, however, +it was such a web of time-eaten holes and mournful black inkstains and +poor dead wine stains that it was like some 2000 B.C. mummy-cloth. I +wonder if it could have been lifted from that table: or if it was +mummified on to it! I for one made no attempt to try. But that +table-cover impressed me, as showing degrees I had not imagined.—A +table-cloth.</p> + +<p>We went down the fortress-stair to the eating-room. Here was a long +table with soup-plates upside down and a lamp burning an uncanny naked +acetylene flame. We sat at the cold table, and the lamp immediately +began to wane. The room—in fact the whole of Sardinia—was stone cold, +stone, stone cold. Outside the earth was freezing. Inside there was no +thought of any sort of warmth: dungeon stone floors, dungeon stone walls +and a dead, corpse-like atmosphere, too heavy and icy to move.</p> + +<p>The lamp went quite out, and the q-b gave a cry.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span> The brown woman poked +her head through a hole in the wall. Beyond her we saw the flames of the +cooking, and two devil-figures stirring the pots. The brown woman came +and shook the lamp—it was like a stodgy porcelain mantelpiece +vase—shook it well and stirred up its innards, and started it going +once more. Then she appeared with a bowl of smoking cabbage soup, in +which were bits of macaroni: and would we have wine? I shuddered at the +thought of death-cold red wine of the country, so asked what else there +was. There was malvagia—malvoisie, the same old malmsey that did for +the Duke of Clarence. So we had a pint of malvagia, and were comforted. +At least we were being so, when the lamp went out again. The brown woman +came and shook and smacked it, and started it off again. But as if to +say "Shan't for you", it whipped out again.</p> + +<p>Then came the host with a candle and a pin, a large, genial Sicilian +with pendulous mustaches. And he thoroughly pricked the wretch with the +pin, shook it, and turned little screws. So up flared the flame. We were +a little nervous. He asked us where we came from, etc. And suddenly he +asked us, with an excited gleam, were we Socialists. Aha, he was going +to hail us as citizens and comrades. He thought we were a pair of +Bolshevist agents: I could see it. And as such<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span> he was prepared to +embrace us. But no, the q-b disclaimed the honor. I merely smiled and +shook my head. It is a pity to rob people of their exciting illusions.</p> + +<p>"Ah, there is too much socialism everywhere!" cried the q-b.</p> + +<p>"Ma—perhaps, perhaps—" said the discreet Sicilian. She saw which way +the land lay, and added:</p> + +<p>"Si vuole un <i>pocchetino</i> di Socialismo: one wants a tiny bit of +socialism in the world, a tiny bit. But not much. Not much. At present +there is too much."</p> + +<p>Our host, twinkling at this speech which treated of the sacred creed as +if it were a pinch of salt in the broth, believing the q-b was throwing +dust in his eyes, and thoroughly intrigued by us as a pair of deep ones, +retired. No sooner had he gone than the lamp-flame stood up at its full +length, and started to whistle. The q-b drew back. Not satisfied by +this, another flame suddenly began to whip round the bottom of the +burner, like a lion lashing its tail. Unnerved, we made room: the q-b +cried again: in came the host with a subtle smile and a pin and an air +of benevolence, and tamed the brute.</p> + +<p>What else was there to eat? There was a piece of fried pork for me, and +boiled eggs for the q-b. As we were proceeding with these, in came the +remainder<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span> of the night's entertainment: three station officials, two in +scarlet peaked caps, one in a black-and-gold peaked cap. They sat down +with a clamour, in their caps, as if there was a sort of invisible +screen between us and them. They were young. The black cap had a lean +and sardonic look: one of the red-caps was little and ruddy, very young, +with a little mustache: we called him the <i>maialino</i>, the gay little +black pig, he was so plump and food-nourished and frisky. The third was +rather puffy and pale and had spectacles. They all seemed to present us +the blank side of their cheek, and to intimate that no, they were not +going to take their hats off, even if it were dinner-table and a strange +<i>signora</i>. And they made rough quips with one another, still as if we +were on the other side of the invisible screen.</p> + +<p>Determined however, to remove this invisible screen, I said +Good-evening, and it was very cold. They muttered Good-evening, and yes, +it was fresh. An Italian never says it is cold: it is never more than +<i>fresco</i>. But this hint that it was cold they took as a hint at their +caps, and they became very silent, till the woman came in with the +soup-bowl. Then they clamoured at her, particularly the <i>maialino</i>, what +was there to eat. She told them—beef-steaks of pork. Whereat they +pulled faces. Or bits of boiled pork. They sighed, looked gloomy, +cheered up, and said beef-steaks, then.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</a></span></p> + +<p>And they fell on their soup. And never, from among the steam, have I +heard a more joyful trio of soup-swilkering. They sucked it in from +their spoons with long, gusto-rich sucks. The <i>maialino</i> was the +treble—he trilled his soup into his mouth with a swift, sucking +vibration, interrupted by bits of cabbage, which made the lamp start to +dither again. Black-cap was the baritone; good, rolling spoon-sucks. And +the one in spectacles was the bass: he gave sudden deep gulps. All was +led by the long trilling of the <i>maialino</i>. Then suddenly, to vary +matters, he cocked up his spoon in one hand, chewed a huge mouthful of +bread, and swallowed it down with a smack-smack-smack! of his tongue +against his palate. As children we used to call this "clapping".</p> + +<p>"Mother, she's clapping!" I would yell with anger, against my sister. +The German word is schmatzen.</p> + +<p>So the <i>maialino</i> clapped like a pair of cymbals, while baritone and +bass rolled on. Then in chimed the swift bright treble.</p> + +<p>At this rate however, the soup did not last long. Arrived the +beef-steaks of pork. And now the trio was a trio of castanet smacks and +cymbal claps. Triumphantly the <i>maialino</i> looked around. He out-smacked +all.</p> + +<p>The bread of the country is rather coarse and brown,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></span> with a hard, hard +crust. A large rock of this is perched on every damp serviette. The +<i>maialino</i> tore his rock asunder, and grumbled at the black-cap, who had +got a weird sort of three-cornered loaf-roll of pure white bread—starch +white. He was a swell with this white bread.</p> + +<p>Suddenly black-cap turned to me. Where had we come from, where were we +going, what for? But in laconic, sardonic tone.</p> + +<p>"I <i>like</i> Sardinia," cried the q-b.</p> + +<p>"Why?" he asked sarcastically. And she tried to find out.</p> + +<p>"Yes, the Sardinians please me more than the Sicilians," said I.</p> + +<p>"Why?" he asked sarcastically.</p> + +<p>"They are more open—more honest." He seemed to turn his nose down.</p> + +<p>"The padrone is a Sicilian," said the <i>maialino</i>, stuffing a huge block +of bread into his mouth, and rolling his insouciant eyes of a gay, +well-fed little black pig towards the background. We weren't making much +headway.</p> + +<p>"You've seen Cagliari?" the black-cap said to me, like a threat.</p> + +<p>"Yes! oh Cagliari pleases me—Cagliari is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</a></span> beautiful!" cried the q-b, +who travels with a vial of melted butter ready for her parsnips.</p> + +<p>"Yes—Cagliari is <i>so-so</i>—Cagliari is very fair," said the black cap. +"<i>Cagliari è discreto.</i>" He was evidently proud of it.</p> + +<p>"And is Mandas nice?" asked the q-b.</p> + +<p>"In what way nice?" they asked, with immense sarcasm.</p> + +<p>"Is there anything to see?"</p> + +<p>"Hens," said the <i>maialino</i> briefly. They all bristled when one asked if +Mandas was nice.</p> + +<p>"What does one do here?" asked the q-b.</p> + +<p>"<i>Niente!</i> At Mandas one does <i>nothing</i>. At Mandas one goes to bed when +it's dark, like a chicken. At Mandas one walks down the road like a pig +that is going nowhere. At Mandas a goat understands more than the +inhabitants understand. At Mandas one needs socialism...."</p> + +<p>They all cried out at once. Evidently Mandas was more than flesh and +blood could bear for another minute to these three conspirators.</p> + +<p>"Then you are very bored here?" say I.</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>And the quiet intensity of that naked yes spoke more than volumes.</p> + +<p>"You would like to be in Cagliari?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>Silence, intense, sardonic silence had intervened. The three looked at +one another and made a sour joke about Mandas. Then the black-cap turned +to me.</p> + +<p>"Can you understand Sardinian?" he said.</p> + +<p>"Somewhat. More than Sicilian, anyhow."</p> + +<p>"But Sardinian is more difficult than Sicilian. It is full of words +utterly unknown to Italian—"</p> + +<p>"Yes, but," say I, "it is spoken openly, in plain words, and Sicilian is +spoken all stuck together, none of the words there at all."</p> + +<p>He looks at me as if I were an imposter. Yet it is true. I find it quite +easy to understand Sardinian. As a matter of fact, it is more a question +of human approach than of sound. Sardinian seems open and manly and +downright. Sicilian is gluey and evasive, as if the Sicilian didn't want +to speak straight to you. As a matter of fact, he doesn't. He is an +over-cultured, sensitive, ancient soul, and he has so many sides to his +mind that he hasn't got any definite one mind at all. He's got a dozen +minds, and uneasily he's aware of it, and to commit himself to anyone of +them is merely playing a trick on himself and his interlocutor. The +Sardinian, on the other hand, still seems to have one downright mind. I +bump up against a downright, smack-out belief in Socialism, for +example.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</a></span> The Sicilian is much too old in our culture to swallow +Socialism whole: much too ancient and rusé not to be sophisticated about +any and every belief. He'll go off like a squib: and then he'll smoulder +acridly and sceptically even against his own fire. One sympathizes with +him in retrospect. But in daily life it is unbearable.</p> + +<p>"Where do you find such white bread?" say I to the black cap, because he +is proud of it.</p> + +<p>"It comes from my home." And then he asks about the bread of Sicily. Is +it any whiter than <i>this</i>—the Mandas rock. Yes, it is a little whiter. +At which they gloom again. For it is a very sore point, this bread. +Bread means a great deal to an Italian: it is verily his staff of life. +He practically lives on bread. And instead of going by taste, he now, +like all the world, goes by eye. He has got it into his head that bread +should be white, so that every time he fancies a darker shade in the +loaf a shadow falls on his soul. Nor is he altogether wrong. For +although, personally, I don't like white bread any more, yet I do like +my brown bread to be made of pure, unmixed flour. The peasants in +Sicily, who have kept their own wheat and make their own natural brown +bread, ah, it is amazing how fresh and sweet and <i>clean</i> their loaf +seems, so perfumed as home-bread used all to be before the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span> war. Whereas +the bread of the commune, the regulation supply, is hard, and rather +coarse and rough, so rough and harsh on the palate. One gets tired to +death of it. I suspect myself the maize meal mixed in. But I don't know. +And finally the bread varies immensely from town to town, from commune +to commune. The so-called just and equal distribution is all my-eye. One +place has abundance of good sweet bread, another scrapes along, always +stinted, on an allowance of harsh coarse stuff. And the poor suffer +bitterly, really, from the bread-stinting, because they depend so on +this one food. They say the inequality and the injustice of distribution +comes from the Camorra—la grande Camorra—which is no more nowadays +than a profiteering combine, which the poor hate. But for myself, I +don't know. I only know that one town—Venice, for example—seems to +have an endless supply of pure bread, of sugar, of tobacco, of +salt—while Florence is in one continual ferment of irritation over the +stinting of these supplies—which are all government monopoly, doled out +accordingly.</p> + +<p>We said Good-night to our three railway friends, and went up to bed. We +had only been in the room a minute or two, when the brown woman tapped: +and if you please, the black-cap had sent us one of his little white +loaves. We were really touched. Such delicate<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</a></span> little generosities have +almost disappeared from the world.</p> + +<p>It was a queer little bread—three-cornered, and almost as hard as ships +biscuit, made of starch flour. Not strictly bread at all.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The night was cold, the blankets flat and heavy, but one slept quite +well till dawn. At seven o'clock it was a clear, cold morning, the sun +not yet up. Standing at the bedroom window looking out, I could hardly +believe my eyes it was so like England, like Cornwall in the bleak +parts, or Derbyshire uplands. There was a little paddock-garden at the +back of the Station, rather tumble-down, with two sheep in it. There +were several forlorn-looking out-buildings, very like Cornwall. And then +the wide, forlorn country road stretched away between borders of grass +and low, drystone walls, towards a grey stone farm with a tuft of trees, +and a naked stone village in the distance. The sun came up yellow, the +bleak country glimmered bluish and reluctant. The low, green hill-slopes +were divided into fields, with low drystone walls and ditches. Here and +there a stone barn rose alone, or with a few bare, windy trees attached. +Two rough-coated winter horses pastured on the rough grass, a boy came +along the naked, wide, grass-bordered high-road with a couple<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span> of milk +cans, drifting in from nowhere: and it was all so like Cornwall, or a +part of Ireland, that the old nostalgia for the Celtic regions began to +spring up in me. Ah, those old, drystone walls dividing the fields—pale +and granite-blenched! Ah, the dark, sombre grass, the naked sky! the +forlorn horses in the wintry morning! Strange is a Celtic landscape, far +more moving, disturbing than the lovely glamor of Italy and Greece. +Before the curtains of history lifted, one feels the world was like +this—this Celtic bareness and sombreness and <i>air</i>. But perhaps it is +not Celtic at all: Iberian. Nothing is more unsatisfactory than our +conception of what is Celtic and what is not Celtic. I believe there +never were any Celts, as a race.—As for the Iberians—!</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<div class="figcenter"> +<a name="illus4" id="illus4"></a> +<img src="images/illus4.jpg" alt=""/> +</div> + +<h3>TONARA</h3> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>Wonderful to go out on a frozen road, to see the grass in shadow bluish +with hoar-frost, to see the grass in the yellow winter-sunrise beams +melting and going cold-twinkly. Wonderful the bluish, cold air, and +things standing up in cold distance. After two southern winters, with +roses blooming all the time, this bleakness and this touch of frost in +the ringing morning goes to my soul like an intoxication. I am so glad, +on this lonely naked road, I don't know what to do with myself. I walk +down in the shallow grassy ditches under the loose stone walls, I walk +on the little<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</a></span> ridge of grass, the little bank on which the wall is +built, I cross the road across the frozen cow-droppings: and it is all +so familiar to my <i>feet</i>, my very feet in contact, that I am wild as if +I had made a discovery. And I realize that I hate lime-stone, to live on +lime-stone or marble or any of those limey rocks. I hate them. They are +dead rocks, they have no life—thrills for the feet. Even sandstone is +much better. But granite! Granite is my favorite. It is so live under +the feet, it has a deep sparkle of its own. I like its roundnesses—and +I hate the jaggy dryness of lime-stone, that burns in the sun, and +withers.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>After coming to a deep well in a grassy plot in a wide space of the +road, I go back, across the sunny naked upland country, towards the pink +station and its out-buildings. An engine is steaming its white clouds in +the new light. Away to the left there is even a row of small houses, +like a row of railway-mens' dwellings. Strange and familiar sight. And +the station precincts are disorderly and rather dilapidated. I think of +our Sicilian host.</p> + +<p>The brown woman gives us coffee, and very strong, rich goats' milk, and +bread. After which the q-b and I set off once more along the road to the +village. She too is thrilled. She too breathes deep. She too<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</a></span> feels +<i>space</i> around her, and freedom to move the limbs: such as one does not +feel in Italy and Sicily, where all is so classic and fixed.</p> + +<p>The village itself is just a long, winding, darkish street, in shadow, +of houses and shops and a smithy. It might almost be Cornwall: not +quite. Something, I don't know what, suggests the stark burning glare of +summer. And then, of course, there is none of the cosiness which +climbing roses and lilac trees and cottage shops and haystacks would +give to an English scene. This is harder, barer, starker, more dreary. +An ancient man in the black-and-white costume comes out of a hovel of a +cottage. The butcher carries a huge side of meat. The women peer at +us—but more furtive and reticent than the howling stares of Italy.</p> + +<p>So we go on, down the rough-cobbled street through the whole length of +the village. And emerging on the other side, past the last cottage, we +find ourselves again facing the open country, on the gentle down-slope +of the rolling hill. The landscape continues the same: low, rolling +upland hills, dim under the yellow sun of the January morning: stone +fences, fields, grey-arable land: a man slowly, slowly ploughing with a +pony and a dark-red cow: the road trailing empty across the distance: +and then, the one violently unfamiliar note, the enclosed cemetery lying +outside on the gentle<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</a></span> hill-side, closed in all round, very compact, +with high walls: and on the inside face of the enclosure wall the marble +slabs, like shut drawers of the sepulchres, shining white, the wall +being like a chest of drawers, or pigeon holes to hold the dead. Tufts +of dark and plumy cypresses rise among the flat graves of the enclosure. +In the south, cemeteries are walled off and isolated very tight. The +dead, as it were, are kept fast in pound. There is no spreading of +graves over the face of the country. They are penned in a tight fold, +with cypresses to fatten on the bones. This is the one thoroughly +strange note in the landscape. But all-pervading there is a strangeness, +that strange feeling as if the <i>depths</i> were barren, which comes in the +south and the east, sun-stricken. Sun-stricken, and the heart eaten out +by the dryness.</p> + +<p>"I like it! I like it!" cries the q-b.</p> + +<p>"But could you live here?" She would like to say yes, but daren't.</p> + +<p>We stray back. The q-b wants to buy one of those saddle-bag +arrangements. I say what for? She says to keep things in. Ach! but +peeping in the shops, we see one and go in and examine it. It is quite a +sound one, properly made: but plain, quite plain. On the white +cross-stripes there are no lovely colored flowers of rose and green and +magenta: the three favorite<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</a></span> Sardinian colors: nor are there any of the +fantastic and griffin-like beasts. So it won't do. How much does it +cost? Forty-five francs.</p> + +<p>There is nothing to do in Mandas. So we will take the morning train and +go to the terminus, to Sorgono. Thus, we shall cross the lower slopes of +the great central knot of Sardinia, the mountain knot called +Gennargentu. And Sorgono we feel will be lovely.</p> + +<p>Back at the station we make tea on the spirit lamp, fill the thermos, +pack the knapsack and the kitchenino, and come out into the sun of the +platform. The q-b goes to thank the black-cap for the white bread, +whilst I settle the bill and ask for food for the journey. The brown +woman fishes out from a huge black pot in the background sundry hunks of +coarse boiled pork, and gives me two of these, hot, with bread and salt. +This is the luncheon. I pay the bill: which amounts to twenty-four +francs, for everything. (One says francs or liras, irrespective, in +Italy.) At that moment arrives the train from Cagliari, and men rush in, +roaring for the soup—or rather, for the broth. "Ready, ready!" she +cries, going to the black pot.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="V" id="V"></a>V.</h2> + +<h3>TO SORGONO.</h3> + + +<p>The various trains in the junction squatted side by side and had long, +long talks before at last we were off. It was wonderful to be running in +the bright morning towards the heart of Sardinia, in the little train +that seemed so familiar. We were still going third class, rather to the +disgust of the railway officials at Mandas.</p> + +<p>At first the country was rather open: always the long spurs of hills, +steep-sided, but not high. And from our little train we looked across +the country, across hill and dale. In the distance was a little town, on +a low slope. But for its compact, fortified look it might have been a +town on the English downs. A man in the carriage leaned out of the +window holding out a white cloth, as a signal to someone in the far off +town that he was coming. The wind blew the white cloth, the town in the +distance glimmered small and alone in its hollow. And the little train +pelted along.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</a></span></p> + +<p>It was rather comical to see it. We were always climbing. And the line +curved in great loops. So that as one looked out of the window, time and +again one started, seeing a little train running in front of us, in a +diverging direction, making big puffs of steam. But lo, it was our own +little engine pelting off around a loop away ahead. We were quite a long +train, but all trucks in front, only our two passenger coaches hitched +on behind. And for this reason our own engine was always running fussily +into sight, like some dog scampering in front and swerving about us, +while we followed at the tail end of the thin string of trucks.</p> + +<p>I was surprised how well the small engine took the continuous steep +slopes, how bravely it emerged on the sky-line. It is a queer railway. I +would like to know who made it. It pelts up hill and down dale and round +sudden bends in the most unconcerned fashion, not as proper big railways +do, grunting inside deep cuttings and stinking their way through +tunnels, but running up the hill like a panting, small dog, and having a +look round, and starting off in another direction, whisking us behind +unconcernedly. This is much more fun than the tunnel-and-cutting system.</p> + +<p>They told me that Sardinia mines her own coal: and quite enough for her +own needs: but very soft, not fit for steam-purposes. I saw heaps of it: +small, dull,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</a></span> dirty-looking stuff. Truck-loads of it too. And +truck-loads of grain.</p> + +<p>At every station we were left ignominiously planted, while the little +engines—they had gay gold names on their black little bodies—strolled +about along the side-lines, and snuffed at the various trucks. There we +sat, at every station, while some truck was discarded and some other +sorted out like a branded sheep, from the sidings and hitched on to us. +It took a long time, this did.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>All the stations so far had had wire netting over the windows. This +means malaria-mosquitoes. The malaria climbs very high in Sardinia. The +shallow upland valleys, moorland with their intense summer sun and the +riverless, boggy behaviour of the water breed the pest inevitably. But +not very terribly, as far as one can make out: August and September +being the danger months. The natives don't like to admit there is any +malaria: a tiny bit, they say, a tiny bit. As soon as you come to the +<i>trees</i> there is no more. So they say. For many miles the landscape is +moorland and down-like, with no trees. But wait for the trees. Ah, the +woods and forests of Gennargentu: the woods and forests higher up: no +malaria there!</p> + +<p>The little engine whisks up and up, around its loopy<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</a></span> curves as if it +were going to bite its own tail: we being the tail: then suddenly dives +over the sky-line out of sight. And the landscape changes. The famous +woods begin to appear. At first it is only hazel-thickets, miles of +hazel-thickets, all wild, with a few black cattle trying to peep at us +out of the green myrtle and arbutus scrub which forms the undergrowth; +and a couple of rare, wild peasants peering at the train. They wear the +black sheepskin tunic, with the wool outside, and the long stocking +caps. Like cattle they too peer out from between deep bushes. The myrtle +scrub here rises man-high, and cattle and men are smothered in it. The +big hazels rise bare above. It must be difficult getting about in these +parts.</p> + +<p>Sometimes, in the distance one sees a black-and-white peasant riding +lonely across a more open place, a tiny vivid figure. I like so much the +proud instinct which makes a living creature distinguish itself from its +background. I hate the rabbity khaki protection-colouration. A +black-and-white peasant on his pony, only a dot in the distance beyond +the foliage, still flashes and dominates the landscape. Ha-ha! proud +mankind! There you ride! But alas, most of the men are still +khaki-muffled, rabbit-indistinguishable, ignominious. The Italians look +curiously rabbity in the grey-green uniform: just as our sand-colored +khaki men look doggy.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</a></span> They seem to scuffle rather abased, ignominious +on the earth. Give us back the scarlet and gold, and devil take the +hindmost.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The landscape really begins to change. The hillsides tilt sharper and +sharper. A man is ploughing with two small red cattle on a craggy, +tree-hanging slope as sharp as a roof-side. He stoops at the small +wooden plough, and jerks the ploughlines. The oxen lift their noses to +heaven, with a strange and beseeching snake-like movement, and taking +tiny little steps with their frail feet, move slantingly across the +slope-face, between rocks and tree-roots. Little, frail, jerky steps the +bullocks take, and again they put their horns back and lift their +muzzles snakily to heaven, as the man pulls the line. And he skids his +wooden plough round another scoop of earth. It is marvellous how they +hang upon that steep, craggy slope. An English labourer's eyes would +bolt out of his head at the sight.</p> + +<p>There is a stream: actually a long tress of a water-fall pouring into a +little gorge, and a stream-bed that opens a little, and shows a +marvellous cluster of naked poplars away below. They are like ghosts. +They have a ghostly, almost phosphorescent luminousness in the shadow of +the valley, by the stream of water. If not phosphorescent, then +incandescent: a grey, goldish-pale<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</a></span> incandescence of naked limbs and +myriad cold-glowing twigs, gleaming strangely. If I were a painter I +would paint them: for they seem to have living, sentient flesh. And the +shadow envelopes them.</p> + +<p>Another naked tree I would paint is the gleaming mauve-silver fig, which +burns its cold incandescence, tangled, like some sensitive creature +emerged from the rock. A fig tree come forth in its nudity gleaming over +the dark winter-earth is a sight to behold. Like some white, tangled sea +anemone. Ah, if it could but answer! or if we had tree-speech!</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Yes, the steep valley sides become almost gorges, and there are trees. +Not forests such as I had imagined, but scattered, grey, smallish oaks, +and some lithe chestnuts. Chestnuts with their long whips, and oaks with +their stubby boughs, scattered on steep hillsides where rocks crop out. +The train perilously winding round, half way up. Then suddenly bolting +over a bridge and into a completely unexpected station. What is more, +men crowd in—the station is connected with the main railway by a post +motor-omnibus.</p> + +<p>An unexpected irruption of men—they may be miners or navvies or +land-workers. They all have huge sacks: some lovely saddle-bags with +rose-coloured flowers across the darkness. One old man is in full<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</a></span> +black-and-white costume, but very dirty and coming to pieces. The others +wear the tight madder-brown breeches and sleeved waistcoats. Some have +the sheepskin tunic, and all wear the long stocking cap. And how they +smell! of sheep-wool and of men and goat. A rank scent fills the +carriage.</p> + +<p>They talk and are very lively. And they have mediaeval faces, <i>rusé</i>, +never really abandoning their defences for a moment, as a badger or a +pole-cat never abandons its defences. There is none of the brotherliness +and civilised simplicity. Each man knows he must guard himself and his +own: each man knows the devil is behind the next bush. They have never +known the post-Renaissance Jesus. Which is rather an eye-opener.</p> + +<p>Not that they are suspicious or uneasy. On the contrary, noisy, +assertive, vigorous presences. But with none of that implicit belief +that everybody will be and ought to be good to them, which is the mark +of our era. They don't expect people to be good to them: they don't want +it. They remind me of half-wild dogs that will love and obey, but which +won't be handled. They won't have their heads touched. And they won't be +fondled. One can almost hear the half-savage growl.</p> + +<p>The long stocking caps they wear as a sort of crest, as a lizard wears +his crest at mating time. They are<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</a></span> always moving them, settling them on +their heads. One fat fellow, young, with sly brown eyes and a young +beard round his face folds his stocking-foot in three, so that it rises +over his brow martial and handsome. The old boy brings his stocking-foot +over the left ear. A handsome fellow with a jaw of massive teeth pushes +his cap back and lets it hang a long way down his back. Then he shifts +it forward over his nose, and makes it have two sticking-out points, +like fox-ears, above his temples. It is marvellous how much expression +these caps can take on. They say that only those born to them can wear +them. They seem to be just long bags, nearly a yard long, of black +stockinette stuff.</p> + +<p>The conductor comes to issue them their tickets. And they all take out +rolls of paper money. Even a little mothy rat of a man who sits opposite +me has quite a pad of ten-franc notes. Nobody seems short of a hundred +francs nowadays: nobody.</p> + +<p>They shout and expostulate with the conductor. Full of coarse life they +are: but so coarse! The handsome fellow has his sleeved waistcoat open, +and his shirt-breast has come unbuttoned. Not looking, it seems as if he +wears a black undervest. Then suddenly, one sees it is his own hair. He +is quite black inside his shirt, like a black goat.</p> + +<p>But there is a gulf between oneself and them. They<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</a></span> have no inkling of +our crucifixion, our universal consciousness. Each of them is pivoted +and limited to himself, as the wild animals are. They look out, and they +see other objects, objects to ridicule or mistrust or to sniff curiously +at. But "thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself" has never entered +their souls at all, not even the thin end of it. They might love their +neighbour, with a hot, dark, unquestioning love. But the love would +probably leave off abruptly. The fascination of what is beyond them has +not seized on them. Their neighbour is a mere external. Their life is +centripetal, pivoted inside itself, and does not run out towards others +and mankind. One feels for the first time the real old mediaeval life, +which is enclosed in itself and has no interest in the world outside.</p> + +<p>And so they lie about on the seats, play a game, shout, and sleep, +and settle their long stocking-caps: and spit. It is wonderful in +them that at this time of day they still wear the long stocking-caps +as part of their inevitable selves. It is a sign of obstinate and +powerful tenacity. They are not going to be broken in upon by +world-consciousness. They are not going into the world's common clothes. +Coarse, vigorous, determined, they will stick to their own coarse dark +stupidity and let the big world find its own way to its<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</a></span> own enlightened +hell. Their hell is their own hell, they prefer it unenlightened.</p> + +<p>And one cannot help wondering whether Sardinia will resist right +through. Will the last waves of enlightenment and world-unity break over +them and wash away the stocking-caps? Or is the tide of enlightenment +and world-unity already receding fast enough?</p> + +<p>Certainly a reaction is setting in, away from the old universality, +back, away from cosmopolitanism and internationalism. Russia, with her +Third International, is at the same time reacting most violently away +from all other contact, back, recoiling on herself, into a fierce, +unapproachable Russianism. Which motion will conquer? The workman's +International, or the centripetal movement into national isolation? Are +we going to merge into one grey proletarian homogeneity?—or are we +going to swing back into more-or-less isolated, separate, defiant +communities?</p> + +<p>Probably both. The workman's International movement will finally break +the flow towards cosmopolitanism and world-assimilation, and suddenly in +a crash the world will fly back into intense separations. The moment has +come when America, that extremist in world-assimilation and +world-oneness, is reacting into violent egocentricity, a truly +Amerindian egocentricity.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</a></span> As sure as fate we are on the brink of +American empire.</p> + +<p>For myself, I am glad. I am glad that the era of love and oneness is +over: hateful homogeneous world-oneness. I am glad that Russia flies +back into savage Russianism, Scythism, savagely self-pivoting. I am glad +that America is doing the same. I shall be glad when men hate their +common, world-alike clothes, when they tear them up and clothe +themselves fiercely for distinction, savage distinction, savage +distinction against the rest of the creeping world: when America kicks +the billy-cock and the collar-and-tie into limbo, and takes to her own +national costume: when men fiercely react against looking all alike and +being all alike, and betake themselves into vivid clan or +nation-distinctions.</p> + +<p>The era of love and oneness is over. The era of world-alike should be at +an end. The other tide has set in. Men will set their bonnets at one +another now, and fight themselves into separation and sharp distinction. +The day of peace and oneness is over, the day of the great fight into +multifariousness is at hand. Hasten the day, and save us from +proletarian homogeneity and khaki all-alikeness.</p> + +<p>I love my indomitable coarse men from mountain Sardinia, for their +stocking-caps and their splendid, animal-bright stupidity. If only the +last wave of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</a></span> all-alikeness won't wash those superb crests, those caps, +away.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>We are struggling now among the Gennargentu spurs. There is no single +peak—no Etna of Sardinia. The train, like the plough, balances on the +steep, steep sides of the hill-spurs, and winds around and around. Above +and below the steep slopes are all bosky. These are the woods of +Gennargentu. But they aren't woods in my sense of the word. They are +thin sprinkles of oaks and chestnuts and cork-trees over steep +hill-slopes. And cork-trees! I see curious slim oaky-looking trees that +are stripped quite naked below the boughs, standing brown-ruddy, +curiously distinct among the bluey grey pallor of the others. They +remind me, again and again, of glowing, coffee-brown, naked aborigines +of the South Seas. They have the naked suavity, skin-bare, and an +intense coffee-red colour of unclothed savages. And these are the +stripped cork-trees. Some are much stripped, some little. Some have the +whole trunk and part of the lower limbs ruddy naked, some only a small +part of the trunk.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>It is well on in the afternoon. A peasant in black and white, and his +young, handsome woman in rose-red costume, with gorgeous apron bordered +deep with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</a></span> grass-green, and a little, dark-purple waistcoat over her +white, full bodice, are sitting behind me talking. The workmen peasants +are subsiding into sleep. It is well on in the afternoon, we have long +ago eaten the meat. Now we finish the white loaf, the gift, and the tea. +Suddenly looking out of the window, we see Gennargentu's mass behind us, +a thick snow-deep knot-summit, beautiful beyond the long, steep spurs +among which we are engaged. We lose the white mountain mass for half an +hour: when suddenly it emerges unexpectedly almost in front, the great, +snow-heaved shoulder.</p> + +<p>How different it is from Etna, that lonely, self-conscious wonder of +Sicily! This is much more human and knowable, with a deep breast and +massive limbs, a powerful mountain-body. It is like the peasants.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The stations are far between—an hour from one to another. Ah, how weary +one gets of these journeys, they last so long. We look across a +valley—a stone's throw. But alas, the little train has no wings, and +can't jump. So back turns the line, back and back towards Gennargentu, a +long rocky way, till it comes at length to the poor valley-head. This it +skirts fussily, and sets off to pelt down on its traces again, gaily.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</a></span> +And a man who was looking at us doing our round-about has climbed down +and crossed the valley in five minutes.</p> + +<p>The peasants nearly all wear costumes now, even the women in the fields: +the little fields in the half-populated valleys. These Gennargentu +valleys are all half-populated, more than the moors further south.</p> + +<p>It is past three o'clock, and cold where there is no sun. At last only +one more station before the terminus. And here the peasants wake up, +sling the bulging sacks over their shoulders, and get down. We see +Tonara away above. We see our old grimy black-and-white peasant greeted +by his two women who have come to meet him with the pony—daughters +handsome in vivid rose and green costume. Peasants, men in black and +white, men in madder-brown, with the close breeches on their compact +thighs, women in rose-and-white, ponies with saddle-bags, all begin to +trail up the hill-road in silhouette, very handsome, towards the +far-off, perched, sun-bright village of Tonara, a big village, shining +like a New Jerusalem.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The train as usual leaves us standing, and shuffles with trucks—water +sounds in the valley: there are stacks of cork on the station, and coal. +An idiot girl in a great full skirt entirely made of coloured patches<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</a></span> +mops and mows. Her little waistcoat thing is also incredibly old, and +shows faint signs of having once been a lovely purple and black brocade. +The valley and steep slopes are open about us. An old shepherd has a +lovely flock of delicate merino sheep.</p> + +<p>And at last we move. In one hour we shall be there. As we travel among +the tree slopes, many brown cork-trees, we come upon a flock of sheep. +Two peasants in our carriage looking out, give the most weird, +unnatural, high-pitched shrieks, entirely unproduceable by any ordinary +being. The sheep know, however, and scatter. And after ten minutes the +shrieks start again, for three young cattle. Whether the peasants do it +for love, I don't know. But it is the wildest and weirdest inhuman +shepherd noise I have ever heard.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>It is Saturday afternoon and four o'clock. The country is wild and +uninhabited, the train almost empty, yet there is the leaving-off-work +feeling in the atmosphere. Oh twisty, wooded, steep slopes, oh glimpses +of Gennargentu, oh nigger-stripped cork-trees, oh smell of peasants, oh +wooden, wearisome railway carriage, we are so sick of you! Nearly seven +hours of this journey already: and a distance of sixty miles.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</a></span></p> + +<p>But we are almost there—look, look, Sorgono, nestling beautifully among +the wooded slopes in front. Oh magic little town. Ah, you terminus and +ganglion of the inland roads, we hope in you for a pleasant inn and +happy company. Perhaps we will stay a day or two at Sorgono.</p> + +<p>The train gives a last sigh, and draws to a last standstill in the tiny +terminus station. An old fellow fluttering with rags as a hen in the +wind flutters, asked me if I wanted the <i>Albergo</i>, the inn. I said yes, +and let him take my knapsack. Pretty Sorgono! As we went down the brief +muddy lane between hedges, to the village high-road, we seemed almost to +have come to some little town in the English west-country, or in Hardy's +country. There were glades of stripling oaks, and big slopes with oak +trees, and on the right a saw-mill buzzing, and on the left the town, +white and close, nestling round a baroque church-tower. And the little +lane was muddy.</p> + +<p>Three minutes brought us to the high-road, and a great, pink-washed +building blank on the road facing the station lane, and labelled in huge +letters: RISTORANTE RISVEGLIO: the letter N being printed backwards. +<i>Risveglio</i> if you please: which means waking up or rousing, like the +word <i>reveille</i>. Into the doorway of the Risveglio bolted the flutterer. +"Half a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</a></span> minute," said I. "Where is the Albergo d'Italia?" I was relying +on Baedeker.</p> + +<p>"Non c'è più," replied my rag-feather. "There isn't it any more." This +answer, being very frequent nowadays, is always most disconcerting.</p> + +<p>"Well then, what other hotel?"</p> + +<p>"There is no other."</p> + +<p>Risveglio or nothing. In we go. We pass into a big, dreary bar, where +are innumerable bottles behind a tin counter. Flutter-jack yells: and at +length appears mine host, a youngish fellow of the Esquimo type, but +rather bigger, in a dreary black suit and a cutaway waistcoat suggesting +a dinner-waistcoat, and innumerable wine-stains on his shirt front. I +instantly hated him for the filthy appearance he made. He wore a +battered hat and his face was long unwashed.</p> + +<p>Was there a bedroom?</p> + +<p>Yes.</p> + +<p>And he led the way down the passage, just as dirty as the road outside, +up the hollow, wooden stairs also just as clean as the passage, along a +hollow, drum-rearing dirty corridor, and into a bedroom. Well, it +contained a large bed, thin and flat with a grey-white counterpane, like +a large, poor, marble-slabbed tomb in the room's sordid emptiness; one +dilapidated chair on which stood the miserablest weed of a candle I +have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</a></span> ever seen: a broken wash-saucer in a wire ring: and for the rest, +an expanse of wooden floor as dirty-grey-black as it could be, and an +expanse of wall charted with the bloody deaths of mosquitoes. The window +was about two feet above the level of a sort of stable-yard outside, +with a fowl-house just by the sash. There, at the window flew lousy +feathers and dirty straw, the ground was thick with chicken-droppings. +An ass and two oxen comfortably chewed hay in an open shed just across, +and plump in the middle of the yard lay a bristly black pig taking the +last of the sun. Smells of course were varied.</p> + +<p>The knapsack and the kitchenino were dropped on the repulsive floor, +which I hated to touch with my boots even. I turned back the sheets and +looked at other people's stains.</p> + +<p>"There is nothing else?"</p> + +<p>"Niente," said he of the lank, low forehead and beastly shirt-breast. +And he sullenly departed. I gave the flutterer his tip and he too ducked +and fled. Then the queen-bee and I took a few mere sniffs.</p> + +<p>"Dirty, disgusting swine!" said I, and I was in a rage.</p> + +<p>I could have forgiven him anything, I think, except his horrible +shirt-breast, his personal shamelessness.</p> + +<p>We strolled round—saw various other bedrooms,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</a></span> some worse, one really +better. But this showed signs of being occupied. All the doors were +open: the place was quite deserted, and open to the road. The one thing +that seemed definite was honesty. It must be a very honest place, for +every footed beast, man or animal, could walk in at random and nobody to +take the slightest regard.</p> + +<p>So we went downstairs. The only other apartment was the open public bar, +which seemed like part of the road. A muleteer, leaving his mules at the +corner of the Risveglio, was drinking at the counter.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>This famous inn was at the end of the village. We strolled along the +road between the houses, down-hill. A dreary hole! a cold, hopeless, +lifeless, Saturday afternoon-weary village, rather sordid, with nothing +to say for itself. No real shops at all. A weary-looking church, and a +clutch of disconsolate houses. We walked right through the village. In +the middle was a sort of open space where stood a great, grey +motor-omnibus. And a bus-driver looking rather weary.</p> + +<p>Where did the bus go?</p> + +<p>It went to join the main railway.</p> + +<p>When?</p> + +<p>At half-past seven in the morning.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</a></span></p> + +<p>Only then?</p> + +<p>Only then.</p> + +<p>"Thank God we can get out, anyhow," said I.</p> + +<p>We passed on, and emerged beyond the village, still on the descending +great high-road that was mended with loose stones pitched on it. This +wasn't good enough. Besides, we were out of the sun, and the place being +at a considerable elevation, it was very cold. So we turned back, to +climb quickly uphill into the sun.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>We went up a little side-turning past a bunch of poor houses towards a +steep little lane between banks. And before we knew where we were, we +were in the thick of the public lavatory. In these villages, as I knew, +there are no sanitary arrangements of any sort whatever. Every villager +and villageress just betook himself at need to one of the side-roads. It +is the immemorial Italian custom. Why bother about privacy? The most +socially-constituted people on earth, they even like to relieve +themselves in company.</p> + +<p>We found ourselves in the full thick of one of these meeting-places. To +get out at any price! So we scrambled up the steep earthen banks to a +stubble field above. And by this time I was in a greater rage.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Evening was falling, the sun declining. Below us<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</a></span> clustered the +Sodom-apple of this vile village. Around were fair, tree-clad hills and +dales, already bluish with the frost-shadows. The air bit cold and +strong. In a very little time the sun would be down. We were at an +elevation of about 2,500 feet above the sea.</p> + +<p>No denying it was beautiful, with the oak-slopes and the wistfulness and +the far-off feeling of loneliness and evening. But I was in too great a +temper to admit it. We clambered frenziedly to get warm. And the sun +immediately went right down, and the ice-heavy blue shadow fell over us +all. The village began to send forth blue wood-smoke, and it seemed more +than ever like the twilit West Country.</p> + +<p>But thank you—we had to get back. And run the gauntlet of that +stinking, stinking lane? Never. Towering with fury—quite unreasonable, +but there you are—I marched the q-b down a declivity through a wood, +over a ploughed field, along a cart-track, and so to the great high-road +above the village and above the inn.</p> + +<p>It was cold, and evening was falling into dusk. Down the high-road came +wild half-ragged men on ponies, in all degrees of costume and +not-costume: came four wide-eyed cows stepping down-hill round the +corner, and three delicate, beautiful merino sheep which stared at us +with their prominent, gold-curious eyes: came an<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</a></span> ancient, ancient man +with a stick: came a stout-chested peasant carrying a long wood-pole: +came a straggle of alert and triumphant goats, long-horned, long-haired, +jingling their bells. Everybody greeted us hesitatingly. And everything +came to a halt at the Risveglio corner, while the men had a nip.</p> + +<p>I attacked the spotty-breast again.</p> + +<p>Could I have milk?</p> + +<p>No. Perhaps in an hour there would be milk. Perhaps not.</p> + +<p>Was there anything to eat?</p> + +<p>No—at half past seven there would be something to eat.</p> + +<p>Was there a fire?</p> + +<p>No—the man hadn't made the fire.</p> + +<p>Nothing to do but to go to that foul bedroom or walk the high-road. We +turned up the high-road again. Animals stood about the road in the +frost-heavy air, with heads sunk passively, waiting for the men to +finish their drinks in the beastly bar—we walked slowly up the hill. In +a field on the right a flock of merino sheep moved mistily, uneasily, +climbing at the gaps in the broken road bank, and sounding their +innumerable small fine bells with a frosty ripple of sound. A figure +which in the dusk I had really thought was something inanimate broke +into movement in the field.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</a></span> It was an old shepherd, very old, in very +ragged dirty black-and-white, who had been standing like a stone there +in the open field-end for heaven knows how long, utterly motionless, +leaning on his stick. Now he broke into a dream-motion and hobbled after +the wistful, feminine, inquisitive sheep. The red was fading from the +far-off west. At the corner, climbing slowly and wearily, we almost ran +into a grey and lonely bull, who came stepping down-hill in his measured +fashion like some god. He swerved his head and went round us.</p> + +<p>We reached a place which we couldn't make out: then saw it was a +cork-shed. There were stacks and stacks of cork-bark in the dusk, like +crumpled hides.</p> + +<p>"Now I'm going back," said the q-b flatly, and she swung round. The last +red was smouldering beyond the lost, thin-wooded hills of this interior. +A fleece of blue, half-luminous smoke floated over the obscure village. +The high-way wound down-hill at our feet, pale and blue.</p> + +<p>And the q-b was angry with me for my fury.</p> + +<p>"Why are you so indignant! Anyone would think your moral self had been +outraged! Why take it morally? You petrify that man at the inn by the +very way you speak to him, <i>such</i> condemnation! Why don't you take it as +it comes? It's all life."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</a></span></p> + +<p>But no, my rage is black, black, black. Why, heaven knows. But I think +it was because Sorgono had seemed so fascinating to me, when I imagined +it beforehand. Oh so fascinating! If I had expected nothing I should not +have been so hit. Blessed is he that expecteth nothing, for he shall not +be disappointed.</p> + +<p>I cursed the degenerate aborigines, the dirty-breasted host who <i>dared</i> +to keep such an inn, the sordid villagers who had the baseness to squat +their beastly human nastiness in this upland valley. All my praise of +the long stocking-cap—you remember?—vanished from my mouth. I cursed +them all, and the q-b for an interfering female....</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>In the bar a wretched candle was weeping light—uneasy, gloomy men were +drinking their Saturday-evening-home-coming dram. Cattle lay down in the +road, in the cold air as if hopeless.</p> + +<p>Had the milk come?</p> + +<p>No.</p> + +<p>When would it come.</p> + +<p>He didn't know.</p> + +<p>Well, what were we to do? Was there no room? Was there nowhere where we +could sit?</p> + +<p>Yes, there was the <i>stanza</i> now.</p> + +<p><i>Now!</i> Taking the only weed of a candle, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</a></span> leaving the drinkers in +the dark, he led us down a dark and stumbly earthen passage, over loose +stones and an odd plank, as it would seem underground, to the stanza: +the room.</p> + +<p>The stanza! It was pitch dark—But suddenly I saw a big fire of +oak-root, a brilliant, flamy, rich fire, and my rage in that second +disappeared.</p> + +<p>The host, and the candle, forsook us at the door. The stanza would have +been in complete darkness, save for that rushing bouquet of new flames +in the chimney, like fresh flowers. By this firelight we saw the room. +It was like a dungeon, absolutely empty, with an uneven, earthen floor, +quite dry, and high bare walls, gloomy, with a handbreadth of window +high up. There was no furniture at all, save a little wooden bench, a +foot high, before the fire, and several home-made-looking rush mats +rolled up and leaning against the walls. Furthermore a chair before the +fire on which hung wet table-napkins. Apart from this, it was a high, +dark, naked prison-dungeon.</p> + +<p>But it was quite dry, it had an open chimney, and a gorgeous new fire +rushing like a water-fall upwards among the craggy stubs of a pile of +dry oak roots. I hastily put the chair and the wet corpse-cloths to one +side. We sat on the low bench side by side in the dark, in front of this +rippling rich fire, in front<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</a></span> of the cavern of the open chimney, and we +did not care any more about the dungeon and the darkness. Man can live +without food, but he can't live without fire. It is an Italian proverb. +We had found the fire, like new gold. And we sat in front of it, a +little way back, side by side on the low form, our feet on the uneven +earthen floor, and felt the flame-light rippling upwards over our faces, +as if we were bathing in some gorgeous stream of fieriness. I forgave +the dirty-breasted host everything and was as glad as if I had come into +a kingdom.</p> + +<p>So we sat alone for half an hour, smiling into the flames, bathing our +faces in the glow. From time to time I was aware of steps in the +tunnel-like passage outside, and of presences peering. But no one came. +I was aware too of the faint steaming of the beastly table-napkins, the +only other occupants of the room.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>In dithers a candle, and an elderly, bearded man in gold-coloured +corduroys, and an amazing object on a long, long spear. He put the +candle on the mantel-ledge, and crouched at the side of the fire, +arranging the oak-roots. He peered strangely and fixedly in the fire. +And he held up the speared object before our faces.</p> + +<p>It was a kid that he had come to roast. But it was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</a></span> a kid opened out, +made quite flat, and speared like a flat fan on a long iron stalk. It +was a really curious sight. And it must have taken some doing. The whole +of the skinned kid was there, the head curled in against a shoulder, the +stubby cut ears, the eyes, the teeth, the few hairs of the nostrils: and +the feet curled curiously round, like an animal that puts its fore-paw +over its ducked head: and the hind-legs twisted indescribably up: and +all skewered flat-wise upon the long iron rod, so that it was a complete +flat pattern. It reminded me intensely of those distorted, slim-limbed, +dog-like animals which figure on the old Lombard ornaments, distorted +and curiously infolded upon themselves. Celtic illuminations also have +these distorted, involuted creatures.</p> + +<p>The old man flourished the flat kid like a bannerette, whilst he +arranged the fire. Then, in one side of the fire-place wall he poked the +point of the rod. He himself crouched on the hearth-end, in the +half-shadow at the other side of the fire-place, holding the further end +of the long iron rod. The kid was thus extended before the fire, like a +hand-screen. And he could spin it round at will.</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<div class="figcenter"> +<a name="illus5" id="illus5"></a> +<img src="images/illus5.jpg" alt=""/> +</div> + +<h3>SORONGO</h3> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</a></span></p> + +<p>But the hole in the masonry of the chimney-piece was not satisfactory. +The point of the rod kept slipping, and the kid came down against the +fire. He muttered and muttered to himself, and tried again. Then at +length he reared up the kid-banner whilst he got large stones from a +dark corner. He arranged these stones so that the iron point rested on +them. He himself sat away on the opposite side of the fire-place, on the +shadowy hearth-end, and with queer, spell-bound black eyes and +completely immovable face, he watched the flames and the kid, and held +the handle end of the rod.</p> + +<p>We asked him if the kid was for the evening meal—and he said it was. It +would be good! And he said yes, and looked with chagrin at the bit of +ash on the meat, where it had slipped. It is a point of honour that it +should never touch the ash. Did they do all their meat this way? He said +they did. And wasn't it difficult to put the kid thus on the iron rod? +He said it was not easy, and he eyed the joint closely, and felt one of +the forelegs, and muttered that was not fixed properly.</p> + +<p>He spoke with a very soft mutter, hard to catch, and sideways, never to +us direct. But his manner was gentle, soft, muttering, reticent, +sensitive. He asked us where we came from, and where we were going: +always in his soft mutter. And what nation were we, were we French? Then +he went on to say there was a war—but he thought it was finished. There +was a war because the Austrians wanted to come into Italy<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</a></span> again. But +the French and the English came to help Italy. A lot of Sardinians had +gone to it. But let us hope it is all finished. He thought it was—young +men of Sorgono had been killed. He hoped it was finished.</p> + +<p>Then he reached for the candle and peered at the kid. It was evident he +was the born roaster. He held the candle and looked for a long time at +the sizzling side of the meat, as if he would read portents. Then he +held his spit to the fire again. And it was as if time immemorial were +roasting itself another meal. I sat holding the candle.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>A young woman appeared, hearing voices. Her head was swathed in a shawl, +one side of which was brought across, right over the mouth, so that only +her two eyes and her nose showed. The q-b thought she must have +toothache—but she laughed and said no. As a matter of fact that is the +way a head-dress is worn in Sardinia, even by both sexes. It is +something like the folding of the Arab's burnoose. The point seems to be +that the mouth and chin are thickly covered, also the ears and brow, +leaving only the nose and eyes exposed. They say it keeps off the +malaria. The men swathe shawls round their heads in the same<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</a></span> way. It +seems to me they want to keep their heads warm, dark and hidden: they +feel secure inside.</p> + +<p>She wore the workaday costume: a full, dark-brown skirt, the full white +bodice, and a little waistcoat or corset. This little waistcoat in her +case had become no more than a shaped belt, sending up graceful, +stiffened points under the breasts, like long leaves standing up. It was +pretty—but all dirty. She too was pretty, but with an impudent, not +quite pleasant manner. She fiddled with the wet napkins, asked us +various questions, and addressed herself rather jerkily to the old man, +who answered hardly at all—Then she departed again. The women are +self-conscious in a rather smirky way, bouncy.</p> + +<p>When she was gone I asked the old man if she was his daughter. He said +very brusquely, in his soft mutter, No. She came from a village some +miles away. He did not belong to the inn. He was, as far as I +understood, the postman. But I may have been mistaken about the word.</p> + +<p>But he seemed laconic, unwilling to speak about the inn and its keepers. +There seemed to be something queer. And again he asked where we were +going. He told me there were now two motor-buses: a new one which ran +over the mountains to Nuoro. Much better go to Nuoro than to Abbasanta. +Nuoro was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</a></span> evidently the town towards which these villages looked, as a +sort of capital.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The kid-roasting proceeded very slowly, the meat never being very near +the fire. From time to time the roaster arranged the cavern of red-hot +roots. Then he threw on more roots. It was very hot. And he turned the +long spit, and still I held the candle.</p> + +<p>Other people came strolling in, to look at us. But they hovered behind +us in the dark, so I could not make out at all clearly. They strolled in +the gloom of the dungeon-like room, and watched us. One came forward—a +fat, fat young soldier in uniform. I made place for him on the +bench—but he put out his hand and disclaimed the attention. Then he +went away again.</p> + +<p>The old man propped up the roast, and then he too disappeared for a +time. The thin candle guttered, the fire was no longer flamy but red. +The roaster reappeared with a new, shorter spear, thinner, and a great +lump of raw hog-fat spitted on it. This he thrust into the red fire. It +sizzled and smoked and spit fat, and I wondered. He told me he wanted it +to catch fire. It refused. He groped in the hearth for the bits of twigs +with which the fire had been started. These twig-stumps he stuck in the +fat, like an orange<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</a></span> stuck with cloves, then he held it in the fire +again. Now at last it caught, and it was a flaming torch running +downwards with a thin shower of flaming fat. And now he was satisfied. +He held the fat-torch with its yellow flares over the browning kid, +which he turned horizontal for the occasion. All over the roast fell the +flaming drops, till the meat was all shiny and browny. He put it to the +fire again, holding the diminishing fat, still burning bluish, over it +all the time in the upper air.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>While this was in process a man entered with a loud <i>Good evening</i>. We +replied Good-evening—and evidently he caught a strange note. He came +and bent down and peered under my hat-brim, then under the q-b's +hat-brim, we still wore hats and overcoats, as did everybody. Then he +stood up suddenly and touched his cap and said <i>Scusi</i>—excuse me. I +said <i>Niente</i>, which one always says, and he addressed a few jovial +words to the crouching roaster: who again would hardly answer him. The +omnibus was arrived from Oristano, I made out—with few passengers.</p> + +<p>This man brought with him a new breezy atmosphere, which the roaster did +not like. However, I made place on the low bench, and the attention this +time was accepted. Sitting down at the extreme end,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</a></span> he came into the +light, and I saw a burly man in the prime of life, dressed in dark brown +velvet, with a blond little moustache and twinkling blue eyes and a +tipsy look. I thought he might be some local tradesman or farmer. He +asked a few questions, in a boisterous familiar fashion, then went out +again. He appeared with a small iron spit, a slim rod, in one hand, and +in the other hand two joints of kid and a handful of sausages. He stuck +his joints on his rod. But our roaster still held the interminable flat +kid before the now red, flameless fire. The fat-torch was burnt out, the +cinder pushed in the fire. A moment's spurt of flame, then red, intense +redness again, and our kid before it like a big, dark hand.</p> + +<p>"Eh," said the newcomer, whom I will call the girovago, "it's done. The +kid's done. It's done."</p> + +<p>The roaster slowly shook his head, but did not answer. He sat like time +and eternity at the hearth-end, his face flame-flushed, his dark eyes +still fire-abstract, still sacredly intent on the roast.</p> + +<p>"Na-na-na!" said the girovago. "Let another body see the fire." And with +his pieces of meat awkwardly skewered on his iron stick he tried to poke +under the authorised kid and get at the fire. In his soft mutter, the +old man bade him wait for the fire till the fire was ready for him. But +the girovago poked impudently<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</a></span> and good humouredly, and said testily +that the authorised kid was done.</p> + +<p>"Yes, surely it is done," said I, for it was already a quarter to eight.</p> + +<p>The old roasting priest muttered, and took out his knife from his +pocket. He pressed the blade slowly, slowly deep into the meat: as far +as a knife will go in a piece of kid. He seemed to be feeling the meat +inwardly. And he said it was not done. He shook his head, and remained +there like time and eternity at the end of the rod.</p> + +<p>The girovago said <i>Sangue di Dio</i>, but couldn't roast his meat! And he +tried to poke his skewer near the coals. So doing his pieces fell off +into the ashes, and the invisible onlookers behind raised a shout of +laughter. However, he raked it out and wiped it with his hand and said +No matter, nothing lost.</p> + +<p>Then he turned to me and asked the usual whence and whither questions. +These answered, he said wasn't I German. I said No, I was English. He +looked at me many times, shrewdly, as if he wanted to make out +something. Then he asked, where were we domiciled—and I said Sicily. +And then, very pertinently, why had we come to Sardinia. I said for +pleasure, and to see the island.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Ah, per divertimento!" he repeated, half-musingly, not believing me in +the least.</p> + +<p>Various men had now come into the room, though they all remained +indistinct in the background. The girovago talked and jested abroad in +the company, and the half-visible men laughed in a rather hostile +manner.</p> + +<p>At last the old roaster decided the kid was done. He lifted it from the +fire and scrutinised it thoroughly, holding the candle to it, as if it +were some wonderful epistle from the flames. To be sure it looked +marvellous, and smelled so good: brown, and crisp, and hot, and savoury, +not burnt in any place whatever. It was eight o'clock.</p> + +<p>"It's done! It's done! Go away with it! Go," said the girovago, pushing +the old roaster with his hand. And at last the old man consented to +depart, holding the kid like a banner.</p> + +<p>"It looks so <i>good</i>!" cried the q-b. "And I am so hungry."</p> + +<p>"Ha-ha! It makes one hungry to see good meat, Signora. Now it is my +turn. Heh—Gino—" the girovago flourished his arm. And a handsome, +unwashed man with a black moustache came forward rather sheepishly. He +was dressed in soldier's clothes, neutral grey, and was a big, robust, +handsome fellow with dark eyes and Mediterranean sheepishness.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</a></span> "Here, +take it thou," said the girovago, pressing the long spit into his hand. +"It is thy business, cook the supper, thou art the woman.—But I'll keep +the sausages and do them."</p> + +<p>The so-called woman sat at the end of the hearth, where the old roaster +had sat, and with his brown, nervous hand piled the remaining coals +together. The fire was no longer flamy: and it was sinking. The +dark-browed man arranged it so that he could cook the meat. He held the +spit negligently over the red mass. A joint fell off. The men laughed. +"It's lost nothing," said the dark-browed man, as the girovago had said +before, and he skewered it on again and thrust it to the fire. But +meanwhile he was looking up from under his dark lashes at the girovago +and at us.</p> + +<p>The girovago talked continually. He turned to me, holding the handful of +sausages.</p> + +<p>"This makes the tasty bit," he said.</p> + +<p>"Oh yes—good salsiccia," said I.</p> + +<p>"You are eating the kid? You are eating at the inn?" he said. I replied +that I was.</p> + +<p>"No," he said. "You stay and eat with me. You eat with me. The sausage +is good, the kid will soon be done, the fire is grateful."</p> + +<p>I laughed, not quite understanding him. He was certainly a bit tipsy.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Signora," he said, turning to the q-b. She did not like him, he was +impudent, and she shut a deaf ear to him as far as she could. "Signora," +he said, "do you understand me what I say?"</p> + +<p>She replied that she did.</p> + +<p>"Signora," he said, "I sell things to the women. I sell them things."</p> + +<p>"What do you sell?" she asked in astonishment.</p> + +<p>"Saints," he said.</p> + +<p>"Saints!" she cried in more astonishment.</p> + +<p>"Yes, saints," he said with tipsy gravity.</p> + +<p>She turned in confusion to the company in the background. The fat +soldier came forward, he was the chief of the carabinieri.</p> + +<p>"Also combs and bits of soap and little mirrors," he explained +sarcastically.</p> + +<p>"Saints!" said the girovago once more. "And also <i>ragazzini</i>—also +youngsters—Wherever I go there is a little one comes running calling +Babbo! Babbo! Daddy! Daddy! Wherever I go—youngsters. And I'm the +babbo."</p> + +<p>All this was received with a kind of silent sneer from the invisible +assembly in the background. The candle was burning low, the fire was +sinking too. In vain the dark-browed man tried to build it up. The q-b +became impatient for the food. She got up<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</a></span> wrathfully and stumbled into +the dark passage, exclaiming—"Don't we eat yet?"</p> + +<p>"Eh—Patience! Patience, Signora. It takes time in this house," said the +man in the background.</p> + +<p>The dark-browed man looked up at the girovago and said:</p> + +<p>"Are you going to cook the sausages with your fingers?"</p> + +<p>He too was trying to be assertive and jesting, but he was the kind of +person no one takes any notice of. The girovago rattled on in dialect, +poking fun at us and at our being there in this inn. I did not quite +follow.</p> + +<p>"Signora!" said the girovago. "Do you understand Sardinian?"</p> + +<p>"I understand Italian—and some Sardinian," she replied rather hotly. +"And I know that you are trying to laugh at us—to make fun of us."</p> + +<p>He laughed fatly and comfortably.</p> + +<p>"Ah Signora," he said. "We have a language that you wouldn't +understand—not one word. Nobody here would understand it but me and +him—" he pointed to the black-browed one. "Everybody would want an +interpreter—everybody."</p> + +<p>But he did not say interpreter—he said <i>intreprete</i>,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</a></span> with the accent +on the penultimate, as if it were some sort of priest.</p> + +<p>"A what?" said I.</p> + +<p>He repeated with tipsy unction, and I saw what he meant.</p> + +<p>"Why?" said I. "Is it a dialect? What is your dialect?"</p> + +<p>"My dialect," he said, "is Sassari. I come from Sassari. If I spoke my +dialect they would understand something. But if I speak this language +they would want an interpreter."</p> + +<p>"What language is it then?"</p> + +<p>He leaned up to me, laughing.</p> + +<p>"It is the language we use when the women are buying things and we don't +want them to know what we say: me and him—"</p> + +<p>"Oh," said I. "I know. We have that language in England. It is called +thieves Latin—<i>Latino dei furbi</i>."</p> + +<p>The men at the back suddenly laughed, glad to turn the joke against the +forward girovago. He looked down his nose at me. But seeing I was +laughing without malice, he leaned to me and said softly, secretly:</p> + +<p>"What is your affair then? What affair is it, yours?"</p> + +<p>"How? What?" I exclaimed, not understanding.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</a></span></p> + +<p>"<i>Che genere di affari?</i> What sort of business?"</p> + +<p>"How—<i>affari</i>?" said I, still not grasping.</p> + +<p>"What do you <i>sell</i>?" he said, flatly and rather spitefully. "What +goods?"</p> + +<p>"I don't sell anything," replied I, laughing to think he took us for +some sort of strolling quacks or commercial travellers.</p> + +<p>"Cloth—or something," he said cajolingly, slyly, as if to worm my +secret out of me.</p> + +<p>"But nothing at all. Nothing at all," said I. "We have come to Sardinia +to see the peasant costumes—" I thought that might sound satisfactory.</p> + +<p>"Ah, the costumes!" he said, evidently thinking I was a deep one. And he +turned bandying words with his dark-browed mate, who was still poking +the meat at the embers and crouching on the hearth. The room was almost +quite dark. The mate answered him back, and tried to seem witty too. But +the girovago was the commanding personality! rather too much so: too +impudent for the q-b, though rather after my own secret heart. The mate +was one of those handsome, passive, stupid men.</p> + +<p>"Him!" said the girovago, turning suddenly to me and pointing at the +mate. "He's my wife."</p> + +<p>"Your wife!" said I.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Yes. He's my wife, because we're always together."</p> + +<p>There had become a sudden dead silence in the background. In spite of it +the mate looked up under his black lashes and said, with a half smile:</p> + +<p>"Don't talk, or I shall give thee a good <i>bacio</i> to-night."</p> + +<p>There was an instant's fatal pause, then the girovago continued:</p> + +<p>"Tomorrow is festa of Sant 'Antonio at Tonara. Tomorrow we are going to +Tonara. Where are you going?"</p> + +<p>"To Abbasanta," said I.</p> + +<p>"Ah Abbasanta! You should come to Tonara. At Tonara there is a brisk +trade—and there are costumes. You should come to Tonara. Come with him +and me to Tonara tomorrow, and we will do business together."</p> + +<p>I laughed, but did not answer.</p> + +<p>"Come," said he. "You will like Tonara! Ah, Tonara is a fine place. +There is an inn: you can eat well, sleep well. I tell you, because to +you ten francs don't matter. Isn't that so? Ten francs don't matter to +you. Well, then come to Tonara. What? What do you say?"</p> + +<p>I shook my head and laughed, but did not answer.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</a></span></p> + +<p>To tell the truth I should have liked to go to Tonara with him and his +mate and do the brisk trade: if only I knew what trade it would be.</p> + +<p>"You are sleeping upstairs?" he said to me.</p> + +<p>I nodded.</p> + +<p>"This is my bed," he said, taking one of the home-made rush mats from +against the wall. I did not take him seriously at any point.</p> + +<p>"Do they make those in Sorgono?" I said.</p> + +<p>"Yes, in Sorgono—they are the beds, you see! And you roll up this end a +bit—so! and that is the pillow."</p> + +<p>He laid his cheek sideways.</p> + +<p>"Not really," said I.</p> + +<p>He came and sat down again next to me, and my attention wandered. The +q-b was raging for her dinner. It must be quite half-past eight. The +kid, the perfect kid would be cold and ruined. Both fire and candle were +burning low. Someone had been out for a new candle, but there was +evidently no means of replenishing the fire. The mate still crouched on +the hearth, the dull red fire-glow on his handsome face, patiently +trying to roast the kid and poking it against the embers. He had heavy, +strong limbs in his khaki clothes, but his hand that held the spit was +brown and tender and sensitive, a real Mediterranean hand. The girovago, +blond, round-faced, mature and aggressive<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</a></span> with all his liveliness, was +more like a northerner. In the background were four or five other men, +of whom I had distinguished none but a stout soldier, probably chief +carabiniere.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Just as the q-b was working up to the rage I had at last calmed down +from, appeared the shawl-swathed girl announcing "Pronto!"</p> + +<p>"Pronto! Pronto!" said everybody.</p> + +<p>"High time, too," said the q-b, springing from the low bench before the +fire. "Where do we eat? Is there another room?"</p> + +<p>"There is another room, Signora," said the carabiniere.</p> + +<p>So we trooped out of the fire-warmed dungeon, leaving the girovago and +his mate and two other men, muleteers from the road, behind us. I could +see that it irked my girovago to be left behind. He was by far the +strongest personality in the place, and he had the keenest intelligence. +So he hated having to fall into the background, when he had been +dragging all the lime-light on to himself all the evening. To me, too, +he was something of a kindred soul that night. But there we are: fate, +in the guise of that mysterious division between a respectable life and +a scamp's life divided us. There was a gulf between me and him,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</a></span> between +my way and his. He was a kindred spirit—but with a hopeless difference. +There was something a bit sordid about him—and he knew it. That is why +he was always tipsy. Yet I like the lone wolf souls best—better than +the sheep. If only they didn't feel mongrel inside themselves. +Presumably a scamp is bound to be mongrel. It is a pity the untamable, +lone-wolf souls should always become pariahs, almost of choice: mere +scamps.</p> + +<p>Top and bottom of it is, I regretted my girovago, though I knew it was +no good thinking of him. His way was <i>not</i> my way. Yet I regretted him, +I did.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>We found ourselves in a dining room with a long white table and inverted +soup-plates, tomb-cold, lighted by an acetylene flare. Three men had +accompanied us: the carabiniere, a little dark youth with a small black +moustache, in a soldier's short, wool-lined great-coat: and a young man +who looked tired round his blue eyes, and who wore a dark-blue overcoat, +quite smart. The be-shawled damsel came in with the inevitable bowl of +minestrone, soup with cabbage and cauliflower and other things. We +helped ourselves, and the fat carabiniere started the conversation with +the usual questions—and where were we going tomorrow?</p> + +<p>I asked about buses. Then the responsible-looking,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</a></span> tired-eyed youth +told me he was the bus-driver. He had come from Oristano, on the main +line, that day. It is a distance of some forty miles. Next morning he +was going on over the mountains to Nuoro—about the same distance again. +The youth with the little black moustache and the Greek, large eyes, was +his mate, the conductor. This was their run, from Oristano to Nuoro—a +course of ninety miles or more. And every day on, on, on. No wonder he +looked nerve-tired. Yet he had that kind of dignity, the wistful +seriousness and pride of a man in machine control: the only god-like +ones today, those who pull the iron levers and are the gods in the +machine.</p> + +<p>They repeated what the old roaster said: much nicer for us to go to +Nuoro than to Abbasanta. So to Nuoro we decided to go, leaving at +half-past nine in the morning.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Every other night the driver and his mate spent in this benighted +Risveglio inn. It must have been their bedroom we saw, clean and tidy. I +said was the food always so late, was everything always as bad as today. +Always—if not worse, they said, making light of it, with sarcastic +humor against the Risveglio. You spent your whole life at the Risveglio +sitting, waiting, and going block-cold: unless you were content to +drink<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</a></span> <i>aqua vitae</i>, like those in there. The driver jerked his head +towards the dungeon.</p> + +<p>"Who were those in there?" said I.</p> + +<p>The one who did all the talking was a mercante, a mercante girovago, a +wandering peddler. This was my girovago: a wandering peddler selling +saints and youngsters! The other was his mate, who helped carry the +pack. They went about together. Oh, my girovago was a known figure all +over the country.—And where would they sleep? There, in the room where +the fire was dying.</p> + +<p>They would unroll the mats and lie with their feet to the hearth. For +this they paid threepence, or at most fourpence. And they had the +privilege of cooking their own food. The Risveglio supplied them with +nothing but the fire, the roof, and the rush mat.—And, of course, the +drink. Oh, we need have no sympathy with the girovago and his sort. +<i>They</i> lacked for nothing. They had everything they wanted: everything: +and money in abundance. <i>They</i> lived for the <i>aqua vitae</i> they drank. +That was all they wanted: their continual allowance of <i>aqua vitae</i>. And +they got it. Ah, they were not cold. If the room became cold during the +night: if they had no coverings at all: pah, they waited for morning, +and as soon as it was light they drank a large glass of <i>aqua vitae</i>. +That was their<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</a></span> fire, their hearth and their home: drink. <i>Aqua vitae</i>, +was hearth and home to them.</p> + +<p>I was surprised at the contempt, tolerant and yet profound, with which +these three men in the dining-room spoke of the others in the <i>stanza</i>. +How contemptuous, almost bitter, the driver was against alcohol. It was +evident he hated it. And though we all had our bottles of dead-cold dark +wine, and though we all drank: still, the feeling of the three youths +against actual intoxication was deep and hostile, with a certain burning +<i>moral</i> dislike that is more northern than Italian. And they curled +their lip with real dislike of the girovago: his forwardness, his +impudent aggressiveness.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>As for the inn, yes, it was very bad. It had been quite good under the +previous proprietors. But now—they shrugged their shoulders. The +dirty-breast and the shawled girl were not the owners. They were merely +conductors of the hotel: here a sarcastic curl of the lip. The owner was +a man in the village—a young man. A week or two back, at Christmas +time, there had been a roomful of men sitting drinking and roistering at +this very table. When in had come the proprietor, mad-drunk, swinging a +litre bottle round his head and yelling: "Out! Out! Out, all of you! Out +every one of you! I am proprietor here. And<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</a></span> when I want to clear my +house I clear my house. Every man obeys—who doesn't obey has his brains +knocked out with this bottle. Out, out, I say—Out, everyone!" And the +men all cleared out. "But," said the bus-driver, "I told him that when I +had paid for my bed I was going to sleep in it. I was not going to be +turned out by him or anybody. And so he came down."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>There was a little silence from everybody after this story. Evidently +there was more to it, that we were not to be told. Especially the +carabiniere was silent. He was a fat, not very brave fellow, though +quite nice.</p> + +<p>Ah, but—said the little dark bus-conductor, with his small-featured +swarthy Greek face—you must not be angry with them. True the inn was +very bad. Very bad—but you must pity them, for they are only ignorant. +Poor things, they are <i>ignoranti</i>! Why be angry?</p> + +<p>The other two men nodded their heads in agreement and repeated +<i>ignoranti</i>. They are <i>ignoranti</i>. It is true. Why be angry?</p> + +<p>And here the modern Italian spirit came out: the endless pity for the +ignorant. It is only slackness. The pity makes the ignorant more +ignorant, and makes the Risveglio daily more impossible. If somebody +let<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</a></span> a bottle buzz round the ears of the dirty-breast, and whipped the +shawl from the head of the pert young madam and sent her flying down the +tunnel with a flea in her ear, we might get some attention and they +might find a little self-respect. But no: pity them, poor <i>ignoranti</i>, +while they pull life down and devour it like vermin. Pity them! What +they need is not pity but prods: they and all their myriad of likes.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The be-shawled appeared with a dish of kid. Needless to say, the +<i>ignoranti</i> had kept all the best portions for themselves. What arrived +was five pieces of cold roast, one for each of us. Mine was a sort of +large comb of ribs with a thin web of meat: perhaps an ounce. That was +all we got, after watching the whole process. There was moreover a dish +of strong boiled cauliflower, which one ate, with the coarse bread, out +of sheer hunger. After this a bilious orange. Simply one is not <i>fed</i> +nowadays. In the good hotels and in the bad, one is given paltry +portions of unnourishing food, and one goes unfed.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The bus-driver, the only one with an earnest soul, was talking of the +Sardinians. Ah, the Sardinians! They were hopeless. Why—because they +did not know how to strike. They, too, were <i>ignoranti</i>. But<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</a></span> this form +of ignorance he found more annoying. They simply did not know what a +strike was. If you offered them one day ten francs a stint—he was +speaking now of the miners of the Iglesias region.—No, no, no, they +would not take it, they wanted twelve francs. Go to them the next day +and offer them four francs for half a stint, and yes, yes, yes, they +would take it. And there they were: ignorant: ignorant Sardinians. They +absolutely did not know how to strike. He was quite sarcastically hot +about it. The whole tone of these three young men was the tone of +sceptical irony common to the young people of our day the world over. +Only they had—or at least the driver had—some little fervour for his +strikes and his socialism. But it was a pathetic fervour: a <i>pis-aller</i> +fervour.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>We talked about the land. The war has practically gutted Sardinia of her +cattle: so they said. And now the land is being deserted, the arable +land is going back to fallow. Why? Why, says the driver, because the +owners of the land won't spend any capital. They have got the capital +locked up, and the land is dead. They find it cheaper to let all the +arable go back to fallow, and raise a few head of cattle, rather than to +pay high wages, grow corn, and get small returns.</p> + +<p>Yes, and also, chimes in the carabiniere, the peasants<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</a></span> don't want to +work the land. They hate the land. They'll do anything to get off the +land. They want regular wages, short hours, and devil take the rest. So +they will go into France as navvies, by the hundred. They flock to Rome, +they besiege the Labor bureaus, they will do the artificial Government +navvy-work at a miserable five francs a day—a railway shunter having at +least eighteen francs a day—anything, anything rather than work the +land.</p> + +<p>Yes, and what does the Government do! replies the bus-driver. They pull +the roads to pieces in order to find work for the unemployed, remaking +them, across the campagna. But in Sardinia, where roads and bridges are +absolutely wanting, will they do anything? No!</p> + +<p>There it is, however. The bus-driver, with dark shadows under his eyes, +represents the intelligent portion of the conversation. The carabiniere +is soft and will go any way, though always with some interest. The +little Greek-looking conductor just does not care.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Enters another belated traveller, and takes a seat at the end of the +table. The be-shawled brings him soup and a skinny bit of kid. He eyes +this last with contempt, and fetches out of his bag a large hunk of +roast<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</a></span> pork, and bread, and black olives, thus proceeding to make a +proper meal.</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<div class="figcenter"> +<a name="illus6" id="illus6"></a> +<img src="images/illus6.jpg" alt=""/> +</div> + +<h3>FONNI</h3> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>We being without cigarettes, the bus-driver and his companion press them +on us: their beloved Macedonia cigarettes. The driver says they are +<i>squisitissimi</i>—most, most exquisite—so exquisite that all foreigners +want them. In truth I believe they are exported to Germany now. And they +are quite good, when they really have tobacco in them. Usually they are +hollow tubes of paper which just flare away under one's nose and are +done.</p> + +<p>We decide to have a round drink: they choose the precious <i>aqua vitae</i>: +the white sort I think. At last it arrives—when the little dark-eyed +one has fetched it. And it tastes rather like sweetened petroleum, with +a dash of aniseed: filthy. Most Italian liquors are now sweet and +filthy.</p> + +<p>At length we rise to go to bed. We shall all meet in the morning. And +this room is dead cold, with frost outside. Going out, we glance into +the famous stanza. One figure alone lies stretched on the floor in the +almost complete darkness. A few embers still glow. The other men no +doubt are in the bar.</p> + +<p>Ah, the filthy bedroom. The q-b ties up her head in a large, clean white +kerchief, to avoid contact with the unsavory pillow. It is a cold, hard, +flat bed, with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</a></span> two cold, hard, flat blankets. But we are very tired. +Just as we are going to sleep, however, weird, high-pitched singing +starts below, very uncanny—with a refrain that is a yelp-yelp-yelp! +almost like a dog in angry pain. Weird, almost gruesome this singing +goes on, first one voice and then another and then a tangle of voices. +Again we are roused by the pounding of heavy feet on the corridor +outside, which is as hollow and resonant as a drum. And then in the +infernal crew-yard outside a cock crows. Throughout the night—yea, +through all the black and frosty hours this demoniac bird screams its +demon griefs.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>However, it is morning. I gingerly wash a bit of myself in the broken +basin, and dry that bit on a muslin veil which masquerades upon the +chair as a towel. The q-b contents herself with a dry wipe. And we go +downstairs in hopes of the last-night's milk.</p> + +<p>There is no one to be seen. It is a cold, frost-strong, clear morning. +There is no one in the bar. We stumble down the dark tunnel passage. The +stanza is as if no man had ever set foot in it: very dark, the mats +against the wall, the fire-place grey with a handful of long dead ash. +Just like a dungeon. The dining-room has the same long table and eternal +table-cloth—and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</a></span> our serviettes, still wet, lying where we shovelled +them aside. So back again to the bar.</p> + +<p>And this time a man is drinking <i>aqua vitae</i>, and the dirty-shirt is +officiating. He has no hat on: and extraordinary, he has no brow at all: +just flat, straight black hair slanting to his eyebrows, no forehead at +all.</p> + +<p>Is there coffee?</p> + +<p>No, there is no coffee.</p> + +<p>Why?</p> + +<p>Because they can't get sugar.</p> + +<p>Ho! laughs the peasant drinking <i>aqua vitae</i>. You make coffee with +sugar!</p> + +<p>Here, say I, they make it with nothing.—Is there milk?</p> + +<p>No.</p> + +<p>No milk at all?</p> + +<p>No.</p> + +<p>Why not?</p> + +<p>Nobody brings it.</p> + +<p>Yes, yes—there is milk if they like to get it, puts in the peasant. But +they want you to drink <i>aqua vitae</i>.</p> + +<p>I see myself drinking <i>aqua vitae</i>. My yesterday's rage towers up again +suddenly, till it quite suffocates me. There is something in this +unsavoury, black, wine-dabbled, thick, greasy young man that does for +me.</p> + +<p>"Why," say I, lapsing into the Italian rhetorical<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</a></span> manner, "why do you +keep an inn? Why do you write the word Ristorante so large, when you +have nothing to offer people, and don't intend to have anything. Why do +you have the impudence to take in travellers? What does it mean, that +this is an inn? What, say, what does it mean? Say then—what does it +mean? What does it mean, your Ristorante Risveglio, written so large?"</p> + +<p>Getting all this out in one breath, my indignation now stifled me. Him +of the shirt said nothing at all. The peasant laughed. I demanded the +bill. It was twenty-five francs odd. I picked up every farthing of the +change.</p> + +<p>"Won't you leave any tip at all?" asks the q-b.</p> + +<p>"Tip!" say I, speechless.</p> + +<p>So we march upstairs and make tea to fill the thermos flask. Then, with +sack over my shoulder, I make my way out of the Risveglio.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>It is Sunday morning. The frozen village street is almost empty. We +march down to the wider space where the bus stands: I hope they haven't +the impudence to call it a Piazza.</p> + +<p>"Is this the Nuoro bus?" I ask of a bunch of urchins.</p> + +<p>And even they begin to jeer. But my sudden up-starting flare quenches +them at once. One answers yes,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</a></span> and they edge away. I stow the sack and +the kitchenino in the first-class part. The first-class is in front: we +shall see better.</p> + +<p>There are men standing about, with their hands in their pockets,—those +who are not in costume. Some wear the black-and-white. All wear the +stocking caps. And all have the wide shirt-breasts, white, their +waistcoats being just like evening dress waistcoats. Imagine one of +these soft white shirt fronts well slobbered, and you have mine host of +the Risveglio. But these lounging, static, white-breasted men are +snowily clean, this being Sunday morning. They smoke their pipes on the +frosty air, and are none too friendly.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The bus starts at half-past nine. The campanile is clanging nine. Two or +three girls go down the road in their Sunday costume of purplish brown. +We go up the road, into the clear, ringing frosty air, to find the lane.</p> + +<p>And again, from above, how beautiful it is in the sharp morning! The +whole village lies in bluish shadow, the hills with their thin pale oak +trees are in bluish shadow still, only in the distance the frost-glowing +sun makes a wonderful, jewel-like radiance on the pleasant hills, wild +and thinly-wooded, of this interior region.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</a></span> Real fresh wonder-beauty +all around. And such humanity.</p> + +<p>Returning to the village we find a little shop and get biscuits and +cigarettes. And we find our friends the bus-men. They are shy this +morning. They are ready for us when we are ready. So in we get, +joyfully, to leave Sorgono.</p> + +<p>One thing I say for it, it must be an honest place. For people leave +their sacks about without a qualm.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Up we go, up the road. Only to stop, alas, at the Risveglio. The little +conductor goes down the lane towards the station. The driver goes and +has a little drink with a comrade. There is quite a crowd round the +dreary entrances of the inn. And quite a little bunch of people to +clamber up into the second class, behind us.</p> + +<p>We wait and wait. Then in climbs an old peasant, in full black-and-white +costume, smiling in the pleased, naïve way of the old. After him climbs +a fresh-faced young man with a suit-case.</p> + +<p>"Na!" said the young man. "Now you are in the automobile."</p> + +<p>And the old man gazes round with the wondering, vacant, naïve smile.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</a></span></p> + +<p>"One is all right here, eh?" the young citizen persists, patronizing.</p> + +<p>But the old man is too excited to answer. He gazes hither and thither. +Then he suddenly remembers he had a parcel, and looks for it in fear. +The bright-faced young man picks it from the floor and hands it him. Ah, +it is all right.</p> + +<p>I see the little conductor in his dashing, sheep-lined, short military +overcoat striding briskly down the little lane with the post-bag. The +driver climbs to his seat in front of me. He has a muffler round his +neck and his hat pulled down to his ears. He pips at the horn, and our +old peasant cranes forward to look how he does it.</p> + +<p>And so, with a jerk and a spurt, we start uphill.</p> + +<p>"Eh—what's that?" said the peasant, frightened.</p> + +<p>"We're starting," explained the bright-faced young man.</p> + +<p>"Starting! Didn't we start before?"</p> + +<p>The bright face laughs pleasedly.</p> + +<p>"No," he said. "Did you think we had been going ever since you got in?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," says the old man, simply, "since the door was shut."</p> + +<p>The young citizen looks at us for our joyful approval.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="VI" id="VI"></a>VI.</h2> + +<h3>TO NUORO.</h3> + + +<p>These automobiles in Italy are splendid. They take the steep, looping +roads so easily, they seem to run so naturally. And this one was +comfortable, too.</p> + +<p>The roads of Italy always impress me. They run undaunted over the most +precipitous regions, and with curious ease. In England almost any such +road, among the mountains at least, would be labelled three times +dangerous and would be famous throughout the land as an impossible +climb. Here it is nothing. Up and down they go, swinging about with +complete sang-froid. There seems to have been no effort in their +construction. They are so good, naturally, that one hardly notices what +splendid gestures they represent. Of course, the surface is now often +intolerably bad. And they are most of them roads which, with ten years' +neglect, will become ruins. For they are cut through overhanging rock +and scooped out of the sides of hills. But I think it is marvellous how +the Italians have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</a></span> penetrated all their inaccessible regions, of which +they have so many, with great high-roads: and how along these high-roads +the omnibuses now keep up a perfect communication. The precipitous and +craggily-involved land is threaded through and through with roads. There +seems to be a passion for high-roads and for constant communication. In +this the Italians have a real Roman instinct, <i>now</i>. For the roads are +new.</p> + +<p>The railways too go piercing through rock for miles and miles, and +nobody thinks anything of it. The coast railway of Calabria, down to +Reggio, would make us stand on our heads if we had it in England. Here +it is a matter of course. In the same way I always have a profound +admiration for their driving—whether of a great omnibus or of a +motor-car. It all seems so easy, as if the man were part of the car. +There is none of that beastly grinding, uneasy feeling one has in the +north. A car behaves like a smooth, live thing, sensibly.</p> + +<p>All the peasants have a passion for a high-road. They want their land +opening out, opening out. They seem to hate the ancient Italian +remoteness. They all want to be able to get out at a moment's notice, to +get away—quick, quick. A village which is two miles off the high-road, +even if it is perched like a hawk's nest on a peak, still chafes and +chafes for the great road<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</a></span> to come to it, chafes and chafes for the +daily motor-bus connection with the railway. There is no placidity, no +rest in the heart of the land. There is a fever of restless irritation +all the time.</p> + +<p>And yet the permanent way of almost every railway is falling into bad +disrepair, the roads are shocking. And nothing seems to be done. Is our +marvellous, mechanical era going to have so short a bloom? Is the +marvellous openness, the opened-out wonder of the land going to collapse +quite soon, and the remote places lapse back into inaccessibility again? +Who knows! I rather hope so.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The automobile took us rushing and winding up the hill, sometimes +through cold, solid-seeming shadow, sometimes across a patch of sun. +There was thin, bright ice in the ruts, and deep grey hoar-frost on the +grass. I cannot tell how the sight of the grass and bushes heavy with +frost, and wild—in their own primitive wildness charmed me. The slopes +of the steep wild hills came down shaggy and bushy, with a few berries +lingering, and the long grass-stalks sere with the frost. Again the dark +valley sank below like a ravine, but shaggy, bosky, unbroken. It came +upon me how I loved the sight of the blue-shadowed, tawny-tangled winter +with its frosty standstill. The young oaks keep<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</a></span> their brown leaves. And +doing so, surely they are best with a thin edge of rime.</p> + +<p>One begins to realize how old the real Italy is, how man-gripped, and +how withered. England is far more wild and savage and lonely, in her +country parts. Here since endless centuries man has tamed the impossible +mountain side into terraces, he has quarried the rock, he has fed his +sheep among the thin woods, he has cut his boughs and burnt his +charcoal, he has been half domesticated even among the wildest +fastnesses. This is what is so attractive about the remote places, the +Abruzzi, for example. Life is so primitive, so pagan, so strangely +heathen and half-savage. And yet it is human life. And the wildest +country is half humanized, half brought under. It is all conscious. +Wherever one is in Italy, either one is conscious of the present, or of +the mediaeval influences, or of the far, mysterious gods of the early +Mediterranean. Wherever one is, the place has its conscious genus. Man +has lived there and brought forth his consciousness there and in some +way brought that place to consciousness, given it its expression, and, +really, finished it. The expression may be Proserpine, or Pan, or even +the strange "shrouded gods" of the Etruscans or the Sikels, none the +less it is an expression. The land has been humanised, through and +through: and we in our own tissued<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</a></span> consciousness bear the results of +this humanisation. So that for us to go to Italy and to <i>penetrate</i> into +Italy is like a most fascinating act of self-discovery—back, back down +the old ways of time. Strange and wonderful chords awake in us, and +vibrate again after many hundreds of years of complete forgetfulness.</p> + +<p>And then—and then—there is a final feeling of sterility. It is all +worked out. It is all known: <i>connu, connu!</i></p> + +<p>This Sunday morning, seeing the frost among the tangled, still savage +bushes of Sardinia, my soul thrilled again. This was not all known. This +was not all worked out. Life was not only a process of rediscovering +backwards. It is that, also: and it is that intensely. Italy has given +me back I know not what of myself, but a very, very great deal. She has +found for me so much that was lost: like a restored Osiris. But this +morning in the omnibus I realize that, apart from the great rediscovery +backwards, which one <i>must</i> make before one can be whole at all, there +is a move forwards. There are unknown, unworked lands where the salt has +not lost its savour. But one must have perfected oneself in the great +past first.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>If one travels one eats. We immediately began to munch biscuits, and the +old peasant in his white, baggy<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</a></span> breeches and black cuirass, his old +face smiling wonderingly under his old stocking cap, although he was +only going to Tonara, some seven or eight miles, began to peel himself a +hard-boiled egg, which he got out of his parcel. With calm wastefulness +he peeled away the biggest part of the white of the egg with the +shell—because it came away so. The citizen of Nuoro, for such the +bright-faced young man was, said to him—"But see how you waste +it."—"Ha!" said the old peasant, with a reckless indifferent wave of +the hand. What did he care how much he wasted, since he was <i>en voyage</i> +and riding for the first time in his life in an automobile.</p> + +<p>The citizen of Nuoro told us he had some sort of business in Sorgono, so +he came back and forth constantly. The peasant did some work or other +for him—or brought him something down from Tonara. He was a pleasant, +bright-eyed young man, and he made nothing of eight hours in a +motor-bus.</p> + +<p>He told us there was still game among these hills: wild boars which were +hunted in big hunts, and many hares. It was a curious and beautiful +sight, he said, to see a hare at night fascinated by the flare of the +lamps of the automobile, racing ahead with its ears back, always keeping +in front, inside the beam, and flying<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</a></span> like mad, on and on ahead, till +at some hill it gathered speed and melted into the dark.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>We descended into a deep, narrow valley to the road-junction and the +canteen-house, then up again, up and up sharp to Tonara, our village we +had seen in the sun yesterday. But we were approaching it from the back. +As we swerved into the sunlight, the road took a long curve on to the +open ridge between two valleys. And there in front we saw a glitter of +scarlet and white. It was in slow motion. It was a far-off procession, +scarlet figures of women, and a tall image moving away from us, slowly, +in the Sunday morning. It was passing along the level sunlit ridge above +a deep, hollow valley. A close procession of women glittering in +scarlet, white and black, moving slowly in the distance beneath the +grey-yellow buildings of the village on the crest, towards an isolated +old church: and all along this narrow upland saddle as on a bridge of +sunshine itself.</p> + +<p>Were we not going to see any more? The bus turned again and rushed along +the now level road and then veered. And there beyond, a little below, we +saw the procession <i>coming</i>. The bus faded to a standstill, and we +climbed out. Above us, old and mellowed among the smooth rocks and the +bits of flat grass<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</a></span> was the church, tanging its bell. Just in front, +above, were old, half-broken houses of stone. The road came gently +winding up to us, from what was evidently two villages ledged one above +the other upon the steep summit of the south slope. Far below was the +south valley, with a white puff of engine steam.</p> + +<p>And slowly chanting in the near distance, curving slowly up to us on the +white road between the grass came the procession. The high morning was +still. We stood all on this ridge above the world, with the deeps of +silence below on the right. And in a strange, brief, staccato monody +chanted the men, and in quick, light rustle of women's voices came the +responses. Again the men's voices! The white was mostly men, not women. +The priest in his robes, his boys near him, was leading the chanting. +Immediately behind him came a small cluster of bare-headed, tall, +sunburnt men, all in golden-velveteen corduroy, mountain-peasants, +bowing beneath a great life-size seated image of Saint Anthony of Padua. +After these a number of men in the costume, but with the white linen +breeches hanging wide and loose almost to the ankles, instead of being +tucked into the black gaiters. So they seemed very white beneath the +back kilt frill. The black frieze body-vest was cut low, like an evening +suit, and the stocking caps were variously perched. The men<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</a></span> chanted in +low, hollow, melodic tones. Then came the rustling chime of the women. +And the procession crept slowly, aimlessly forward in time with the +chant. The great image rode rigid, and rather foolish.</p> + +<p>After the men was a little gap—and then the brilliant wedge of the +women. They were packed two by two, close on each other's heels, +chanting inadvertently when their turn came, and all in brilliant, +beautiful costume. In front were the little girl-children, two by two, +immediately following the tall men in peasant black-and-white. Children, +demure and conventional, in vermilion, white and green—little +girl-children with long skirts of scarlet cloth down to their feet, +green-banded near the bottom: with white aprons bordered with vivid +green and mingled colour: having little scarlet, purple-bound, open +boleros over the full white shirts: and black head-cloths folded across +their little chins, just leaving the lips clear, the face framed in +black. Wonderful little girl-children, perfect and demure in the +stiffish, brilliant costume, with black head-dress! Stiff as Velasquez +princesses! The bigger girls followed, and then the mature women, a +close procession. The long vermilion skirts with their green bands at +the bottom flashed a solid moving mass of colour, softly swinging, and +the white aprons with their band of brilliant mingled green seemed to +gleam. At the throat the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</a></span> full-bosomed white shirts were fastened with +big studs of gold filigree, two linked filigree globes: and the great +white sleeves billowed from the scarlet, purplish-and-green-edged +boleros. The faces came nearer to us, framed all round in the dark +cloths. All the lips still sang responses, but all the eyes watched us. +So the softly-swaying coloured body of the procession came up to us. The +poppy-scarlet smooth cloth rocked in fusion, the bands and bars of +emerald green seemed to burn across the red and the showy white, the +dark eyes peered and stared at us from under the black snood, gazed back +at us with raging curiosity, while the lips moved automatically in +chant. The bus had run into the inner side of the road, and the +procession had to press round it, towards the sky-line, the great valley +lying below.</p> + +<p>The priest stared, hideous St. Anthony cockled a bit as he passed the +butt end of the big grey automobile, the peasant men in gold-coloured +corduroy, old, washed soft, were sweating under the load and still +singing with opened lips, the loose white breeches of the men waggled as +they walked on with their hands behind their backs, turning again, to +look at us. The big, hard hands, folded behind black kilt-frill! The +women, too, shuffled slowly past, rocking the scarlet and the bars of +green, and all twisting as they sang, to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</a></span> look at us still more. And so +the procession edged past the bus, and was trailing upwards, curved +solid against the sky-line towards the old church. From behind, the +geranium scarlet was intense, one saw the careful, curiously cut backs +of the shapen boleros, poppy-red, edged with mauve-purple and green, and +the white of the shirt just showing at the waist. The full sleeves +billowed out, the black head-cloths hung down to a point. The pleated +skirts swing slowly, the broad band of green accentuating the motion. +Indeed that is what it must be for, this thick, rich band of jewel +green, to throw the wonderful horizontal motion back and forth, back and +forth, of the suave vermilion, and give that static, Demeta splendor to +a peasant motion, so magnificent in colour, geranium and malachite.</p> + +<p>All the costumes were not exactly alike. Some had more green, some had +less. In some the sleeveless boleros were of a darker red, and some had +poorer aprons, without such gorgeous bands at the bottom. And some were +evidently old: probably thirty years old: still perfect and in keeping, +reserved for Sunday and high holidays. A few were darker, ruddier than +the true vermilion. This varying of the tone intensified the beauty of +the shuffling woman-host.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>When they had filed into the grey, forlorn little<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</a></span> church on the +ridge-top just above us, the bus started silently to run on to the +rest-point below, whilst we climbed back up the little rock-track to the +church. When we came to the side-door we found the church quite full. +Level with us as we stood in the open side doorway, we saw kneeling on +the bare stoneflags the little girl-children, and behind them all the +women clustered kneeling upon their aprons, with hands negligently +folded, filling the church to the further doorway, where the sun shone: +the bigger west-end doorway. In the shadow of the whitewashed, bare +church all these kneeling women with their colour and their black +head-cloths looked like some thick bed of flowers, geranium, black +hooded above. They all knelt on the naked, solid stone of the pavement.</p> + +<p>There was a space in front of the geranium little girl-children, then +the men in corduroys, gold-soft, with dark round heads, kneeling +awkwardly in reverence; and then the queer, black cuirasses and full +white sleeves of grey-headed peasant men, many bearded. Then just in +front of them the priest in his white vestment, standing exposed, and +just baldly beginning an address. At the side of the altar was seated +large and important the modern, simpering, black-gowned Anthony of +Padua, nursing a boy-child. He looked a sort of male Madonna.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Now," the priest was saying, "blessed Saint Anthony shows you in what +way you can be Christians. It is not enough that you are not Turks. Some +think they are Christians because they are not Turks. It is true you are +none of you Turks. But you have still to learn how to be good +Christians. And this you can learn from our blessed Saint Anthony. Saint +Anthony, etc., etc...."</p> + +<p>The contrast between Turks and Christians is still forceful in the +Mediterranean, where the Mohammedans have left such a mark. But how the +word <i>cristiani</i>, <i>cristiani</i>, spoken with a peculiar priestly unction, +gets on my nerves. The voice is barren in its homily. And the women are +all intensely watching the q-b and me in the doorway, their folded hands +are very negligently held together.</p> + +<p>"Come away!" say I. "Come away, and let them listen."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>We left the church crowded with its kneeling host, and dropped down past +the broken houses towards the omnibus, which stood on a sort of level +out-look place, a levelled terrace with a few trees, standing silent +over the valley. It should be picketed with soldiers having arquebuses. +And I should have welcomed a few<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</a></span> thorough-paced infidels, as a leaven +to this dreary Christianity of ours.</p> + +<p>But it was a wonderful place. Usually, the life-level is reckoned as +sea-level. But here, in the heart of Sardinia, the life-level is high as +the golden-lit plateau, and the sea-level is somewhere far away, below, +in the gloom, it does not signify. The life-level is high up, high and +sun-sweetened and among rocks.</p> + +<p>We stood and looked below, at the puff of steam, far down the wooded +valley where we had come yesterday. There was an old, low house on this +eagle-perching piazza. I would like to live there. The real village—or +rather two villages, like an ear-ring and its pendant—lay still beyond, +in front, ledging near the summit of the long, long, steep wooded slope, +that never ended till it ran flush to the depths away below there in +shadow.</p> + +<p>And yesterday, up this slope the old peasant had come with his two +brilliant daughters and the pack-pony.</p> + +<p>And somewhere in those ledging, pearly villages in front must be my +girovago and his "wife". I wish I could see their stall and drink aqua +vitae with them.</p> + +<p>"How beautiful the procession!" says the q-b to the driver.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Ah yes—one of the most beautiful costumes of Sardinia, this of +Tonara," he replied wistfully.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The bus sets off again—minus the old peasant. We retrace our road. A +woman is leading a bay pony past the church, striding with long strides, +so that her maroon skirt swings like a fan, and hauling the halter rope. +Apparently the geranium red costume is Sunday only, the week-day is this +maroon, or puce, or madder-brown.</p> + +<p>Quickly and easily the bus slips down the hill into the valley. Wild, +narrow valleys, with trees, and brown-legged cork trees. Across the +other side a black and white peasant is working alone on a tiny terrace +of the hill-side, a small, solitary figure, for all the world like a +magpie in the distance. These people like being alone—solitary—one +sees a single creature so often isolated among the wilds. This is +different from Sicily and Italy, where the people simply cannot be +alone. They <i>must</i> be in twos and threes.</p> + +<p>But it is Sunday morning, and the worker is exceptional. Along the road +we pass various pedestrians, men in their black sheepskins, boys in +their soldiers' remains. They are trudging from one village to another, +across the wild valleys. And there is a sense of Sunday morning freedom, +of roving, as in an English<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</a></span> countryside. Only the one old peasant works +alone: and a goatherd watching his long-haired, white goats.</p> + +<p>Beautiful the goats are: and so swift. They fly like white shadows along +the road from us, then dart down-hill. I see one standing on a bough of +an oak-tree, right in the tree, an enormous white tree-creature +complacently munching up aloft, then rearing on her hind legs, so +lengthy, and putting her slim paws far away on an upper, forward branch.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Whenever we come to a village we stop and get down, and our little +conductor disappears into the post-office for the post-bag. This last is +usually a limp affair, containing about three letters. The people crowd +round—and many of them in very ragged costume. They look poor, and not +attractive: perhaps a bit degenerate. It would seem as if the Italian +instinct to get into rapid touch with the world were the healthy +instinct after all. For in these isolated villages, which have been +since time began far from any life-centre, there is an almost sordid +look on the faces of the people. We must remember that the motor-bus is +a great innovation. It has been running for five weeks only. I wonder +for how many months it will continue.</p> + +<p>For I am sure it cannot pay. Our first-class tickets cost, I believe, +about twenty-seven francs each. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</a></span> second class costs about +three-quarters the first. Some parts of the journey we were very few +passengers. The distance covered is so great, the population so thin, +that even granted the passion for getting out of their own villages, +which possesses all people now, still the bus cannot earn much more than +an average of two hundred to three hundred francs a day. Which, with two +men's wages, and petrol at its enormous price, and the cost of +wear-and-tear, cannot possibly pay.</p> + +<p>I asked the driver. He did not tell me what his wages were: I did not +ask him. But he said the company paid for the keep and lodging for +himself and mate at the stopping-places. This being Sunday, fewer people +were travelling: a statement hard to believe. Once he had carried fifty +people all the way from Tonara to Nuoro. Once! But it was in vain he +protested. Ah well, he said, the bus carried the post, and the +government paid a subsidy of so many thousands of lire a year: a goodly +number. Apparently then the government was the loser, as usual. And +there are hundreds, if not thousands of these omnibuses running the +lonely districts of Italy and Sicily—Sardinia had a network of systems. +They are splendid—and they are perhaps an absolute necessity for a +nervous restless population which simply cannot keep still, and which +finds some<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</a></span> relief in being whirled about even on the <i>autovie</i>, as the +bus-system is called.</p> + +<p>The autovie are run by private companies, only subsidised by the +government.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>On we rush, through the morning—and at length see a large village, high +on the summit beyond, stony on the high upland. But it has a magical +look, as these tiny summit-cities have from the distance. They recall to +me always my childish visions of Jerusalem, high against the air, and +seeming to sparkle, and built in sharp cubes.</p> + +<p>It is curious what a difference there is between the high, fresh, proud +villages and the valley villages. Those that crown the world have a +bright, flashing air, as Tonara had. Those that lie down below, infolded +in the shadow, have a gloomy, sordid feeling and a repellent population, +like Sorgono and other places at which we had halted. The judgment may +be all wrong: but this was the impression I got.</p> + +<p>We were now at the highest point of the journey. The men we saw on the +road were in their sheepskins, and some were even walking with their +faces shawl-muffled. Glancing back, we saw up the valley clefts the snow +of Gennargentu once more, a white mantle on broad shoulders, the very +core of Sardinia. The bus<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</a></span> slid to a standstill in a high valley, beside +a stream where the road from Fonni joined ours. There was waiting a +youth with a bicycle. I would like to go to Fonni. They say it is the +highest village in Sardinia.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>In front, on the broad summit, reared the towers of Gavoi. This was the +half-way halt, where the buses had their <i>coincidenza</i>, and where we +would stay for an hour and eat. We wound up and up the looping road, and +at last entered the village. Women came to the doors to look. They were +wearing the dark madder-brown costume. Men were hastening, smoking their +pipes, towards our stopping place.</p> + +<p>We saw the other bus—a little crowd of people—and we drew up at last. +We were tired and hungry. We were at the door of the inn, and we entered +quickly. And in an instant, what a difference! At the clean little bar, +men were drinking cheerfully. A side door led into the common room. And +how charming it was. In a very wide chimney, white and stone-clean, with +a lovely shallow curve above, was burning a fire of long, clean-split +faggots, laid horizontally on the dogs. A clean, clear bright fire, with +odd little chairs in front, very low, for us to sit on. The funny, low +little chairs seem a specialty of this region.</p> + +<p>The floor of this room was paved with round dark<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</a></span> pebbles, beautifully +clean. On the walls hung brilliant copper fans, glittering against the +whitewash. And under the long, horizontal window that looked on the +street was a stone slab with sockets for little charcoal fires. The +curve of the chimney arch was wide and shallow, the curve above the +window was still wider, and of a similar delicate shallowness, the white +roof rose delicately vaulted. With the glitter of copper, the expanse of +dark, rose-coloured, pebbled floor, the space, the few low, +clean-gleaming faggots, it was really beautiful. We sat and warmed +ourselves, welcomed by a plump hostess and a pleasant daughter, both in +madder-brown dress and full white shirt. People strayed in and out, +through the various doors. The houses are built without any plan at all, +the rooms just happening, here or there. A bitch came from an inner +darkness and stood looking at the fire, then looked up at me, smiling in +her bitch-like, complacent fashion.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>But we were dying with hunger. What was there to eat?—and was it nearly +ready? There was <i>cinghiale</i>, the pleasant, hard-cheeked girl told us, +and it was nearly ready. <i>Cinghiale</i> being wild boar, we sniffed the +air. The girl kept tramping rather fecklessly back and forth, with a +plate or a serviette: and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</a></span> at last it was served. We went through the +dark inner place, which was apparently the windowless bit left over, +inside, when the hap-hazard rooms were made round about, and from thence +into a large, bare, darkish pebbled room with a white table and inverted +soup-plates. It was deathly cold. The window looked north over the +wintry landscape of the highlands, fields, stone walls, and rocks. Ah, +the cold, motionless air of the room.</p> + +<p>But we were quite a party: the second bus-driver and his mate, a bearded +traveller on the second bus, with his daughter, ourselves, the +bright-faced citizen from Nuoro, and our driver. Our little dark-eyed +conductor did not come. It dawned on me later he could not afford to pay +for this meal, which was not included in his wage.</p> + +<p>The Nuoro citizen conferred with our driver—who looked tired round the +eyes—and made the girl produce a tin of sardines. These were opened at +table with a large pocket-knife belonging to the second conductor. He +was a reckless, odd, hot-foot fellow whom I liked very much. But I was +terrified at the way he carved the sardine-box with his jack-knife. +However, we could eat and drink.</p> + +<p>Then came the <i>brodo</i>, the broth, in a great bowl. This was boiling hot, +and very, very strong. It was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</a></span> perfectly plain, strong meat-stock, +without vegetables. But how good and invigorating it was, and what an +abundance! We drank it down, and ate the good, cold bread.</p> + +<p>Then came the boar itself. Alas, it was a bowl of hunks of dark, rather +coarse boiled meat, from which the broth had been made. It was quite +dry, without fat. I should have been very puzzled to know what meat it +was, if I had not been told. Sad that the wild boar should have received +so little culinary attention. However, we ate the hunks of hot, dry meat +with bread, and were glad to get them. They were filling, at least. And +there was a bowl of rather bitter green olives for a condiment.</p> + +<p>The Nuoro citizen now produced a huge bottle of wine, which he said was +<i>finissimo</i>, and refused to let us go on with the dark wine on the +table, of which every guest was served with a bottle. So we drank up, +and were replenished with the redder, lighter, finer Sorgono wine. It +was very good.</p> + +<p>The second bus-conductor also did not eat the inn meal. He produced a +vast piece of bread, good, home-made bread, and at least half of a roast +lamb, and a large paper of olives. This lamb he insisted on sending +round the table, waving his knife and fork with dramatic gestures at +every guest, insisting that every<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</a></span> guest should take a hunk. So one by +one we all helped ourselves to the extraordinarily good cold roast lamb, +and to the olives. Then the bus-conductor fell to as well. There was a +mass of meat still left to him.</p> + +<p>It is extraordinary how generous and, from the inside, well-bred these +men were. To be sure the second conductor waved his knife and fork and +made bitter faces if one of us took only a little bit of the lamb. He +wanted us to take more. But the <i>essential</i> courtesy in all of them was +quite perfect, so manly and utterly simple. Just the same with the q-b. +They treated her with a sensitive, manly simplicity, which one could not +but be thankful for. They made none of the odious politenesses which are +so detestable in well-brought-up people. They made no advances and did +none of the hateful homage of the adulating male. They were quiet, and +kind, and sensitive to the natural flow of life, and quite without airs. +I liked them extremely. Men who can be quietly kind and simple to a +woman, without wanting to show off or to make an impression, they are +men still. They were neither humble nor conceited. They did not show +off. And oh God, what a blessed relief, to be with people who don't +bother to show off. We sat at that table quietly and naturally as if we +were by ourselves, and talked or listened to their talk, just as it +happened. When<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</a></span> we did not want to talk, they took no notice of us. And +that I call good manners. Middle-class, showing off people would have +found them uncouth. I found them almost the only really well-bred people +I have met. They did not show off in any way at all, not even a show of +simplicity. They knew that in the beginning and in the end a man stands +alone, his soul is alone in itself, and all attributes are nothing—and +this curious final knowledge preserved them in simplicity.</p> + +<p>When we had had coffee and were going out, I found our own conductor in +a little chair by the fire. He was looking a bit pathetic. I had enough +sense to give him a coffee, which brightened him. But it was not till +afterwards, putting things together, that I realized he had wanted to be +with us all at table, but that his conductor's wages probably did not +allow him to spend the money. My bill for the dinner was about fifteen +francs, for the two of us.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>In the bus again, we were quite crowded. A peasant girl in Nuoro costume +sat facing me, and a dark-bearded, middle-aged man in a brown velveteen +suit was next me and glowering at her. He was evidently her husband. I +did not like him: one of the jealous, carping sort. She, in her way, was +handsome: but a bit of a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</a></span> devil as well, in all probability. There were +two village women become fine, in town dress and black silk scarves over +their heads, fancying themselves. Then there was a wild scuffle, and +three bouncing village lasses were pushed in, laughing and wild with +excitement. There were wild farewells, and the bus rolled out of Gavoi +between the desolate mountain fields and the rocks, on a sort of +table-land. We rolled on for a mile or so: then stopped, and the excited +lasses got down. I gathered they had been given a little ride for a +Sunday treat. Delighted they were. And they set off, with other +bare-headed women in costume, along a bare path between flat, +out-cropping rocks and cold fields.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The girl facing me was a study. She was not more than twenty years old I +should say: or was she? Did the delicate and fine complication of lines +against her eyes mean thirty-five? But anyhow she was the wife of the +velveteen man. He was thick-set and had white hairs in his coarse black +beard, and little, irritable brown eyes under his irritable brows. He +watched her all the time. Perhaps, she was after all a young, new +girl-wife. She sat with that expressionless look of one who is watched +and who appears not to know it. She had her back to the engine.</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<div class="figcenter"> +<a name="illus7" id="illus7"></a> +<img src="images/illus7.jpg" alt=""/> +</div> + +<h3>GAVOI</h3> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</a></span></p> + +<p>She wore her black head-cloth from her brow and her hair was taken tight +back from her rather hard, broad, well-shaped forehead. Her dark +eyebrows were very finely drawn above her large, dark-grey, pellucid +eyes, but they were drawn with a peculiar obstinate and irritating lift. +Her nose was straight and small, her mouth well-shut. And her big, +rather hostile eyes had a withheld look in them, obstinate. Yet, being +newly wed and probably newly-awakened, her eyes looked sometimes at me +with a provoking look, curious as to what I was in the husband line, +challenging rather defiantly with her new secrets, obstinate in +opposition to the male authority, and yet intrigued by the very fact +that one was man. The velveteen husband—his velveteens too had gone +soft and gold-faded, yet somehow they made him look ugly, common—he +watched her with his irritable, yellow-brown eyes, and seemed to fume in +his stiff beard.</p> + +<p>She wore the costume: the full-gathered shirt fastened at the throat +with the two gold filigree globes, a little dark, braided, stiff bolero +just fastened at the waist, leaving a pretty pattern of white breast, +and a dark maroon skirt. As the bus rushed along she turned somewhat +pale, with the obstinate pinched look of a woman who is in opposition to +her man. At length she flung him a few words which I did not catch—and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</a></span> +her forehead seemed to go harder, as she drooped her lashes occasionally +over her wide, alert, obstinate, rather treacherous eyes. She must have +been a difficult piece of goods to deal with. And she sat with her knees +touching mine, rocking against mine as the bus swayed.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>We came to a village on the road: the landscape had now become wider, +much more open. At the inn door the bus stopped, and the velveteen +husband and the girl got down. It was cold—but in a minute I got down +too. The bus conductor came to me and asked anxiously if the q-b were +ill. The q-b said no, why? Because there was a signora whom the motion +of the bus made ill. This was the girl.</p> + +<p>There was a crowd and a great row at this inn. In the second dark room, +which was bare of furniture, a man sat in a corner playing an accordion. +Men in the close breeches were dancing together. Then they fell to +wrestling wildly, crashing about among the others, with shouts and +yells. Men in the black-and-white, but untidy, with the wide white +drawers left hanging out over the black gaiters, surged here and there. +All were rowdy with drink. This again was rather a squalid inn but +roaring with violent, crude male life.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</a></span></p> + +<p>The Nuoro citizen said that here was very good wine, and we must try it. +I did not want it, but he insisted. So we drank little glasses of merely +moderate red wine. The sky had gone all grey with the afternoon +curd-clouds. It was very cold and raw. Wine is no joy, cold, dead wine, +in such an atmosphere.</p> + +<p>The Nuoro citizen insisted on paying. He would let me pay, he said, when +he came to England. In him, and in our bus men, the famous Sardinian +hospitality and generosity still lingers.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>When the bus ran on again the q-b told the peasant girl who again had +the pinched look, to change places with me and sit with her face to the +engine. This the young woman did, with that rather hard assurance common +to these women. But at the next stop she got down, and made the +conductor come with us into the compartment, whilst she sat in front +between the driver and the citizen of Nuoro. That was what she wanted +all the time. Now she was all right. She had her back to the velveteen +husband, she sat close between two strange young men, who were condoling +with her. And velveteens eyed her back, and his little eyes went littler +and more pin-pointed, and his nose seemed to curl with irritation.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</a></span></p> + +<p>The costumes had changed again. There was again the scarlet, but no +green. The green had given place to mauve and rose. The women in one +cold, stony, rather humbled broken place were most brilliant. They had +the geranium skirts, but their sleeveless boleros were made to curl out +strangely from the waist, and they were edged with a puckered rose-pink, +a broad edge, with lines of mauve and lavender. As they went up between +the houses that were dark and grisly under the blank, cold sky, it is +amazing how these women of vermilion and rose-pink seemed to melt into +an almost impossible blare of colour. What a risky blend of colours! Yet +how superb it could look, that dangerous hard assurance of these women +as they strode along so blaring. I would not like to tackle one of them.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Wider and colder the landscape grew. As we topped a hill at the end of a +village, we saw a long string of wagons, each with a pair of oxen, and +laden with large sacks, curving upwards in the cold, pallid Sunday +afternoon. Seeing us, the procession came to a standstill at the curve +of the road, and the pale oxen, the pale low wagons, the pale full +sacks, all in the blenched light, each one headed by a tall man in +shirt-sleeves, trailing a static procession on the hill-side, seemed +like a vision: like a Doré drawing. The bus slid past, the man<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</a></span> holding +the wagon-pole, while some oxen stood like rock, some swayed their +horns. The q-b asked the velveteener what they were carrying. For a long +time he took no notice of the question. Then he volunteered, in a snappy +voice, that it was the government grain being distributed to the +communes for bread. On Sunday afternoon too.</p> + +<p>Oh this government corn! What a problem those sacks represent!</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The country became wider as we dropped lower. But it was bleak and +treeless once more. Stones cropped up in the wide, hollow dales. Men on +ponies passed forlorn across the distances. Men with bundles waited at +the cross-roads to pick up the bus. We were drawing near to Nuoro. It +was past three in the afternoon, cold with a blenched light. The +landscape seemed bare and stony, wide, different from any before.</p> + +<p>We came to the valley where the branch-line runs to Nuoro. I saw little +pink railway-cabins at once, lonely along the valley bed. Turning sharp +to the right, we ran in silence over the moor-land-seeming slopes, and +saw the town beyond, clustered beyond, a little below, at the end of the +long declivity, with sudden mountains rising around it. There it lay, as +if at the end of the world, mountains rising sombre behind.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</a></span></p> + +<p>So, we stop at the Dazio, the town's customs hut, and velveteens has to +pay for some meat and cheese he is bringing in. After which we slip into +the cold high-street of Nuoro. I am thinking that this is the home of +Grazia Deledda, the novelist, and I see a barber's shop. De Ledda. And +thank heaven we are at the end of the journey. It is past four o'clock.</p> + +<p>The bus has stopped quite close to the door of the inn: Star of Italy, +was it? In we go at the open door. Nobody about, free access to anywhere +and everywhere, as usual: testifying again to Sardinian honesty. We peer +through a doorway to the left—through a rough little room: ah, there in +a dark, biggish room beyond is a white-haired old woman with a long, +ivory-coloured face standing at a large table ironing. One sees only the +large whiteness of the table, and the long pallid face and the querulous +pale-blue eye of the tall old woman as she looks up questioning from the +gloom of the inner place.</p> + +<p>"Is there a room, Signora?"</p> + +<p>She looks at me with a pale, cold blue eye, and shouts into the dark for +somebody. Then she advances into the passage and looks us up and down, +the q-b and me.</p> + +<p>"Are you husband and wife?" she demands, challenge.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Yes, how shouldn't we be," say I.</p> + +<p>A tiny maid, of about thirteen, but sturdy and brisk-looking, has +appeared in answer to the shout.</p> + +<p>"Take them to number seven," says the old dame, and she turns back to +her gloom, and seizes the flat iron grimly.</p> + +<p>We follow up two flights of cold stone stairs, disheartening narrow +staircase with a cold iron rail, and corridors opening off gloomily and +rather disorderly. These houses give the effect, inside, of never having +been properly finished, as if, long, long ago, the inmates had crowded +in, pig-sty fashion, without waiting for anything to be brought into +order, and there it had been left, dreary and chaotic.</p> + +<p>Thumbelina, the little maid, threw open the door of number seven with +<i>eclat</i>. And we both exclaimed: "How fine!" It seemed to us palatial. +Two good, thick white beds, a table, a chest of drawers, two mats on the +tiled floor, and gorgeous oleographs on the wall—and two good +wash-bowls side by side—and all perfectly clean and nice. What were we +coming to! We felt we ought to be impressed.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>We pulled open the latticed window doors, and looked down on the street: +the only street. And it was a river of noisy life. A band was playing, +rather<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</a></span> terribly, round the corner at the end, and up and down the +street jigged endless numbers of maskers in their Carnival costume, with +girls and young women strolling arm-in-arm to participate. And how +frisky they all were, how bubbly and unself-conscious!</p> + +<p>The maskers were nearly all women—the street was full of women: so we +thought at first. Then we saw, looking closer, that most of the women +were young men, dressed up. All the maskers were young men, and most of +these young men, <i>of course</i>, were masquerading as women. As a rule they +did not wear face-masks, only little dominoes of black cloth or green +cloth or white cloth coming down to the mouth. Which is much better. For +the old modelled half-masks with the lace frill, the awful proboscis +sticking forward white and ghastly like the beaks of corpse-birds—such +as the old Venice masks—these I think are simply horrifying. And the +more modern "faces" are usually only repulsive. While the simple little +pink half-masks with the end of black or green or white cloth, these +just form a human disguise.</p> + +<p>It was quite a game, sorting out the real women from the false. Some +were easy. They had stuffed their bosoms, and stuffed their bustles, and +put on hats and very various robes, and they minced along with little +jigging steps, like little dolls that dangle from<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</a></span> elastic, and they put +their heads on one side and dripped their hands, and danced up to flurry +the actual young ladies, and sometimes they received a good clout on the +head, when they broke into wild and violent gestures, whereat the +<i>actual</i> young ladies scuffled wildly.</p> + +<p>They were very lively and naïve.—But some were more difficult. Every +conceivable sort of "woman" was there, broad shouldered and with rather +large feet. The most usual was the semi-peasant, with a very full bosom +and very full skirt and a very downright bearing. But one was a widow in +weeds, drooping on the arm of a robust daughter. And one was an ancient +crone in a crochet bed-cover. And one was in an old skirt and blouse and +apron, with a broom, wildly sweeping the street from end to end. He was +an animated rascal. He swept with very sarcastic assiduity in front of +two town-misses in fur coats, who minced very importantly along. He +swept their way very humbly, facing them and going backwards, sweeping +and bowing, whilst they advanced with their noses in the air. He made +his great bow, and they minced past, daughters of dog-fish, pesce-carne, +no doubt. Then he skipped with a bold, gambolling flurry behind them, +and with a perfectly mad frenzy began to sweep after them, as if to +sweep their tracks away. He swept so madly and so blindly with his besom +that he swept on<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</a></span> to their heels and their ankles. They shrieked and +glowered round, but the blind sweeper saw them not. He swept and swept +and pricked their thin silk ankles. And they, scarlet with indignation +and rage, gave hot skips like cats on hot bricks, and fled discomfited +forwards. He bowed once more after them, and started mildly and +innocently to sweep the street. A pair of lovers of fifty years ago, she +in a half crinoline and poke bonnet and veil, hanging on his arm came +very coyly past, oh so simpering, and it took me a long time to be sure +that the "girl" was a youth. An old woman in a long nightdress prowled +up and down, holding out her candle and peering in the street as if for +burglars. She would approach the <i>real</i> young women and put her candle +in their faces and peer so hard, as if she suspected them of something. +And they blushed and turned their faces away and protested confusedly. +This old woman searched so fearfully in the face of one strapping lass +in the pink and scarlet costume, who looked for all the world like a +bunch of red and rose-pink geraniums, with a bit of white,—a <i>real</i> +peasant lass—that the latter in a panic began to beat him with her +fist, furiously, quite aroused. And he made off, running comically in +his long white nightdress.</p> + +<p>There were some really beautiful dresses of rich old brocade, and some +gleaming old shawls, a shimmer of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</a></span> lavender and silver, or of dark, rich +shot colours with deep borders of white silver and primrose gold, very +lovely. I believe two of them were actual women—but the q-b says no. +There was a Victorian gown of thick green silk, with a creamy blotched +cross-over shawl. About her we both were doubtful. There were two +wistful, drooping-lily sisters, all in white, with big feet. And there +was a very successful tall miss in a narrow hobble-skirt of black satin +and a toque with ospreys. The way she minced and wagged her posterior +and went on her toes and peered over her shoulder and kept her elbows in +was an admirable caricature. Especially the curious sagging heaving +movement of "bustle" region, a movement very characteristic of modern +feminism, was hit off with a bit of male exaggeration which rejoiced me. +At first she even took me in.</p> + +<p>We stood outside our window, and leaned on the little balcony rail +looking down at this flow of life. Directly opposite was the chemist's +house: facing our window the best bedroom of the chemist, with a huge +white matrimonial bed and muslin curtains. In the balcony sat the +chemist's daughters, very elegant in high-heeled shoes and black hair +done in the fluffy fashion with a big sweep sideways. Oh very elegant!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</a></span> +They eyed us a little and we eyed them. But without interest. The river +of life was down below.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>It was very cold and the day was declining. We too were cold. We decided +to go into the street and look for the café. In a moment we were out of +doors, walking as inconspicuously as possible near the wall. Of course +there was no pavement. These maskers were very gentle and whimsical, no +touch of brutality at all. Now we were level with them, how odd and +funny they were. One youth wore a thin white blouse and a pair of his +sister's wide, calico knickers with needlework frills near the ankle, +and white stockings. He walked artlessly, and looked almost pretty. Only +the q-b winced with pain: not because of the knickers, but because of +that awful length, coming well below the knee. Another young man was +wound into a sheet, and heavens knows if he could ever get out of it. +Another was involved in a complicated entanglement of white crochet +antimacassars, very troublesome to contemplate. I did not like him at +all, like a fish in a net. But he strode robustly about.</p> + +<p>We came to the end of the street, where there is a wide, desolate sort +of gap. Here the little band stood braying away, there was a thick crowd +of people, and on a slanting place just above, a little circle where<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</a></span> +youths and men, maskers and one or two girls were dancing, so crowded +together and such a small ring that they looked like a jiggly set of +upright rollers all turning rickettily against one another. They were +doing a sort of intense jigging waltz. Why do they look so intense? +Perhaps because they were so tight all together, like too many fish in a +globe slipping through one another.</p> + +<p>There was a café in this sort of piazza—not a piazza at all, a formless +gap. But young men were drinking little drinks, and I knew it would be +hopeless to ask for anything but cold drinks or black coffee: which we +did not want. So we continued forwards, up the slope of the village +street. These towns soon come to an end. Already we were wandering into +the open. On a ledge above, a peasant family was making a huge bonfire, +a tower of orange-coloured, rippling flame. Little, impish boys were +throwing on more rubbish. Everybody else was in town. Why were these +folk at the town-end making this fire alone?</p> + +<p>We came to the end of the houses and looked over the road-wall at the +hollow, deep, interesting valley below. Away on the other side rose a +blue mountain, a steep but stumpy cone. High land reared up, dusky and +dark-blue, all around. Somewhere far off the sun was setting with a bit +of crimson. It was a wild,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</a></span> unusual landscape, of unusual shape. The +hills seemed so untouched, dark-blue, virgin-wild, the hollow cradle of +the valley was cultivated like a tapestry away below. And there seemed +so little outlying life: nothing. No castles even. In Italy and Sicily +castles perching everywhere. In Sardinia none—the remote, ungrappled +hills rising darkly, standing outside of life.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>As we went back it was growing dark, and the little band was about to +leave off its brass noise. But the crowd still surged, the maskers still +jigged and frisked unweariedly. Oh the good old energy of the bygone +days, before men became so self-conscious. Here it was still on the hop.</p> + +<p>We found no café that looked any good. Coming to the inn, we asked if +there was a fire anywhere. There wasn't. We went up to our room. The +chemist-daughters had lighted up opposite, one saw their bedroom as if +it were one's own. In the dusk of the street the maskers were still +jigging, all the youths still joyfully being women, but a little more +roughly now. Away over the house-tops the purple-red of a dying sunset. +And it was very cold.</p> + +<p>There was nothing for it but just to lie in bed. The q-b made a little +tea on the spirit-lamp, and we sat in bed and sipped it. Then we covered +ourselves<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</a></span> up and lay still, to get warm. Outside the noise of the +street came unabated. It grew quite dark, the lights reflected into the +room. There was the sound of an accordion across the hoarseness of the +many voices and movements in the street: and then a solid, strong +singing of men's voices, singing a soldier song.</p> + +<p>"Quando torniamo in casa nostra—"</p> + +<p>We got up to look. Under the small electric lights the narrow, cobbled +street was still running with a river of people, but fewer maskers. Two +maskers beating loudly at a heavy closed door. They beat and beat. At +last the door opens a crack. They rush to try to get in—but in vain. It +had shut the moment it saw them, they are foiled, on they go down the +street. The town is full of men, many peasants come in from the outlying +parts, the black and white costume now showing in the streets.</p> + +<p>We retire to bed again out of the cold. Comes a knock, and Thumbelina +bursts in, in the darkness.</p> + +<p>"Siamo qua!" says the q-b.</p> + +<p>Thumbelina dashes at the window-doors and shuts them and shuts the +casement. Then she dashes to my bedhead and turns on the light, looking +down at me as if I were a rabbit in the grass. Then she flings a can of +water against the wash-bowls—cold water, icy, alas. After which, small +and explosive, she<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</a></span> explodes her way out of the room again, and leaves +us in the glaring light, having replied that it is now a little after +six o'clock, and dinner is half past seven.</p> + +<p>So we lie in bed, warm and in peace, but hungry, waiting for half past +seven.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>When the q-b can stand it no more she flounces up, though the clock from +the Campanile has struck seven only a few minutes before. Dashing +downstairs to reconnoitre, she is back in a breath to say that people +are eating their heads off in the long dining room. In the next breath +we are downstairs too.</p> + +<p>The room was brightly lighted, and at many white tables sat diners, all +men. It was quite city-like. Everyone was in convivial mood. The q-b +spied men opposite having chicken and salad—and she had hopes. But they +were brief. When the soup came, the girl announced that there was only +bistecca: which meant a bit of fried cow. So it did: a quite, quite +small bit of fried beef, a few potatoes and a bit of cauliflower. +Really, it was not enough for a child of twelve. But that was the end of +it. A few mandarini—tangerine oranges—rolled on a plate for dessert. +And there's the long and short of these infernal dinners. Was there any +cheese? No, there was no cheese. So we merely masticated bread.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</a></span></p> + +<p>There came in three peasants in the black and white costume, and sat at +the middle table. They kept on their stocking caps. And queer they +looked, coming in with slow, deliberate tread of these elderly men, and +sitting rather remote, with a gap of solitude around them. The peculiar +ancient loneliness of the Sardinian hills clings to them, and something +stiff, static, pre-world.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>All the men at our end of the room were citizens—employees of some +sort—and they were all acquaintances. A large dog, very large indeed, +with a great muzzle, padded slowly from table to table, and looked at us +with big wistful topaz eyes. When the meal was almost over our +bus-driver and conductor came in—looking faint with hunger and cold and +fatigue. They were quartered at this house. They had eaten nothing since +the boar-broth at Gavoi.</p> + +<p>In a very short time they were through their portions: and was there +nothing else? Nothing! But they were half starved. They ordered two eggs +each, in padella. I ordered coffee—and asked them to come and take it +with us, and a brandy. So they came when their eggs were finished.</p> + +<p>A diversion was now created at the other side of the room. The red wine, +which is good in Sardinia,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</a></span> had been drunk freely. Directly facing us +sat a rather stout man with pleasant blue eyes and a nicely shaped head: +dressed like any other town man on a Sunday. The dog had waddled up to +him and sat down statuesque in front of him. And the fat man, being +mellow, began to play with the big, gentle, brindled animal. He took a +piece of bread and held it before the dog's nose—and the dog tried to +take it. But the man, like a boy now he was ripe with wine, put the +mastiff back with a restraining finger, and told him not to snatch. Then +he proceeded with a little conversation with the animal. The dog again +tried to snatch, gently, and again the man started, saved the bread, and +startled the dog, which backed and gave a sharp, sad yelp, as if to say: +"Why do you tease me!"</p> + +<p>"Now," said the man, "you are not to snatch. Come here. Come here. Vieni +qua!" And he held up the piece of bread. The animal came near. "Now," +said the man, "I put this bread on your nose, and you don't move, +un—Ha!!"</p> + +<p>The dog had tried to snatch the bread, the man had shouted and jerked it +away, the animal had recoiled and given another expostulating yelp.</p> + +<p>The game continued. All the room was watching, smiling. The dog did not +understand at all. It came forward again, troubled. The man held the +bread<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</a></span> near its nose, and held up a warning finger. The beast dropped +its head mournfully, cocking up its eye at the bread with varied +feelings.</p> + +<p>"Now—!" said the man, "not until I say three—<i>Uno—due—</i>" the dog +could bear it no longer, the man in jerking let go the bread and yelled +at the top of his voice—"<i>e tre!</i>" The dog gulped the piece of bread +with a resigned pleasure, and the man pretended it had all happened +properly on the word "three."</p> + +<p>So he started again. "Vieni qua! Vieni qua!" The dog, which had backed +away with the bread, came hesitating, cringing forward, dropping its +hind-quarters in doubt, as dogs do, advancing towards the new nugget of +bread. The man preached it a little sermon.</p> + +<p>"You sit there and look at this bread. I sit here and look at you, and I +hold this bread. And you stop still, and I stop still, while I count +three. Now then—uno—" the dog couldn't bear these numerals, with their +awful slowness. He snatched desperately. The man yelled and lost the +bread, the dog, gulping, turned to creep away.</p> + +<p>Then it began again.</p> + +<p>"Come here! Come here! Didn't I tell thee I would count three? Già! I +said I would count three. Not one, but three. And to count three you +need three numbers. Ha! Steady! Three numbers.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</a></span> Uno—due E TRE!" The +last syllables were yelled so that the room rang again. The dog gave a +mournful howl of excitement, missed the bread, groped for it, and fled.</p> + +<p>The man was red with excitement, his eyes shining. He addressed the +company at large. "I had a dog," he said, "ah, a dog! And I would put a +piece of bread on his nose, and say a verse. And he looked at me so!" +The man put his face sideways. "And he looked at me <i>so</i>!" He gazed up +under his brows. "And he talked to me so—o: Zieu! Zieu!—But he never +moved. No, he never moved. If he sat with that bread on his nose for +half an hour, and if tears ran down his face, he never moved—not till I +said <i>three</i>! Then—ah!" The man tossed up his face, snapped the air +with his mouth, and gulped an imaginary crust. "AH, that dog was +trained...." The man of forty shook his head.</p> + +<p>"Vieni qua! Come here! Tweet! Come here!"</p> + +<p>He patted his fat knee, and the dog crept forward. The man held another +piece of bread.</p> + +<p>"Now," he said to the dog, "listen! Listen. I am going to tell you +something.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Il soldato va alla guerra—<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>No—no, Not yet. When I say <i>three</i>!</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Il soldato va alla guerra<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mangia male, dorme in terra—<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Listen. Be still. Quiet now. UNO—DUE—E—TRE!"</p> + +<p>It came out in one simultaneous yell from the man, the dog in sheer +bewilderment opened his jaws and let the bread go down his throat, and +wagged his tail in agitated misery.</p> + +<p>"Ah," said the man, "you are learning. Come! Come here! Come! Now then! +Now you know. So! So! Look at me so!"</p> + +<p>The stout, good-looking man of forty bent forward. His face was flushed, +the veins in his neck stood out. He talked to the dog, and imitated the +dog. And very well indeed he reproduced something of the big, gentle, +wistful subservience of the animal. The dog was his totem—the +affectionate, self-mistrustful, warm-hearted hound.</p> + +<p>So he started the rigmarole again. We put it into English.</p> + +<p>"Listen now. Listen! Let me tell it you—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">So the soldier goes to the war!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His food is rotten, he sleeps on the floor—<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>"Now! Now! No, you are not keeping quiet. Now! Now!</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Il soldate va alla guerra<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mangia male, dorme in terra—"<br /></span> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</a></span></div></div> + +<p>The verses, known to every Italian, were sung out in a sing-song +fashion. The audience listened as one man—or as one child—the rhyme +chiming in every heart. They waited with excitement for the +One—Two—and Three! The last two words were always ripped out with a +tearing yell. I shall never forget the force of those syllables—E TRE! +But the dog made a poor show—He only gobbled the bread and was uneasy.</p> + +<p>This game lasted us a full hour: a full hour by the clock sat the whole +room in intense silence, watching the man and the dog.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Our friends told us the man was the bus-inspector—their inspector. But +they liked him. "Un brav' uomo! Un bravo uomo! Eh si!" Perhaps they were +a little uneasy, seeing him in his cups and hearing him yell so nakedly: +AND THREE!</p> + +<p>We talked rather sadly, wistfully. Young people, especially nice ones +like the driver, are too sad and serious these days. The little +conductor made big brown eyes at us, wistful too, and sad we were going.</p> + +<p>For in the morning they were driving back again to Sorgono, over the old +road, and we were going on, to Terranova, the port. But we promised to +come back<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</a></span> in the summer, when it was warmer. Then we should all meet +again.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps you will find us on the same course still. Who knows!" said the +driver sadly.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="VII" id="VII"></a>VII.</h2> + +<h3>TO TERRANOVA AND THE STEAMER.</h3> + + +<p>The morning was very clear and blue. We were up betimes. The old dame of +the inn very friendly this morning. We were going already! Oh, but we +hadn't stayed long in Nuoro. Didn't we like it?</p> + +<p>Yes, we like it. We would come back in the summer when it was warmer.</p> + +<p>Ah yes, she said, artists came in the summer. Yes, she agreed, Nuoro was +a nice place—<i>simpatico, molto simpatico</i>. And really it is. And really +she was an awfully nice, capable, human old woman: and I had thought her +a beldame when I saw her ironing.</p> + +<p>She gave us good coffee and milk and bread, and we went out into the +town. There was the real Monday morning atmosphere of an old, +same-as-ever provincial town: the vacant feeling of work resumed after +Sunday, rather reluctantly; nobody buying anything, nobody quite at +grips with anything. The doors of the old-fashioned shops stood open: in +Nuoro they<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</a></span> have hardly reached the stage of window-displays. One must +go inside, into the dark caves, to see what the goods are. Near the +doorways of the drapers' shops stood rolls of that fine scarlet cloth, +for the women's costumes. In a large tailor's window four women sat +sewing, tailoring, and looking out of the window with eyes still +Sunday-emancipate and mischievous. Detached men, some in the black and +white, stood at the street corners, as if obstinately avoiding the +current of work. Having had a day off, the salt taste of liberty still +lingering on their lips, they were not going to be dragged so easily +back into harness. I always sympathise with these rather sulky, forlorn +males who insist on making another day of it. It shows a spark of +spirit, still holding out against our over-harnessed world.</p> + +<p>There is nothing to see in Nuoro: which, to tell the truth, is always a +relief. Sights are an irritating bore. Thank heaven there isn't a bit of +Perugino or anything Pisan in the place: that I know of. Happy is the +town that has nothing to show. What a lot of stunts and affectations it +saves! Life is then life, not museum-stuffing. One could saunter along +the rather inert, narrow, Monday-morning street, and see the women +having a bit of a gossip, and see an old crone with a basket of bread on +her head, and see the unwilling<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</a></span> ones hanging back from work, and the +whole current of industry disinclined to flow. Life is life and things +are things. I am sick of gaping <i>things</i>, even Peruginos. I have had my +thrills from Carpaccio and Botticelli. But now I've had enough. But I +can always look at an old, grey-bearded peasant in his earthy white +drawers and his black waist-frill, wearing no coat or over-garment, but +just crooking along beside his little ox-wagon. I am sick of "things," +even Perugino.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The sight of the woman with the basket of bread reminded us that we +wanted some food. So we searched for bread. None, if you please. It was +Monday morning, eaten out. There would be bread at the forno, the oven. +Where was the oven? Up the road and down a passage. I thought we should +smell it. But no. We wandered back. Our friends had told us to take +tickets early, for perhaps the bus would be crowded. So we bought +yesterday's pastry and little cakes, and slices of native sausage. And +still no bread. I went and asked our old hostess.</p> + +<p>"There is no fresh bread. It hasn't come in yet," she said.</p> + +<p>"Never mind, give me stale."</p> + +<p>So she went and rummaged in a drawer.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Oh dear, Oh dear, the women have eaten it all! But perhaps over +there—" she pointed down the street—"they can give you some."</p> + +<p>They couldn't.</p> + +<p>I paid the bill—about twenty-eight francs, I think—and went out to +look for the bus. There it was. In a dark little hole they gave me the +long ticket-strips, first-class to Terranova. They cost some seventy +francs the two. The q-b was still vainly, aimlessly looking along the +street for bread.</p> + +<p>"Ready when you are," said our new driver rather snappily. He was a +pale, cross-looking young man with brown eyes and fair "ginger" hair. So +in we clambered, waved farewell to our old friends, whose bus was ready +to roll away in the opposite direction. As we bumped past the "piazza" I +saw Velveteens standing there, isolate, and still, apparently, scowling +with unabated irritation.</p> + +<p>I am sure he has money: why the first class, yesterday, otherwise. And +I'm sure <i>she</i> married him because he is a townsman with property.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Out we rolled, on our last Sardinian drive. The morning was of a +bell-like beauty, blue and very lovely. Below on the right stretched the +concave valley, tapestried with cultivation. Up into the morning light<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</a></span> +rose the high, humanless hills, with wild, treeless moor-slopes.</p> + +<p>But there was no glass in the left window of the <i>coupé</i>, and the wind +came howling in, cold enough. I stretched myself on the front seat, the +q-b screwed herself into a corner, and we watched the land flash by. How +well this new man drove! the long-nosed, freckled one with his gloomy +brown eyes. How cleverly he changed gear, so that the automobile mewed +and purred comfortably, like a live thing enjoying itself. And how dead +he was to the rest of the world, wrapped in his gloom like a young +bus-driving Hamlet. His answers to his mate were monosyllabic—or just +no answers at all. He was one of those responsible, capable, morose +souls, who do their work with silent perfection and look as if they were +driving along the brink of doom, say a word to them and they'll go over +the edge. But gentle <i>au fond</i>, of course. Fiction used to be fond of +them: a sort of ginger-haired, young, mechanic Mr. Rochester who has +even lost the Jane illusion.</p> + +<p>Perhaps it was not fair to watch him so closely from behind.</p> + +<p>His mate was a bit of a bounder, with one of those rakish military caps +whose soft tops cock sideways or backwards. He was in Italian khaki, +riding-breeches<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</a></span> and puttees. He smoked his cigarette bounderishly: but +at the same time, with peculiar gentleness, he handed one to the ginger +Hamlet. Hamlet accepted it, and his mate held him a light as the bus +swung on. They were like man and wife. The mate was the alert and +wide-eyed Jane Eyre whom the ginger Mr. Rochester was not going to spoil +in a hurry.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The landscape was different from yesterday's. As we dropped down the +shallow, winding road from Nuoro, quite quickly the moors seemed to +spread on either side, treeless, bushy, rocky, desert. How hot they must +be in summer! One knows from Grazia Deledda's books.</p> + +<p>A pony with a low trap was prancing unhappily in the road-side. We +slowed down and slid harmlessly past. Then again, on we whizzed down the +looped road, which turned back on itself as sharply as a snake that has +been wounded. Hamlet darted the bus at the curves; then softly padded +round like an angel: then off again for the next parabola.</p> + +<p>We came out into wide, rather desolate, moorland valley spaces, with low +rocks away to the left, and steep slopes, rocky-bushy, on the right. +Sometimes groups of black-and-white men were working in the forlorn +distances. A woman in the madder costume led a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[Pg 266]</a></span> panniered ass along the +wastes. The sun shone magnificently, already it was hotter here. The +landscape had quite changed. These slopes looked east and south to the +sea, they were sun-wild and sea-wild.</p> + +<p>The first stop was where a wild, rough lane came down the hill to our +road. At the corner stood a lonely house—and in the road-side the most +battered, life-weary old carriage I have ever seen. The jaunty mate +sorted out the post—the boy with the tattered-battered brown carriage +and brown pony signed the book as we all stood in the roadway. There was +a little wait for a man who was fetching up another parcel. The post-bag +and parcels from the tattered carriage were received and stowed and +signed for. We walked up and down in the sun to get warm. The landscape +was wild and open round about.</p> + +<p>Pip! goes Mr. Rochester, peremptorily, at the horn. Amazing how +obediently we scuffle in. Away goes the bus, rushing towards the sea. +Already one felt that peculiar glare in the half-way heavens, that +intensification of the light in the lower sky, which is caused by the +sea to sunward.</p> + +<p>Away in front three girls in brown costume are walking along the side of +the white high-road, going with panniers towards a village up a slight +incline. They hear us, turn round, and instantly go off their<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</a></span> heads, +exactly like chickens in the road. They fly towards us, crossing the +road, and swifter than any rabbits they scuttle, one after another, into +a deep side-track, like a deep ditch at right angles to the road. There, +as we roll past, they are all crouched, peering out at us fearfully, +like creatures from their hole. The bus mate salutes them with a shout, +and we roll on towards the village on the low summit.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>It is a small, stony, hen-scratched place of poor people. We roll on to +a standstill. There is a group of poor people. The women wear the +dark-brown costume, and again the bolero has changed shape. It is a +rather fantastic low corset, curiously shapen; and originally, +apparently, made of wonderful elaborate brocade. But look at it now.</p> + +<p>There is an altercation because a man wants to get into the bus with two +little black pigs, each of which is wrapped in a little sack, with its +face and ears appearing like a flower from a wrapped bouquet. He is told +that he must pay the fare for each pig as if it were a Christian. +<i>Cristo del mondo!</i> A pig, a little pig, and paid for as if it were a +Christian. He dangles the pig-bouquets, one from each hand, and the +little pigs open their black mouths and squeal with self-conscious +appreciation of the excitement they are causing.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[Pg 268]</a></span> <i>Dio benedetto!</i> it is +a chorus. But the bus mate is inexorable. Every animal, even if it were +a mouse, must be paid for and have a ticket as if it were a Christian. +The pig-master recoils stupified with indignation, a pig-bouquet under +each arm. "How much do you charge for the fleas you carry?" asks a +sarcastic youth.</p> + +<p>A woman sitting sewing a soldier's tunic into a little jacket for her +urchin, and thus beating the sword into a ploughshare, stitches +unconcernedly in the sun. Round-cheeked but rather slatternly damsels +giggle. The pig-master, speechless with fury, slings the pig-bouquets, +like two bottles one on either side the saddle of the ass whose halter +is held by a grinning but also malevolent girl: malevolent against +pig-prices, that is. The pigs, looking abroad from their new situation, +squeal the eternal pig-protest against an insufferable humanity.</p> + +<p>"Andiamo! Andiamo!" says ginger Mr. Rochester in his quiet but intense +voice. The bus-mate scrambles up and we charge once more into the strong +light to seaward.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>In we roll, into Orosei, a dilapidated, sun-smitten, god-forsaken little +town not far from the sea. We descend in piazza. There is a great, false +baroque façade to a church, up a wavering vast mass of steps: and at +the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[Pg 269]</a></span> side a wonderful jumble of roundnesses with a jumble of round +tiled roofs, peaked in the centre. It must have been some sort of +convent. But it is eminently what they call a "painter's bit"—that +pallid, big baroque face, at the top of the slow incline, and the very +curious dark building at the side of it, with its several dark-tiled +round roofs, like pointed hats, at varying altitudes. The whole space +has a strange Spanish look, neglected, arid, yet with a bigness and a +dilapidated dignity and a stoniness which carry one back to the Middle +Ages, when life was violent and Orosei was no doubt a port and a +considerable place. Probably it had bishops.</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<div class="figcenter"> +<a name="illus8" id="illus8"></a> +<img src="images/illus8.jpg" alt=""/> +</div> + +<h3>NUORO</h3> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>The sun came hot into the wide piazza; with its pallid heavy façade up +on the stony incline on one side, and arches and a dark great courtyard +and outer stair-ways of some unknown building away on the other, the +road entering down-hill from the inland, and dropping out below to the +sea-marshes, and with the impression that once some single power had had +the place in grip, had given this centre an architectural unity and +splendour, now lost and forgotten, Orosei was truly fascinating.</p> + +<p>But the inhabitants were churlish. We went into a sort of bar-place, +very primitive, and asked for bread.</p> + +<p>"Bread alone?" said the churl.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[Pg 270]</a></span></p> + +<p>"If you please."</p> + +<p>"There isn't any," he answered.</p> + +<p>"Oh—where can we get some then?"</p> + +<p>"You can't get any."</p> + +<p>"Really!"</p> + +<p>And we couldn't. People stood about glum, not friendly.</p> + +<p>There was a second great automobile, ready to set off for Tortolì, far +to the south, on the east coast. Mandas is the railway junction both for +Sorgono and Tortolì. The two buses stood near and communed. We prowled +about the dead, almost extinct town—or call it village. Then Mr. +Rochester began to pip his horn peremptorily, so we scuffled in.</p> + +<p>The post was stowed away. A native in black broad-cloth came running and +sweating, carrying an ox-blood suit-case, and said we must wait for his +brother-in-law, who was a dozen yards away. Ginger Mr. Rochester sat on +his driver's throne and glared in the direction whence the +brother-in-law must come. His brow knitted irritably, his long, sharp +nose did not promise much patience. He made the horn roar like a +sea-cow. But no brother-in-law.</p> + +<p>"I'm going to wait no longer," said he.</p> + +<p>"Oh, a minute, a minute! That won't do us any harm," expostulated his +mate. No answer from the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</a></span> long faced, long-nosed ginger Hamlet. He sat +statuesque, but with black eyes looking daggers down the still void +road.</p> + +<p>"<i>Eh va bene</i>", he murmured through closed lips, and leaned forward +grimly for the starting handle.</p> + +<p>"Patience—patience—patience a moment—why—" cried the mate.</p> + +<p>"Per l'amor' di Dio!" cried the black broad-cloth man, simply sizzling +and dancing in anguish on the road, round the suit-case, which stood in +the dust. "Don't go! God's love, don't start. He's got to catch the +boat. He's got to be in Rome tomorrow. He won't be a second. He's here, +he's here, he's here!"</p> + +<p>This startled the fate-fixed, sharp-nosed driver. He released the handle +and looked round, with dark and glowering eyes. No one in sight. The few +glum natives stood round unmoved. Thunder came into the gloomy dark eyes +of the Rochester. Absolutely nobody in sight. Click! went his face into +a look of almost seraphic peace, as he pulled off the brakes. We were on +an incline, and insidiously, oh most subtly the great bus started to +lean forwards and steal into motion.</p> + +<p>"Oh <i>ma che!</i>—what a will you've got!" cried the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</a></span> mate, clambering in +to the side of the now seraphic-looking Rochester.</p> + +<p>"Love of God—God!" yelled the broad-cloth, seeing the bus melt forwards +and gather momentum. He put his hands up as if to arrest it, and yelled +in a wild howl: "O Beppin'! Bepp<i>in</i>—O!"</p> + +<p>But in vain. Already we had left the little groups of onlookers behind. +We were rolling downwards out of the piazza. Broad-cloth had seized the +bag and was running beside us in agony. Out of the piazza we rolled, +Rochester had not put on the engines and we were just simply rolling +down the gentle incline by the will of God. Into the dark outlet-street +we melted, towards the still invisible sea.</p> + +<p>Suddenly a yell—"OO—ahh!!"</p> + +<p>"È qua! È qua! È qua! È qua!" gasped broad-cloth four times. "He's +here!" And then: "Beppin'—she's going, she's going!"</p> + +<p>Beppin' appeared, a middle-aged man also in black broad-cloth, with a +very scrubby chin and a bundle, running <i>towards</i> us on fat legs. He was +perspiring, but his face was expressionless and innocent-looking. With a +sardonic flicker of a grin, half of spite, half of relief, Rochester put +on the brakes again, and we stopped in the street. A woman tottered up +panting and holding her breast. Now for farewells.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Andiamo!" said Rochester curtly, looking over his shoulder and making +his fine nose curl with malice. And instantly he took off the brakes +again. The fat woman shoved Beppin' in, gasping farewells, the +brother-in-law handed in the ox-blood-red suit-case, tottering behind, +and the bus surged savagely out of Orosei.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Almost in a moment we had left the town on its slope, and there below us +was a river winding through marshy flats to the sea, to where small +white surf broke on a flat, isolated beach, a quarter of a mile away. +The river ran rapidly between stones and then between belts of high sere +reeds, high as a man. These tall reeds advanced almost into the slow, +horizontal sea, from which stood up a white glare of light, massive +light over the low Mediterranean.</p> + +<p>Quickly we came down to the river-level, and rolled over a bridge. +Before us, between us and the sea rose another hill, almost like a wall +with a flat top, running horizontal, perfectly flat, parallel with the +sea-edge, a sort of narrow long plateau. For a moment we were in the +wide scoop of the river-bed. Orosei stood on the bluff behind us.</p> + +<p>Away to the right the flat river-marshes with the thick dead reeds met +the flat and shining sea, river and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</a></span> sea were one water, the waves +rippled tiny and soft-foot into the stream. To the left there was great +loveliness. The bed of the river curved upwards and inland, and there +was cultivation: but particularly, there were noble almond trees in full +blossom. How beautiful they were, their pure, silvery pink gleaming so +nobly, like a transfiguration, tall and perfect in that strange cradled +river-bed parallel with the sea. Almond trees were in flower beneath +grey Orosei, almond trees came near the road, and we could see the hot +eyes of the individual blossoms, almond trees stood on the upward slope +before us. And they had flowered in such noble beauty there, in that +trough where the sun fell magnificent and the sea-glare whitened all the +air as with a sort of God-presence, they gleamed in their incandescent +sky-rosiness. One could hardly see their iron trunks, in this weird +valley.</p> + +<p>But already we had crossed, and were charging up the great road that was +cut straight, slant-wise along the side of the sea-hill, like a stairway +outside the side of the house. So the bus turned southward to run up +this stairway slant, to get to the top of the sea's long table-land. So, +we emerged: and there was the Mediterranean rippling against the black +rocks not so very far away below on our right. For, once on the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</a></span> long +table-land the road turned due north, a long white dead-straight road +running between strips of moorland, wild and bushy. The sea was in the +near distance, blue, blue, and beating with light. It seemed more light +than watery. And on the left was the wide trough of the valley, where +almond trees like clouds in a wind seemed to poise sky-rosy upon the +pale, sun-pale land, and beyond which Orosei clustered its lost grey +houses on the bluff. Oh wonderful Orosei with your almonds and your +reedy river, throbbing, throbbing with light and the sea's nearness, and +all so lost, in a world long gone by, lingering as legends linger on. It +is hard to believe that it is real. It seems so long since life left it +and memory transfigured it into pure glamour, lost away like a lost +pearl on the east Sardinian coast. Yet there it is, with a few grumpy +inhabitants who won't even give you a crust of bread. And probably there +is malaria—almost sure. And it would be hell to have to live there for +a month. Yet for a moment, that January morning, how wonderful, oh, the +timeless glamour of those Middle Ages when men were lordly and violent +and shadowed with death.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Timor mortis conturbat me."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>The road ran along by the sea, above the sea, swinging<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[Pg 276]</a></span> gently up and +down, and running on to a sea-encroaching hilly promontory in the +distance. There were no high lands. The valley was left behind, and +moors surrounded us, wild, desolate, uninhabited and uninhabitable moors +sweeping up gently on the left, and finishing where the land dropped low +and clifflike to the sea on the right. No life was now in sight: even no +ship upon the pale blue sea. The great globe of the sky was unblemished +and royal in its blueness and its ringing cerulean light. Over the moors +a great hawk hovered. Rocks cropped out. It was a savage, dark-bushed, +sky-exposed land, forsaken to the sea and the sun.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>We were alone in the <i>coupé</i>. The bus-mate had made one or two sets at +us, but he rather confused us. He was young—about twenty-two or three. +He was quite good-looking, with his rakish military cap and his +well-knitted figure in military clothes. But he had dark eyes that +seemed to ask too much, and his manner of approach was abrupt, +persistent, and disconcerting. Already he had asked us where we were +going, where we lived, whence we came, of what nationality we were, and +was I a painter. Already he knew so much. Further we rather fought shy +of him. We ate those pale Nuoro pastries—they were just flaky<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[Pg 277]</a></span> pastry, +good, but with nothing inside but a breath of air. And we gnawed slices +of very highly-flavoured Nuoro sausage. And we drank the tea. And we +were very hungry, for it was past noon, and we had eaten as good as +nothing. The sun was magnificent in heaven, we rushed at a great, +purring speed along that moorland road just above the sea.</p> + +<p>And then the bus-mate climbed in to share the coupé with us. He put his +dark, beseeching and yet persistent eyes on us, sat plumb in front of +us, his knees squared, and began to shout awkward questions in a strong +curious voice. Of course it was very difficult to hear, for the great +rushing bus made much noise. We had to try to yell in our Italian—and +he was as awkward as we were.</p> + +<p>However, although it said "Smoking Forbidden" he offered us both +cigarettes, and insisted we should smoke with him. Easiest to submit. He +tried to point us out features in the landscape: but there were none to +point, except that, where the hill ran to sea out of the moor, and +formed a cape, he said there was a house away under the cliffs where +coastguards lived. Nothing else.</p> + +<p>Then, however, he launched. He asked once more was I English and +was the q-b German. We said it was so. And then he started the +old story. Nations<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[Pg 278]</a></span> popped up and down again like Punch and Judy. +Italy—l'Italia—she had no quarrel with La Germania—never had +had—no—no, good friends the two nations. But once the war was started, +Italy had to come in. For why. Germany would beat France, occupy her +lands, march down and invade Italy. Best then join the war whilst the +enemy was only invading somebody else's territory.</p> + +<p>They are perfectly naïve about it. That's what I like. He went on to say +that he was a soldier: he had served eight years in the Italian cavalry. +Yes, he was a cavalryman, and had been all through the war. But he had +not therefore any quarrel with Germany. No—war was war, and it was +over. So let it be over.</p> + +<p>But France—<i>ma la Francia!</i> Here he sat forward on his seat, with his +face near ours, and his pleading-dog's eyes suddenly took a look of +quite irrational blazing rage. France! There wasn't a man in Italy who +wasn't dying to get at the throat of France. France! Let there be war, +and every Italian would leap to arms, even the old. Even the old—<i>anche +i vecchi</i>. Yes, there must be war—with France. It was coming: it was +bound to come. Every Italian was waiting for it. Waiting to fly at the +French throat. For why? Why? He had served two years on the French +front, and he knew why. Ah, the French! For arrogance, for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[Pg 279]</a></span> insolence, +Dio!—they were not to be borne. The French—they thought themselves +lords of the world—<i>signori del mondo!</i> Lords of the world, and masters +of the world. Yes. They thought themselves no less—and what are they? +Monkeys! Monkeys! Not better than monkeys. But let there be war, and +Italy would show them. Italy would give them <i>signori del mondo</i>! Italy +was pining for war—all, all, pining for war. With no one, with no one +but France. Ah, with no one—Italy loved everybody else—but France! +France!</p> + +<p>We let him shout it all out, till he was at the end of it. The passion +and energy of him was amazing. He was like one possessed. I could only +wonder. And wonder again. For it is curious what fearful passions these +pleading, wistful souls fall into when they feel they have been +insulted. It was evident he felt he had been insulted, and he went just +beside himself. But dear chap, he shouldn't speak so loudly for all +Italy—even the old. The bulk of Italian men are only too anxious to +beat their bayonets into cigarette-holders, and smoke the cigarette of +eternal and everlasting peace, to coincide at all with our friend. Yet +there he was—raging at me in the bus as we dashed along the coast.</p> + +<p>And then, after a space of silence, he became sad<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[Pg 280]</a></span> again, wistful, and +looked at us once more with those pleading brown eyes, beseeching, +beseeching—he knew not what: and I'm sure I didn't know. Perhaps what +he really wants is to be back on a horse in a cavalry regiment: even at +war.</p> + +<p>But no, it comes out, what he thinks he wants.</p> + +<p>When are we going to London? And are there many motor-cars in +England?—many, many? In America too? Do they want men in America? I say +no, they have unemployment out there: they are going to stop immigration +in April: or at least cut it down. Why? he asks sharply. Because they +have their own unemployment problem. And the q-b quotes how many +millions of Europeans want to emigrate to the United States. His eye +becomes gloomy. Are all nations of Europe going to be forbidden? he +asks. Yes—and already the Italian Government will give no more +passports for America—to emigrants. No passports? then you can't go? +You can't go, say I.</p> + +<p>By this time his hot-souled eagerness and his hot, beseeching eyes have +touched the q-b. She asks him what he wants. And from his gloomy face it +comes out in a rap. "<i>Andare fuori dell'Italia.</i>" To go out of Italy. To +go out—away—to go away—to go away. It has become a craving, a +neurasthenia with them.</p> + +<p>Where is his home? His home is at a village a few<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[Pg 281]</a></span> miles ahead—here on +this coast. We are coming to it soon. There is his home. And a few miles +inland from the village he also has a property: he also has land. But he +doesn't want to work it. He doesn't want it. In fact he won't bother +with it. He hates the land, he detests looking after vines. He can't +even bring himself to try any more.</p> + +<p>What does he want then?</p> + +<p>He wants to leave Italy, to go abroad—as a chauffeur. Again the long +beseeching look, as of a distraught, pleading animal. He would prefer to +be the chauffeur of a gentleman. But he would drive a bus, he would do +anything—in England.</p> + +<p>Now he has launched it. Yes, I say, but in England also we have more men +than jobs. Still he looks at me with his beseeching eyes—so desperate +too—and so young—and so full of energy—and so longing to <i>devote</i> +himself—to devote himself: or else to go off in an unreasonable +paroxysm against the French. To my horror I feel he is believing in my +goodness of heart. And as for motor-cars, it is all I can do to own a +pair of boots, so how am I to set about employing a <i>chauffeur</i>?</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>We have all gone quiet again. So at last he climbs back and takes his +seat with the driver once more. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[Pg 282]</a></span> road is still straight, swinging on +through the moorland strip by the sea. And he leans to the silent, +nerve-tense Mr. Rochester, pleading again. And at length Mr. Rochester +edges aside, and lets him take the driving wheel. And so now we are all +in the hands of our friend the bus-mate. He drives—not very well. It is +evident he is learning. The bus can't quite keep in the grooves of this +wild bare road. And he shuts off when we slip down a hill—and there is +a great muddle on the upslope when he tries to change gear. But Mr. +Rochester sits squeezed and silently attentive in his corner. He puts +out his hand and swings the levers. There is no fear that he will let +anything go wrong. I would trust him to drive me down the bottomless pit +and up the other side. But still the beseeching mate holds the steering +wheel. And on we rush, rather uncertainly and hesitatingly now. And thus +we come to the bottom of a hill where the road gives a sudden curve. My +heart rises an inch in my breast. I know he can't do it. And he can't, +oh Lord—but the quiet hand of the freckled Rochester takes the wheel, +we swerve on. And the bus-mate gives up, and the nerve-silent driver +resumes control.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>But the bus-mate now feels at home with us. He clambers back into the +coupé, and when it is too<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[Pg 283]</a></span> painfully noisy to talk, he simply sits and +looks at us with brown, pleading eyes. Miles and miles and miles goes +this coast road, and never a village. Once or twice a sort of lonely +watch-house and soldiers lying about by the road. But never a halt. +Everywhere moorland and desert, uninhabited.</p> + +<p>And we are faint with fatigue and hunger and this relentless travelling. +When, oh when shall we come to Siniscola, where we are due to eat our +midday meal? Oh yes, says the mate. There is an inn at Siniscola where +we can eat what we like. Siniscola—Siniscola! We feel we must get down, +we must eat, it is past one o'clock and the glaring light and the +rushing loneliness are still about us.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>But it is behind the hill in front. We see the hill? Yes. Behind it is +Siniscola. And down there on the beach are the Bagni di Siniscola, where +many forestieri, strangers, come in the summer. Therefore we set high +hopes on Siniscola. From the town to the sea, two miles, the bathers +ride on asses. Sweet place. And it is coming near—really near. There +are stone-fenced fields—even stretches of moor fenced off. There are +vegetables in a little field with a stone wall—there is a strange white +track through the moor to a forsaken sea-coast. We are near.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[Pg 284]</a></span></p> + +<p>Over the brow of the low hill—and there it is, a grey huddle of a +village with two towers. There it is, we are there. Over the cobbles we +bump, and pull up at the side of the street. This is Siniscola, and here +we eat.</p> + +<p>We drop out of the weary bus. The mate asks a man to show us the +inn—the man says he won't, muttering. So a boy is deputed—and he +consents. This is the welcome.</p> + +<p>And I can't say much for Siniscola. It is just a narrow, crude, stony +place, hot in the sun, cold in the shade. In a minute or two we were at +the inn, where a fat, young man was just dismounting from his brown pony +and fastening it to a ring beside the door.</p> + +<p>The inn did not look promising—the usual cold room opening gloomily on +the gloomy street. The usual long table, with this time a foully +blotched table-cloth. And two young peasant madams in charge, in the +brown costume, rather sordid, and with folded white cloths on their +heads. The younger was in attendance. She was a full-bosomed young +hussy, and would be very queenly and cocky. She held her nose in the +air, and seemed ready to jibe at any order. It takes one some time to +get used to this cocky, assertive behaviour of the young damsels, the +who'll-tread-on-the-tail-of-my-skirt bearing of the hussies. But it<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[Pg 285]</a></span> is +partly a sort of crude defensiveness and shyness, partly it is barbaric +<i>méfiance</i> or mistrust, and partly, without doubt, it is a tradition +with Sardinian women that they must hold their own and be ready to hit +first. This young sludge-queen was all hit. She flounced her posterior +round the table, planking down the lumps of bread on the foul cloth with +an air of take-it-as-a-condescension-that-I-wait-on-you, a subdued grin +lurking somewhere on her face. It is not meant to be offensive: yet it +is so. Truly, it is just uncouthness. But when one is tired and +hungry....</p> + +<p>We were not the only feeders. There was the man off the pony, and a sort +of workman or porter or dazio official with him—and a smart young man: +and later our Hamlet driver. Bit by bit the young damsel planked down +bread, plates, spoons, glasses, bottles of black wine, whilst we sat at +the dirty table in uncouth constraint and looked at the hideous portrait +of His reigning Majesty of Italy. And at length came the inevitable +soup. And with it the sucking chorus. The little <i>maialino</i> at Mandas +had been a good one. But the smart young man in the country beat him. As +water clutters and slavers down a choky gutter, so did his soup travel +upwards into his mouth with one long sucking stream of noise, +intensified as the bits of cabbage, etc., found their way through the +orifice.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[Pg 286]</a></span></p> + +<p>They did all the talking—the young men. They addressed the sludge-queen +curtly and disrespectfully, as if to say: "What's she up to?" Her airs +were finely thrown away. Still she showed off. What else was there to +eat? There was the meat that had been boiled for the soup. We knew what +that meant. I had as lief eat the foot of an old worsted stocking. +Nothing else, you sludge queen? No, what do you want anything else +for?—Beefsteak—what's the good of asking for beefsteak or any other +steak on a Monday. Go to the butcher's and see for yourself.</p> + +<p>The Hamlet, the pony rider, and the porter had the faded and tired +chunks of boiled meat. The smart young man ordered eggs in padella—two +eggs fried with a little butter. We asked for the same. The smart young +man got his first—and of course they were warm and liquid. So he fell +upon them with a fork, and once he had got hold of one end of the eggs +he just sucked them up in a prolonged and violent suck, like a long, +thin, ropy drink being sucked upwards from the little pan. It was a +genuine exhibition. Then he fell upon the bread with loud chews.</p> + +<p>What else was there? A miserable little common orange. So much for the +dinner. Was there cheese? No. But the sludge-queen—they are quite +good-natured really—held a conversation in dialect with the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[Pg 287]</a></span> young men, +which I did not try to follow. Our pensive driver translated that there +<i>was</i> cheese, but it wasn't good, so they wouldn't offer it us. And the +pony man interpolated that they didn't like to offer us anything that +was not of the best. He said it in all sincerity—after such a meal. +This roused my curiosity, so I asked for the cheese whether or not. And +it wasn't so bad after all.</p> + +<p>This meal cost fifteen francs, for the pair of us.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>We made our way back to the bus, through the uncouth men who stood +about. To tell the truth, strangers are not popular nowadays—not +anywhere. Everybody has a grudge against them at first sight. This +grudge may or may not wear off on acquaintance.</p> + +<p>The afternoon had become hot—hot as an English June. And we had various +other passengers—for one a dark-eyed, long-nosed priest who showed his +teeth when he talked. There was not much room in the coupé, so the goods +were stowed upon the little rack.</p> + +<p>With the strength of the sun, and the six or seven people in it, the +coupé became stifling. The q-b opened her window. But the priest, one of +the loudtalking sort, said that a draught was harmful, very harmful, so +he put it up again. He was one of the gregarious sort, a loud talker, +nervy really, very familiar with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[Pg 288]</a></span> all the passengers. And everything did +one harm—<i>fa male, fa male</i>. A draught <i>fa male, fa molto male</i>. <i>Non è +vero?</i> this to all the men from Siniscola. And they all said Yes—yes.</p> + +<p>The bus-mate clambered into the <i>coupé</i>, to take the tickets of the +second-class passengers in the rotondo, through the little wicket. There +was great squeezing and shouting and reckoning change. And then we +stopped at a halt, and he dashed down with the post and the priest got +down for a drink with the other men. The Hamlet driver sat stiff in his +seat. He pipped the horn. He pipped again, with decision. Men came +clambering in. But it looked as if the offensive priest would be left +behind. The bus started venomously, the priest came running, his gown +flapping, wiping his lips.</p> + +<p>He dropped into his seat with a cackling laugh, showing his long teeth. +And he said that it was as well to take a drink, to fortify the stomach. +To travel with the stomach uneasy did one harm: <i>fa male, fa male—non +è vero?</i> Chorus of "yes."</p> + +<p>The bus-mate resumed his taking the tickets through the little wicket, +thrusting his rear amongst us. As he stood like this, down fell his +sheepskin-lined military overcoat on the q-b's head. He was filled with +grief. He folded it and placed it on the seat, as a sort of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[Pg 289]</a></span> cushion for +her, oh so gently! And how he would love to devote himself to a master +and mistress.</p> + +<p>He sat beside me, facing the q-b, and offered us an acid drop. We took +the acid drop. He smiled with zealous yearning at the q-b, and resumed +his conversations. Then he offered us cigarettes—insisted on our taking +cigarettes.</p> + +<p>The priest with the long teeth looked sideways at the q-b, seeing her +smoking. Then he fished out a long cigar, bit it, and spat. He was +offered a cigarette.—But no, cigarettes were harmful: <i>fanno male</i>. The +paper was bad for the health: oh, very bad. A pipe or a cigar. So he lit +his long cigar and spat large spits on the floor, continually.</p> + +<p>Beside me sat a big, bright-eyed, rather good-looking but foolish man. +Hearing me speak to the q-b, he said in confidence to the priest: "Here +are two Germans—eh? Look at them. The woman smoking. These are a couple +of those that were interned here. Sardinia can do without them now."</p> + +<p>Germans in Italy at the outbreak of the war were interned in Sardinia, +and as far as one hears, they were left very free and happy, and treated +very well, the Sardinians having been generous as all proud people are. +But now our bright-eyed fool made a great titter through the bus: quite +unaware that we understood.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[Pg 290]</a></span> He said nothing offensive: but that sort of +tittering exultation of common people who think they have you at a +disadvantage annoyed me. However, I kept still to hear what they would +say. But it was only trivialities about the Germans having nearly all +gone now, their being free to travel, their coming back to Sardinia +because they liked it better than Germany. Oh yes—they all wanted to +come back. They all wanted to come back to Sardinia. Oh yes, they knew +where they were well off. They knew their own advantage. Sardinia was +this, that, and the other of advantageousness, and the Sardi were decent +people. It is just as well to put in a word on one's own behalf +occasionally. As for La Germania—she was down, down: bassa. What did +one pay for bread in Germany? Five francs a kilo, my boy.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The bus stopped again, and they trooped out into the hot sun. The priest +scuffled round the corner this time. Not to go round the corner was no +doubt harmful. We waited. A frown came between the bus Hamlet's brows. +He looked nerve-worn and tired. It was about three o'clock. We had to +wait for a man from a village, with the post. And he did not appear.</p> + +<p>"I am going! I won't wait," said the driver.</p> + +<p>"Wait—wait a minute," said the mate, pouring oil.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[Pg 291]</a></span> And he went round to +look. But suddenly the bus started, with a vicious lurch. The mate came +flying and hung on to the footboard. He had really almost been left. The +driver glanced round sardonically to see if he were there. The bus flew +on. The mate shook his head in deprecation.</p> + +<p>"He's a bit <i>nervoso</i>, the driver," said the q-b. "A bit out of temper!"</p> + +<p>"Ah, poor chap!" said the good-looking young mate, leaning forward and +making such beseeching eyes of hot tolerance. "One has to be sorry for +him. Persons like him, they suffer so much from themselves, how should +one be angry with them! <i>Poverino.</i> We must have sympathy."</p> + +<p>Never was such a language of sympathy as the Italian. <i>Poverino! +Poverino!</i> They are never happy unless they are sympathising pityingly +with somebody. And I rather felt that I was thrown in with the +<i>poverini</i> who had to be pitied for being <i>nervosi</i>. Which did not +improve my temper.</p> + +<p>However, the bus-mate suddenly sat on the opposite seat between the +priest and the q-b. He turned over his official note book, and began to +write on the back cover very carefully, in the flourishing Italian hand. +Then he tore off what he had written, and with a very bright and zealous +look he handed me the paper<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[Pg 292]</a></span> saying: "You will find me a post in +England, when you go in the summer? You will find me a place in London +as a chauffeur—!"</p> + +<p>"If I can," said I. "But it is not easy."</p> + +<p>He nodded his head at me with the most complete bright confidence, quite +sure now that he had settled his case perfectly.</p> + +<p>On the paper he had written his name and his address, and if anyone +would like him as chauffeur they have only to say so. On the back of the +scrap of paper the inevitable goodwill: <i>Auguri infiniti e buon +Viaggio</i>. Infinite good wishes and a good journey.</p> + +<p>I folded the paper and put it in my waistcoat pocket, feeling a trifle +disconcerted by my new responsibility. He was such a dear fellow and +such bright trustful eyes.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>This much achieved, there was a moment of silence. And the bus-mate +turned to take a ticket of a fat, comfortable man who had got in at the +last stop. There was a bit of flying conversation.</p> + +<p>"Where are they from?" asked the good-looking stupid man next to me, +inclining his head in our direction.</p> + +<p>"Londra," said our friend, with stern satisfaction: and they have said +so often to one another that London<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[Pg 293]</a></span> is the greatest city in the world, +that now the very word Londra conveys it all. You should have seen the +blank little-boy look come over the face of the big handsome fellow on +hearing that we were citizens of the greatest city in the world.</p> + +<p>"And they understand Italian?" he asked, rather nipped.</p> + +<p>"Sicuro!" said our friend scornfully. "How shouldn't they?"</p> + +<p>"Ah!" My large neighbour left his mouth open for a few moments. And then +another sort of smile came on to his face. He began to peep at us +sideways from his brown eyes, brightly, and was henceforth itching to +get into conversation with the citizens of the world's mistress-city. +His look of semi-impudence was quite gone, replaced by a look of +ingratiating admiration.</p> + +<p>Now I ask you, is this to be borne? Here I sit, and he talks +half-impudently and patronisingly about me. And here I sit, and he is +glegging at me as if he saw signs of an aureole under my grey hat. All +in ten minutes. And just because, instead of <i>la Germania</i> I turn out to +be <i>l'Inghilterra</i>. I might as well be a place on a map, or a piece of +goods with a trade-mark. So little perception of the actual me! so much +going by labels! I now could have kicked him harder. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[Pg 294]</a></span> would have liked +to say I was ten times German, to see the fool change his smirk again.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The priest now chimed up, that he had been to America. He had been to +America and hence he dreaded not the crossing from Terranuova di +Sardegna to Cività Vecchia. For he had crossed the great Atlantic.</p> + +<p>Apparently, however, the natives had all heard this song of the raven +before, so he spat largely on the floor. Whereupon the new fat neighbour +asked him was it true that the Catholic Church was now becoming the one +Church in the United States? And the priest said there was no doubt +about it.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The hot afternoon wore on. The coast was rather more inhabited, but we +saw practically no villages. The view was rather desolate. From time to +time we stopped at a sordid-looking canteen house. From time to time we +passed natives riding on their ponies, and sometimes there was an +equestrian exhibition as the rough, strong little beasts reared and +travelled rapidly backwards, away from the horrors of our great +automobile. But the male riders sat heavy and unshakeable, with +Sardinian male force. Everybody in the bus laughed, and we passed, +looking back to see<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[Pg 295]</a></span> the pony still corkscrewing, but in vain, in the +middle of the lonely, grass-bordered high-road.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The bus-mate climbed in and out, coming in to sit near us. He was like a +dove which has at last found an olive bough to nest in. And we were the +olive bough in this world of waste waters. Alas, I felt a broken reed. +But he sat so serenely near us, now, like a dog that has found a master.</p> + +<p>The afternoon was declining, the bus pelted on at a great rate. Ahead we +saw the big lump of the island of Tavolara, a magnificient mass of rock +which fascinated me by its splendid, weighty form. It looks like a +headland, for it apparently touches the land. There it rests at the +sea's edge, in this lost afternoon world. Strange how this coast-country +does not belong to our present-day world. As we rushed along we saw +steamers, two steamers, steering south, and one sailing ship coming from +Italy. And instantly, the steamers seemed like our own familiar world. +But still this coast-country was forsaken, forgotten, not included. It +just is not included.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>How tired one gets of these long, long rides! It seemed we should never +come up to Tavolara. But we did. We came right near to it, and saw the +beach<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[Pg 296]</a></span> with the waves rippling undisturbed, saw the narrow waters +between the rock-lump and the beach. For now the road was down at +sea-level. And we were not very far from Terranova. Yet all seemed still +forsaken, outside of the world's life.</p> + +<p>The sun was going down, very red and strong, away inland. In the bus all +were silent, subsiding into the pale travel-sleep. We charged along the +flat road, down on a plain now. And dusk was gathering heavily over the +land.</p> + +<p>We saw the high-road curve flat upon the plain. It was the harbour head. +We saw a magic, land-locked harbour, with masts and dark land encircling +a glowing basin. We even saw a steamer lying at the end of a long, thin +bank of land, in the shallow, shining, wide harbour, as if wrecked +there. And this was our steamer. But no, it looked in the powerful glow +of the sunset like some lonely steamer laid up in some land-locked bay +away at Spitzbergen, towards the North Pole: a solemn, mysterious, +blue-landed bay, lost, lost to mankind.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Our bus-mate came and told us we were to sit in the bus till the +post-work was done, then we should be driven to the hotel where we could +eat, and then he would accompany us on the town omnibus to the boat.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[Pg 297]</a></span> We +need not be on board till eight o'clock: and now it was something after +five. So we sat still while the bus rushed and the road curved and the +view of the weird, land-locked harbour changed, though the bare masts of +ships in a bunch still pricked the upper glow, and the steamer lay away +out, as if wrecked on a sand-bank, and dark, mysterious land with bunchy +hills circled round, dark blue and wintry in a golden after-light, while +the great, shallow-seeming bay of water shone like a mirror.</p> + +<p>In we charged, past a railway, along the flat darkening road into a flat +God-lost town of dark houses, on the marshy bay-head. It felt more like +a settlement than a town. But it was Terranova-Pausanias. And after +bumping and rattling down a sombre uncouth, barren-seeming street, we +came up with a jerk at a doorway—which was the post-office. Urchins, +mudlarks, were screaming for the luggage. Everybody got out and set off +towards the sea, the urchins carrying luggage. We sat still.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Till I couldn't bear it. I did not want to stay in the automobile +another moment, and I did not, I did not want to be accompanied by our +new-found friend to the steamer. So I burst out, and the q-b followed. +She too was relieved to escape the new attachment,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[Pg 298]</a></span> though she had a +great <i>tendre</i> for him. But in the end one runs away from one's +<i>tendres</i> much harder and more precipitately than from one's <i>durs</i>.</p> + +<p>The mudlarking urchins fell upon us. Had we any more luggage—were we +going to the steamer? I asked how one went to the steamer—did one walk? +I thought perhaps it would be necessary to row out. You go on foot, or +in a carriage, or in an aeroplane, said an impudent brat. How far? Ten +minutes. Could one go on board at once? Yes, certainly.</p> + +<p>So, in spite of the q-b's protests, I handed the sack to a wicked +urchin, to be led. She wanted us to go alone—but I did not know the +way, and am wary of stumbling into entanglements in these parts.</p> + +<p>I told the bus-Hamlet, who was abstract with nerve fatigue, please to +tell his comrade that I would not forget the commission: and I tapped my +waistcoat pocket, where the paper lay over my heart. He briefly +promised—and we escaped. We escaped any further friendship.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>I bade the mud-lark lead me to the telegraph office: which of course was +quite remote from the post-office. Shouldering the sack, and clamouring +for the kitchenino which the q-b stuck to, he marched forward. By his +height he was ten years old: by his face with its<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[Pg 299]</a></span> evil mud-lark pallor +and good-looks, he was forty. He wore a cut-down soldier's tunic which +came nearly to his knees, was barefoot, and sprightly with that alert +mudlarking quickness which has its advantages.</p> + +<p>So we went down a passage and climbed a stair and came to an office +where one would expect to register births and deaths. But the urchin +said it was the telegraph-office. No sign of life. Peering through the +wicket I saw a fat individual seated writing in the distance. Feeble +lights relieved the big, barren, official spaces—I wonder the fat +official wasn't afraid to be up here alone.</p> + +<p>He made no move. I banged the shutter and demanded a telegraph blank. +His shoulders went up to his ears, and he plainly intimated his +intention to let us wait. But I said loudly to the urchin: "Is <i>that</i> +the telegraph official?" and the urchin said: "Si signore"—so the fat +individual had to come.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>After which considerable delay, we set off again. The bus, thank heaven, +had gone, the savage dark street was empty of friends. We turned away to +the harbour front. It was dark now. I saw a railway near at hand—a +bunch of dark masts—the steamer showing a few lights, far down at the +tip of a long spit of land, remote in mid-harbour. And so off we<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[Pg 300]</a></span> went, +the barefoot urchin twinkling a few yards ahead, on the road that +followed the spit of land. The spit was wide enough to carry this road, +and the railway. On the right was a silent house apparently built on +piles in the harbour. Away far down in front leaned our glimmering +steamer, and a little train was shunting trucks among the low sheds +beside it. Night had fallen, and the great stars flashed. Orion was in +the air, and his dog-star after him. We followed on down the dark bar +between the silent, lustrous water. The harbour was smooth as glass, and +gleaming like a mirror. Hills came round encircling it entirely—dark +land ridging up and lying away out, even to seaward. One was not sure +which was exactly seaward. The dark encircling of the land seemed +stealthy, the hills had a remoteness, guarding the waters in the +silence. Perhaps the great mass away beyond was Tavolara again. It +seemed like some lumpish berg guarding an arctic, locked-up bay where +ships lay dead.</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<div class="figcenter"> +<a name="illus9" id="illus9"></a> +<img src="images/illus9.jpg" alt=""/> +</div> + +<h3>TERRANOVA</h3> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p>On and on we followed the urchin, till the town was left behind, until +it also twinkled a few meagre lights out of its low, confused blackness +at the bay-head, across the waters. We lad left the ship-masts and the +settlement. The urchin padded on, only turning now and again and +extending a thin, eager hand toward the kitchenino. Especially when some +men<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[Pg 301]</a></span> were advancing down the railway he wanted it: the q-b's carrying +it was a slur on his prowess. So the kitchenino was relinquished, and +the lark strode on satisfied.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Till at last we came to the low sheds that squatted between the steamer +and the railway-end. The lark led me into one, where a red-cap was +writing. The cap let me wait some minutes before informing me that this +was the goods office—the ticket office was further on. The lark flew at +him and said "Then you've changed it, have you?" And he led me on to +another shed, which was just going to shut up. Here they finally had the +condescension to give me two tickets—a hundred and fifty francs the +two. So we followed the lark who strode like Scipio Africanus up the +gangway with the sack.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>It was quite a small ship. The steward put me in number one cabin—the +q-b in number seven. Each cabin had four berths. Consequently man and +woman must separate rigorously on this ship. Here was a blow for the +q-b, who knows what Italian female fellow-passengers can be. However, +there we were. All the cabins were down below, and all, for some +mysterious reason, inside—no portholes outside. It was hot<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[Pg 302]</a></span> and close +down below already. I pitched the sack on my berth, and there stood the +lark on the red carpet at the door.</p> + +<p>I gave him three francs. He looked at it as if it were my death-warrant. +He peered at the paper in the light of the lamp. Then he extended his +arm with a gesture of superb insolence, flinging me back my gold without +a word.</p> + +<p>"How!" said I. "Three francs are quite enough."</p> + +<p>"Three francs—two kilometers—and three pieces of luggage! No signore. +No! Five francs. Cinque franchi!" And averting his pallid, old +mudlarking face, and flinging his hand out at me, he stood the image of +indignant repudiation. And truly, he was no taller than my upper +waistcoat pocket. The brat! The brat! He was such an actor, and so +impudent, that I wavered between wonder and amusement and a great +inclination to kick him up the steps. I decided not to waste my energy +being angry.</p> + +<p>"What a beastly little boy! What a horrid little boy! What a <i>horrid</i> +little boy! Really—a little thief. A little swindler!" I mused aloud.</p> + +<p>"Swindler!" he quavered after me. And he was beaten. "Swindler" doubled +him up: that and the quiet mildness of my tone of invocation. Now he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[Pg 303]</a></span> +would have gone with his three francs. And now, in final contempt, I +gave him the other two.</p> + +<p>He disappeared like a streak of lightning up the gangway, terrified lest +the steward should come and catch him at his tricks. For later on I saw +the steward send other larks flying for demanding more than one-fifty. +The brat.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The question was now the cabin: for the q-b simply refused to entertain +the idea of sharing a cabin with three Italian women, who would all be +sick simply for the fuss of it, though the sea was smooth as glass. We +hunted up the steward. He said all the first-class cabins had four +berths—the second had three, but much smaller. How that was possible I +don't know. However, if no one came, he would give us a cabin to +ourselves.</p> + +<p>The ship was clean and civilised, though very poky. And there we were.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>We went on deck. Would we eat on board, asked another person. No, we +wouldn't. We went out to a fourth little shed, which was a refreshment +stall, and bought bread and sardines and chocolate and apples. Then we +went on the upper deck to make our meal. In a sheltered place I lit the +spirit lamp, and put on<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[Pg 304]</a></span> water to boil. The water we had taken from the +cabin. Then we sat down alone in the darkness, on a seat which had its +back against the deck cabins, now appropriated by the staff. A thin, +cold wind was travelling. We wrapped the one plaid round us both and +snugged together, waiting for the tea to boil. I could just see the +point of the spirit-flame licking up, from where we sat.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The stars were marvellous in the soundless sky, so big, that one could +see them hanging orb-like and alone in their own space, yet all the +myriads. Particularly bright the evening-star. And he hung flashing in +the lower night with a power that made me hold my breath. Grand and +powerful he sent out his flashes, so sparkling that he seemed more +intense than any sun or moon. And from the dark, uprising land he sent +his way of light to us across the water, a marvellous star-road. So all +above us the stars soared and pulsed, over that silent, night-dark, +land-locked harbour.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>After a long time the water boiled, and we drank our hot tea and ate our +sardines and bread and bits of remaining Nuoro sausage, sitting there +alone in the intense starry darkness of that upper deck. I said<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[Pg 305]</a></span> alone: +but no, two ghoulish ship's cats came howling at us for the bits. And +even when everything was eaten, and the sardine-tin thrown in the sea, +still they circled and prowled and howled.</p> + +<p>We sat on, resting under the magnificent deep heavens, wrapped together +in the old shepherd's shawl for which I have blessed so often a Scottish +friend, half sheltered from the cold night wind, and recovering somewhat +from the sixty miles bus-ride we had done that day.</p> + +<p>As yet there was nobody on the ship—we were the very first, at least in +the first class. Above, all was silent and deserted. Below, all was +lit-up and deserted. But it was a little ship, with accommodation for +some thirty first-class and forty second-class passengers.</p> + +<p>In the low deck forward stood two rows of cattle—eighteen cattle. They +stood tied up side by side, and quite motionless, as if stupefied. Only +two had lain down. The rest stood motionless, with tails dropped and +heads dropped, as if drugged or gone insensible. These cattle on the +ship fascinated the q-b. She insisted on going down to them, and +examining them minutely. But there they were—stiff almost as Noah's Ark +cows. What she could not understand was that they neither cried nor +struggled. Motionless—terribly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[Pg 306]</a></span> motionless. In her idea cattle are wild +and indomitable creatures. She will not realise the horrid strength of +passivity and inertia which is almost the preponderant force in +domesticated creatures, men and beast alike. There are fowls too in +various coops—flappy and agitated these.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>At last, at about half past seven the train from the island arrived, and +the people surged out in a mass. We stood hanging over the end of the +upper deck, looking down. On they poured, in a thick mass, up the +gangway, with all conceivable sorts of luggage: bundles, embroidered +carry-alls, bags, saddle-bags—the q-b lamenting she had not bought +one—a sudden surging mass of people and goods. There are soldiers +too—but these are lined upon the bit of a quay, to wait.</p> + +<p>Our interest is to see whether there will be any more first-class +passengers. Coming up the wide board which serves as gangway each +individual hands a ticket to the man at the top, and is shooed away to +his own region—usually second class. There are three sorts of +tickets—green first-class, white second, and pink third. The +second-class passengers go aft, the third class go forward, along the +passage past our cabins, into the steerage. And so we watch and watch +the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[Pg 307]</a></span> excited people come on board and divide. Nearly all are +second-class—and a great many are women. We have seen a few first-class +men. But as yet no women. And every hat with ospreys gives the q-b a +qualm.</p> + +<p>For a long time we are safe. The women flood to the second-class. One +who is third, begs and beseeches to go with her friends in the second. I +am glad to say without success. And then, alas, an elderly man with a +daughter, first-class. They are very respectable and pleasant looking. +But the q-b wails: "I'm sure she will be sick."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Towards the end come three convicts, chained together. They wear the +brownish striped homespun, and do not look evil. They seem to be +laughing together, not at all in distress. The two young soldiers who +guard them, and who have guns, look nervous. So the convicts go forward +to the steerage, past our cabins.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>At last the soldiers are straightened up, and turned on board. There +almost at once they start making a tent: drawing a huge tarpaulin over a +cross rope in the mid-deck below us, between the first and second class +regions. The great tarpaulin is pulled down well on either side and +fastened down, and it makes a big<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[Pg 308]</a></span> dark tent. The soldiers creep in and +place their bundles.</p> + +<p>And now it is the soldiers who fascinate the q-b. She hangs over the bar +above, and peers in. The soldiers arrange themselves in two rows. They +will sleep with their heads on their bundles on either side of the tent, +the two rows of feet coming together inwards. But first they must eat, +for it is eight o'clock and more.</p> + +<p>Out come their suppers: a whole roast fowl, hunks of kid, legs of lamb, +huge breads. The fowl is dismembered with a jack-knife in a twinkling, +and shared. Everything among the soldiers is shared. There they sit in +their pent-house with its open ends, crowded together and happy, chewing +with all their might and clapping one another on the shoulder lovingly, +and taking swigs at the wine bottles. We envy them their good food.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>At last all are on board—the omnibus has driven up from town and gone +back. A last young lout dashes up in a carriage and scuffles aboard. The +crew begins to run about. The quay-porters have trotted on board with +the last bales and packages—all is stowed safely. The steamer hoots and +hoots. Two men and a girl kiss their friends all round and get off the +ship. The night re-echoes the steamer's hoots. The sheds<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[Pg 309]</a></span> have gone all +dark. Far off the town twinkles very sparsely. All is night-deserted. +And so the gangway is hauled up, and the rope hawsers quickly wound in. +We are drifting away from the quay side. The few watchers wave their +white handkerchiefs, standing diminutive and forlorn on the dark little +quay, in the heart of the dark, deserted harbour. One woman cries and +waves and weeps. A man makes exaggerated flag-wagging signals with his +white handky, and feels important. We drift—and the engines begin to +beat. We are moving in the land-locked harbour.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Everybody watches. The commander and the crew shout orders. And so, very +slowly, and without any fuss at all, like a man wheeling a barrow out of +a yard gate, we throb very slowly out of the harbour, past one point, +then past another, away from the encircling hills, away from the great +lump of Tavolara which is to southward, away from the outreaching land +to the north, and over the edge of the open sea.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>And now to try for a cabin to ourselves. I approach the steward. Yes, he +says, he has it in mind. But there are eighty second-class passengers, +in an accommodation space for forty. The transit-controller is now +considering it. Most probably he will transfer<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">[Pg 310]</a></span> some second-class women +to the vacant first-class cabins. If he does not do so, then the steward +will accommodate us.</p> + +<p>I know what this means—this equivocation. We decide not to bother any +more. So we make a tour of the ship—to look at the soldiers, who have +finished eating, sitting yarning to one another, while some are already +stretched out in the shadow, for sleep. Then to look at the cattle, +which stand rooted to the deck—which is now all messy. To look at the +unhappy fowls in their coops. And a peep at the third-class—rather +horrifying.</p> + +<p>And so to bed. Already the other three berths in my cabin are occupied, +the lights are switched off. As I enter I hear one young man tenderly +enquiring of the berth below: "Dost thou feel ill?" "Er—not much—not +much!" says the other faintly.</p> + +<p>Yet the sea is like glass, so smooth.</p> + +<p>I am quickly rolled in my lower berth, where I feel the trembling of the +machine-impelled ship, and hear the creaking of the berth above me as +its occupant rolls over: I listen to the sighs of the others, the wash +of dark water. And so, uneasily, rather hot and very airless, uneasy +with the machine-throbbing and the sighing of my companions, and with a +cock that crows shrilly from one of the coops, imagining the ship's<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[Pg 311]</a></span> +lights to be dawn, the night goes by. One sleeps—but a bad sleep. If +only there were cold air, not this lower-berth, inside cabin +airlessness.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[Pg 312]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="VIII" id="VIII"></a>VIII.</h2> + +<h3>BACK.</h3> + + +<p>The sea being steady as a level road, nobody succeeded in being +violently sick. My young men rose at dawn—I was not long in following. +It was a gray morning on deck, a gray sea, a gray sky, and a gray, +spider-cloth, unimportant coast of Italy not far away. The q-b joined +me: and quite delighted with her fellow-passenger: such a nice girl, she +said! who, when she let down her ordinary-looking brown hair, it reached +rippling right to her feet! Voilà! You never know your luck.</p> + +<p>The cock that had crowed all night crowed again, hoarsely, with a sore +throat. The miserable cattle looked more wearily miserable, but still +were motionless, as sponges that grow at the bottom of the sea. The +convicts were out for air: grinning. Someone told us they were +war-deserters. Considering the light in which these people look on war, +desertion seemed to me the only heroism. But the q-b, brought up in a +military air, gazed upon them as upon men<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_313" id="Page_313">[Pg 313]</a></span> miraculously alive within the +shadow of death. According to her code they had been shot when +re-captured. The soldiers had unslung the tarpaulin, their home for the +night had melted with the darkness, they were mere fragments of gray +transit smoking cigarettes and staring overboard.</p> + +<p>We drew near to Cività Vecchia: the old, mediaeval looking port, with +its castle, and a round fortress-barracks at the entrance. Soldiers +aboard shouted and waved to soldiers on the ramparts. We backed +insignificantly into the rather scrubby, insignificant harbour. And in +five minutes we were out, and walking along the wide, desolate boulevard +to the station. The cab-men looked hard at us: but no doubt owing to the +knapsack, took us for poor Germans.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Coffee and milk—and then, only about three-quarters of an hour late, +the train from the north. It is the night express from Turin. There was +plenty of room—so in we got, followed by half a dozen Sardinians. We +found a large, heavy Torinese in the carriage, his eyes dead with +fatigue. It seemed quite a new world on the mainland: and at once one +breathed again the curious suspense that is in the air. Once more I read +the Corriere della Sera from end to end. Once more we knew ourselves in +the real active world,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_314" id="Page_314">[Pg 314]</a></span> where the air seems like a lively wine +dissolving the pearl of the old order. I hope, dear reader, you like the +metaphor. Yet I cannot forbear repeating how strongly one is sensible of +the solvent property of the atmosphere, suddenly arriving on the +mainland again. And in an hour one changes one's psyche. The human being +is a most curious creature. He thinks he has got one soul, and he has +got dozens. I felt my sound Sardinian soul melting off me, I felt myself +evaporating into the real Italian uncertainty and momentaneity. So I +perused the Corriere whilst the metamorphosis took place. I like Italian +newspapers because they say what they mean, and not merely what is most +convenient to say. We call it naïveté—I call it manliness. Italian +newspapers read as if they were written by men, and not by calculating +eunuchs.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The train ran very heavily along the Maremma. It began to rain. Then we +stopped at a station where we should not stop—somewhere in the Maremma +country, the invisible sea not far off, the low country cultivated and +yet forlorn. Oh how the Turin man sighed, and wearily shifted his feet +as the train stood meaningless. There it sat—in the rain. Oh express!</p> + +<p>At last on again, till we were winding through the curious long troughs +of the Roman Campagna. There<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315">[Pg 315]</a></span> the shepherds minded the sheep: the +slender-footed merino sheep. In Sardinia the merinos were very white and +glistening, so that one thought of the Scriptural "white as wool." And +the black sheep among the flock were very black. But these Campagna were +no longer white, but dingy. And though the wildness of the Campagna is a +real wildness still, it is a historic wildness, familiar in its way as a +fireside is familiar.</p> + +<p>So we approach the hopeless sprawling of modern Rome—over the yellow +Tiber, past the famous pyramid tomb, skirting the walls of the city, +till at last we plunge in, into the well-known station, out of all the +chaos.</p> + +<p>We are late. It is a quarter to twelve. And I have to go out and change +money, and I hope to find my two friends.—The q-b and I dash down the +platform—no friends at the barrier. The station moderately empty. We +bolt across to the departure platforms. The Naples train stands ready. +In we pitch our bags, ask a naval man not to let anyone steal them, then +I fly out into town while the q-b buys food and wine at the buffet.</p> + +<p>It no longer rains, and Rome feels as ever—rather holiday-like and not +inclined to care about anything. I get a hundred and three lira for each +pound note: pocket my money at two minutes past twelve, and bolt<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_316" id="Page_316">[Pg 316]</a></span> back, +out of the Piazza delle Terme. Aha, there are the two missing ones, just +descending vaguely from a carriage, the one gazing inquiringly through +his monocle across the tram-lines, the other very tall and alert and +elegant, looking as if he expected us to appear out of the air for his +convenience.</p> + +<p>Which is exactly what happens. We fly into each other's arms. "Oh there +you <i>are</i>! Where's the q-b? Why are you here? We've been to the arrival +platform—no <i>sign</i> of you. Of course I only got your wire half an hour +ago. We <i>flew</i> here. Well, how nice to see you.—Oh, let the man +wait.—What, going on at once to Naples? But must you? Oh, but how +flighty you are! Birds of passage <i>veramente</i>! Then let us find the q-b, +quick!—And they won't let us on the platform. No, they're not issuing +platform tickets today.—Oh, merely the guests returning from that +Savoy-Bavarian wedding in the north, a few royal Duchesses about. Oh +well, we must try and wangle him."</p> + +<p>At the barrier a woman trying in vain to be let on to the station. But +what a Roman matron can't do, an elegant young Englishman can. So our +two heroes wangle their way in, and fall into the arms of the q-b by the +Naples train. Well, now, tell us all about it! So we rush into a +four-branched candlestick of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_317" id="Page_317">[Pg 317]</a></span> conversation. In my ear murmurs he of the +monocle about the Sahara—he is back from the Sahara a week ago: the +winter sun in the Sahara! He with the smears of paint on his elegant +trousers is giving the q-b a sketchy outline of his now <i>grande +passion</i>. Click goes the exchange, and him of the monocle is detailing +to the q-b his trip to Japan, on which he will start in six weeks' time, +while him of the paint-smears is expatiating on the thrills of the +etching needle, and concocting a plan for a month in Sardinia in May, +with me doing the scribbles and he the pictures. What sort of pictures? +Out flies the name of Goya.—And well now, a general rush into oneness, +and won't they come down to Sicily to us for the almond blossom: in +about ten days' time. Yes they will—wire when the almond blossom is +just stepping on the stage and making its grand bow, and they will come +next day. Somebody has smitten the wheel of a coach two ringing smacks +with a hammer. This is a sign to get in. The q-b is terrified the train +will slip through her fingers. "I'm frightened, I must get in."—"Very +well then! You're sure you have everything you want? Everything? A +fiasco of vino? Oh <i>two</i>! All the better! Well then—ten days' time. All +right—quite sure—how nice to have seen you, if only a +<i>glimpse</i>.—Yes,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_318" id="Page_318">[Pg 318]</a></span> yes, poor q-b! Yes, you're quite safe. Good-bye! +Good-bye!"</p> + +<p>The door is shut—we are seated—the train moves out of the station. And +quickly on this route Rome disappears. We are out on the wintry +Campagna, where crops are going. Away on the left we see the Tivoli +hills, and think of the summer that is gone, the heat, the fountains of +the Villa D'Este. The train rolls heavily over the Campagna, towards the +Alban Mounts, homewards.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>So we fall on our food, and devour the excellent little beef-steaks and +rolls and boiled eggs, apples and oranges and dates, and drink the good +red wine, and wildly discuss plans and the latest news, and are +altogether thrilled about things. So thrilled that we are well away +among the romantic mountains of the south-centre before we realise that +there are other passengers besides ourselves in the carriage. Half the +journey is over. Why, there is the monastery on its high hill! In a wild +moment I suggest we shall get down and spend a night up there at +Montecassino, and see the other friend, the monk who knows so much about +the world, being out of it. But the q-b shudders, thinking of the awful +winter coldness of that massive stone monastery, which has no spark of +heating apparatus.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_319" id="Page_319">[Pg 319]</a></span> And therefore the plan subsides, and at Cassino +station I only get down to procure coffee and sweet cakes. They always +have good things to eat at Cassino station: in summer, big fresh ices +and fruits and iced water, in winter toothsome sweet cakes which make an +awfully good finish to a meal.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>I count Cassino half way to Naples. After Cassino the excitement of +being in the north begins quite to evaporate. The southern heaviness +descends upon us. Also the sky begins to darken: and the rain falls. I +think of the night before us, on the sea again. And I am vaguely +troubled lest we may not get a berth. However, we may spend the night in +Naples: or even sit on in this train, which goes forward, all through +the long long night, to the Straits of Messina. We must decide as we +near Naples.</p> + +<p>Half dozing, one becomes aware of the people about one. We are +travelling second class. Opposite is a little, hold-your-own +school-mistressy young person in pince-nez. Next her a hollow-cheeked +white soldier with ribbons on his breast. Then a fat man in a corner. +Then a naval officer of low rank. The naval officer is coming from +Fiume, and is dead with sleep and perhaps mortification. D'Annunzio has +just given up. Two compartments away we hear<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_320" id="Page_320">[Pg 320]</a></span> soldiers singing, martial +still though bruised with fatigue, the D'Annunzio-bragging songs of +Fiume. They are soldiers of the D'Annunzio legion. And one of them, I +hear the sick soldier saying, is very hot and republican still. Private +soldiers are not allowed, with their reduced tickets, to travel on the +express trains. But these legionaries are not penniless: they have paid +the excess and come along. For the moment they are sent to their homes. +And with heads dropping with fatigue, we hear them still defiantly +singing down the carriage for D'Annunzio.</p> + +<p>A regular officer went along—a captain of the Italian, not the Fiume +army. He heard the chants and entered the carriage. The legionaries were +quiet, but they lounged and ignored the entry of the officer. "On your +feet!" he yelled, Italian fashion. The vehemence did it. Reluctantly as +may be, they stood up in the compartment. "Salute!" And though it was +bitter, up went their hands in the salute, whilst he stood and watched +them. And then, very superb, he sauntered away again. They sat down +glowering. Of course they were beaten. Didn't they know it. The men in +our carriage smiled curiously: in slow and futile mockery of both +parties.</p> + +<p>The rain was falling outside, the windows were steamed quite dense, so +that we were shut in from the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_321" id="Page_321">[Pg 321]</a></span> world. Throughout the length of the +train, which was not very full, could be felt the exhausted weariness +and the dispirited dejection of the poor D'Annunzio legionaries. In the +afternoon silence of the mist-enclosed, half-empty train the snatches of +song broke out again, and faded in sheer dispirited fatigue. We ran on +blindly and heavily. But one young fellow was not to be abashed. He was +well-built, and his thick black hair was brushed up, like a great fluffy +crest upon his head. He came slowly and unabated down the corridor, and +on every big, mist-opaque pane he scrawled with his finger W D'ANNUNZIO +GABRIELE—W D'ANNUNZIO GABRIELE.</p> + +<p>The sick soldier laughed thinly, saying to the schoolmistress: "Oh yes, +they are fine chaps. But it was folly. D'Annunzio is a world poet—a +world wonder—but Fiume was a mistake you know. And these chaps have got +to learn a lesson. They got beyond themselves. Oh, they aren't short of +money. D'Annunzio had wagon-loads of money there in Fiume, and he wasn't +altogether mean with it." The schoolmistress, who was one of the sharp +ones, gave a little disquisition to show <i>why</i> it was a mistake, and +wherein she knew better than the world's poet and wonder.</p> + +<p>It always makes me sick to hear people chewing over newspaper pulp.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_322" id="Page_322">[Pg 322]</a></span></p> + +<p>The sick soldier was not a legionary. He had been wounded through the +lung. But it was healed, he said. He lifted the flap of his breast +pocket, and there hung a little silver medal. It was his wound-medal. He +wore it concealed: and over the place of the wound. He and the +schoolmistress looked at one another significantly.</p> + +<p>Then they talked pensions: and soon were on the old topic. The +schoolmistress had her figures pat, as a schoolmistress should. Why, the +ticket-collector, the man who punches one's tickets on the train, now +had twelve thousand Lira a year: twelve thousand Lira. Monstrous! Whilst +a fully-qualified <i>professore</i>, a schoolmaster who had been through all +his training and had all his degrees, was given five thousand. Five +thousand for a fully qualified <i>professore</i>, and twelve thousand for a +ticket puncher. The soldier agreed, and quoted other figures. But the +railway was the outstanding grievance. Every boy who left school now, +said the schoolmistress, wanted to go on the railway. Oh but—said the +soldier—the train-men—!</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The naval officer, who collapsed into the most uncanny positions, blind +with sleep, got down at Capua to get into a little train that would +carry him back to his own station, where our train had not stopped. At<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_323" id="Page_323">[Pg 323]</a></span> +Caserta the sick soldier got out. Down the great avenue of trees the +rain was falling. A young man entered. Remained also the schoolmistress +and the stout man. Knowing we had been listening, the schoolmistress +spoke to us about the soldier. Then—she had said she was catching the +night boat for Palermo—I asked her if she thought the ship would be +very full. Oh yes, very full, she said. Why, hers was one of the last +cabin numbers, and she had got her ticket early that morning. The fat +man now joined in. He too was crossing to Palermo. The ship was sure to +be quite full by now. Were we depending on booking berths at the port of +Naples? We were. Whereupon he and the schoolmistress shook their heads +and said it was more than doubtful—nay, it was as good as impossible. +For the boat was the renowned <i>Città di Trieste</i>, that floating palace, +and such was the fame of her gorgeousness that everybody wanted to +travel by her.</p> + +<p>"First and second class alike?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"Oh yes, also first class," replied the school-marm rather spitefully. +So I knew she had a white ticket—second.</p> + +<p>I cursed the <i>Città di Trieste</i> and her gorgeousness, and looked down my +nose. We had now two alternatives: to spend the night in Naples, or to +sit on all<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_324" id="Page_324">[Pg 324]</a></span> through the night and next morning, and arrive home, with +heaven's aid, in the early afternoon. Though these long-distance trains +think nothing of six hours late. But we were tired already. What we +should be like after another twenty-four hours' sitting, heaven knows. +And yet to struggle for a bed in a Naples hotel this night, in the rain, +all the hotels being at present crammed with foreigners, that was no +rosy prospect. Oh dear!</p> + +<p>However, I was not going to take their discouragement so easily. One has +been had that way before. They love to make the case look desperate.</p> + +<p>Were we English? asked the schoolmistress. We were. Ah, a fine thing to +be English in Italy now. <i>Why?</i>—rather tart from me. Because of the +<i>cambio</i>, the exchange. You English, with your money exchange, you come +here and buy everything for nothing, you take the best of everything, +and with your money you pay nothing for it. Whereas we poor Italians we +pay heavily for everything at an exaggerated price, and we can have +nothing. Ah, it is all very nice to be English in Italy now. You can +travel, you go to the hotels, you can see everything and buy everything, +and it costs you nothing. What is the exchange today? She whipped it +out. A hundred and four, twenty.</p> + +<p>This she told me to my nose. And the fat man<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_325" id="Page_325">[Pg 325]</a></span> murmured bitterly <i>già! +già!</i>—ay! ay! Her impertinence and the fat man's quiet bitterness +stirred my bile. Has not this song been sung at me once too often, by +these people?</p> + +<p>You are mistaken, said I to the schoolmistress. We don't by any means +live in Italy for nothing. Even with the exchange at a hundred and +three, we don't live for nothing. We pay, and pay through the nose, for +whatever we have in Italy: and you Italians see that we pay. What! You +put all the tariff you do on foreigners, and then say we live here for +nothing. I tell you I could live in England just as well, on the same +money—perhaps better. Compare the cost of things in England with the +cost here in Italy, and even considering the exchange, Italy costs +nearly as much as England. Some things are cheaper here—the railway +comes a little cheaper, and is infinitely more miserable. Travelling is +usually a misery. But other things, clothes of all sorts, and a good +deal of food is even more expensive here than in England, exchange +considered.</p> + +<p>Oh yes, she said, England had had to bring her prices down this last +fortnight. In her own interests indeed.</p> + +<p>"This last fortnight! This last six months," said I. "Whereas prices +rise every single day here."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_326" id="Page_326">[Pg 326]</a></span></p> + +<p>Here a word from the quiet young man who had got in at Caserta.</p> + +<p>"Yes," he said, "yes. I say, every nation pays in its own money, no +matter what the exchange. And it works out about equal."</p> + +<p>But I felt angry. Am I always to have the exchange flung in my teeth, as +if I were a personal thief? But the woman persisted.</p> + +<p>"Ah," she said, "we Italians, we are so nice, we are so good. Noi, siamo +così buoni. We are so good-natured. But others, they are not buoni, they +are not good-natured to us." And she nodded her head. And truly, I did +not feel at all good-natured towards her: which she knew. And as for the +Italian good-nature, it forms a sound and unshakeable basis nowadays for +their extortion and self-justification and spite.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Darkness was falling over the rich flat plains that lie around Naples, +over the tall uncanny vines with their brown thongs in the intensely +cultivated black earth. It was night by the time we were in that vast +and thievish station. About half-past five. We were not very late. +Should we sit on in our present carriage, and go down in it to the port, +along with the schoolmistress, and risk it? But first look at the coach +which was going on to Sicily. So we got down and ran along<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_327" id="Page_327">[Pg 327]</a></span> the train to +the Syracuse coach. Hubbub, confusion, a wedge in the corridor, and for +sure no room. Certainly no room to lie down a bit. We <i>could</i> not sit +tight for twenty-four hours more.</p> + +<p>So we decided to go to the port—and to walk. Heaven knows when the +railway carriage would be shunted down. Back we went therefore for the +sack, told the schoolmistress our intention.</p> + +<p>"You can but try," she said frostily.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>So there we are, with the sack over my shoulder and the kitchenino in +the q-b's hand, bursting out of that thrice-damned and annoying station, +and running through the black wet gulf of a Naples night, in a slow +rain. Cabmen look at us. But my sack saved me. I am weary of that +boa-constrictor, a Naples cabman after dark. By day there is +more-or-less a tariff.</p> + +<p>It is about a mile from the station to the quay where the ship lies. We +make our way through the deep, gulf-like streets, over the slippery +black cobbles. The black houses rise massive to a great height on either +side, but the streets are not in this part very narrow. We plunge +forwards in the unearthly half-darkness of this great uncontrolled city. +There are no lights at all from the buildings—only the small electric +lamps of the streets.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_328" id="Page_328">[Pg 328]</a></span></p> + +<p>So we emerge on the harbour front, and hurry past the great storehouses +in the rainy night, to where the actual entrances begin. The tram bangs +past us. We scuffle along that pavement-ridge which lies like an isthmus +down the vast black quicksands of that harbour road. One feels peril all +round. But at length we come to a gate by the harbour railway. No, not +that. On to the next iron gate of the railway crossing. And so we run +out past the great sheds and the buildings of the port station, till we +see a ship rearing in front, and the sea all black. But now where is +that little hole where one gets the tickets? We are at the back of +everywhere in this desert jungle of the harbour darkness.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>A man directs us round the corner—and actually does not demand money. +It is the sack again. So—there, I see the knot of men, soldiers +chiefly, fighting in a bare room round a tiny wicket. I recognise the +place where I have fought before.</p> + +<p>So while the q-b stands guard over sack and bag, I plunge into the fray. +It literally is a fight. Some thirty men all at once want to get at a +tiny wicket in a blank wall. There are no queue-rails, there is no +order: just a hole in a blank wall, and thirty fellows, mostly military, +pressing at it in a mass. But I have done this before. The way is to +insert the thin end<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_329" id="Page_329">[Pg 329]</a></span> of oneself, and without any violence, by deadly +pressure and pertinacity come at the goal. One hand must be kept fast +over the money pocket, and one must be free to clutch the wicket-side +when one gets there. And thus one is ground small in those mills of God, +Demos struggling for tickets. It isn't very nice—so close, so +incomparably crushed. And never for a second must one be off one's guard +for one's watch and money and even hanky. When I first came to Italy +after the war I was robbed twice in three weeks, floating round in the +sweet old innocent confidence in mankind. Since then I have never ceased +to be on my guard. Somehow or other, waking and sleeping one's spirit +must be on its guard nowadays. Which is really what I prefer, now I have +learnt it. Confidence in the goodness of mankind is a very thin +protection indeed. <i>Integer vitae scelerisque purus</i> will do nothing for +you when it comes to humanity, however efficacious it may be with lions +and wolves. Therefore, tight on my guard, like a screw biting into a bit +of wood, I bite my way through that knot of fellows, to the wicket, and +shout for two first-class. The clerk inside ignores me for some time, +serving soldiers. But if you stand like Doomsday you get your way. Two +firsts, says the clerk. Husband and wife, say I, in case there is a +two-berth cabin. Jokes behind. But<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_330" id="Page_330">[Pg 330]</a></span> I get my tickets. Impossible to put +my hand to my pocket. The tickets cost about a hundred and five francs +each. Clutching paper change and the green slips, with a last gasp I get +out of the knot. So—we've done it. As I sort my money and stow away, I +hear another ask for one first-class. Nothing left, says the clerk. So +you see how one must fight.</p> + +<p>I must say for these dense and struggling crowds, they are only intense, +not violent, and not in the least brutal. I always feel a certain +sympathy with the men in them.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Bolt through the pouring rain to the ship. And in two minutes we are +aboard. And behold, each of us has a deck cabin, I one to myself, the +q-b to herself next door. Palatial—not a cabin at all, but a proper +little bedroom with a curtained bed under the porthole windows, a +comfortable sofa, chairs, table, carpets, big wash-bowls with silver +taps—a whole <i>de luxe</i>. I dropped the sack on the sofa with a gasp, +drew back the yellow curtains of the bed, looked out of the porthole at +the lights of Naples, and sighed with relief. One could wash thoroughly, +refreshingly, and change one's linen. Wonderful!</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The state-room is like a hotel lounge, many little<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_331" id="Page_331">[Pg 331]</a></span> tables with flowers +and periodicals, arm-chairs, warm carpet, bright but soft lights, and +people sitting about chatting. A loud group of English people in one +corner, very assured: two quiet English ladies: various Italians seeming +quite modest. Here one could sit in peace and rest, pretending to look +at an illustrated magazine. So we rested. After about an hour there +entered a young Englishman and his wife, whom we had seen on our train. +So, at last the coach had been shunted down to the port. Where should we +have been had we waited!</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The waiters began to flap the white table-cloths and spread the tables +nearest the walls. Dinner would begin at half-past seven, immediately +the boat started. We sat in silence, till eight or nine tables were +spread. Then we let the other people take their choice. After which we +chose a table by ourselves, neither of us wanting company. So we sat +before the plates and the wine-bottles and sighed in the hopes of a +decent meal. Food by the way is not included in the hundred-and-five +francs.</p> + +<p>Alas, we were not to be alone: two young Neapolitans, pleasant, quiet, +blond, or semi-blond. They were well-bred, and evidently of northern +extraction. Afterwards we found out they were jewellers. But I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_332" id="Page_332">[Pg 332]</a></span> liked +their quiet, gentle manners. The dinner began, and we were through the +soup, when up pranced another young fellow, rather strapping and loud, a +commercial traveller, for sure. He had those cocky assured manners of +one who is not sure of his manners. He had a rather high forehead, and +black hair brushed up in a showy wing, and a large ring on his finger. +Not that a ring signifies anything. Here most of the men wear several, +all massively jewelled. If one believed in all the jewels, why Italy +would be more fabulous than fabled India. But our friend the bounder was +smart, and smelled of cash. Not money, but cash.</p> + +<p>I had an inkling of what to expect when he handed the salt and said in +English "Salt, thenk you." But I ignored the advance. However, he did +not wait long. Through the windows across the room the q-b saw the +lights of the harbour slowly moving. "Oh," she cried, "are we going?" +And also in Italian: "Partiamo?" All watched the lights, the bounder +screwing round. He had one of the fine, bounderish backs.</p> + +<p>"Yes," he said. "We—<i>going</i>."</p> + +<p>"Oh," cried she. "Do you speak English?"</p> + +<p>"Ye-es. Some English—I speak."</p> + +<p>As a matter of fact he spoke about forty disconnected<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_333" id="Page_333">[Pg 333]</a></span> words. But his +accent was so good for these forty. He did not speak English, he +imitated an English voice making sounds. And the effect was startling. +He had served on the Italian front with the Scots Guards—so he told us +in Italian. He was Milanese. Oh, he had had a time with the Scots +Guards. Wheesky—eh? Wheesky.</p> + +<p>"Come along <i>bhoys</i>!" he shouted.</p> + +<p>And it was such a Scotch voice shouting, so loud-mouthed and actual, I +nearly went under the table. It struck us both like a blow.</p> + +<p>Afterwards he rattled away without misgiving. He was a traveller for a +certain type of machine, and was doing Sicily. Shortly he was going to +England—and he asked largely about first-class hotels. Then he asked +was the q-b French?—Was she Italian?—No, she was German. Ah—German. +And immediately out he came with the German word: "Deutsch! Deutsch, eh? +From Deutschland. Oh yes! Deutschland über alles! Ah, I know. No +more—what? Deutschland unter alles now? Deutschland unter alles." And +he bounced on his seat with gratification of the words. Of German as of +English he knew half a dozen phrases.</p> + +<p>"No," said the q-b, "Not Deutschland unter alles. Not for long, +anyhow."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_334" id="Page_334">[Pg 334]</a></span></p> + +<p>"How? Not for long? You think so? I think so too," said the bounder. +Then in Italian: "La Germania won't stand under all for long. No, no. At +present it is England über alles. <i>England über alles.</i> But Germany will +rise up again."</p> + +<p>"Of course," said the q-b. "How shouldn't she?"</p> + +<p>"Ah," said the bounder, "while England keeps the money in her pocket, we +shall none of us rise up. Italy won the war, and Germany lost it. And +Italy and Germany they both are down, and England is up. They both are +down, and England is up. England and France. Strange, isn't it? Ah, the +allies. What are the allies for? To keep England up, and France half +way, and Germany and Italy down."</p> + +<p>"Ah, they won't stay down for ever," said the q-b.</p> + +<p>"You think not? Ah! We will see. We will see how England goes on now."</p> + +<p>"England is not going on so marvellously, after all," say I.</p> + +<p>"How not? You mean Ireland?"</p> + +<p>"No, not only Ireland. Industry altogether. England is as near to ruin +as other countries."</p> + +<p>"Ma! With all the money, and we others with no money? How will she be +ruined?"</p> + +<p>"And what good would it be to you if she were?"</p> + +<p>"Oh well—who knows. If England were ruined—"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_335" id="Page_335">[Pg 335]</a></span> a slow smile of +anticipation spread over his face. How he would love it—how they would +all love it, if England were ruined. That is, the business part of them, +perhaps, would not love it. But the human part would. The human part +fairly licks its lips at the thought of England's ruin. The commercial +part, however, quite violently disclaims the anticipations of the human +part. And there it is. The newspapers chiefly speak with the commercial +voice. But individually, when you are got at in a railway carriage or as +now on a ship, up speaks the human voice, and you know how they love +you. This is no doubt inevitable. When the exchange stands at a hundred +and six men go humanly blind, I suppose, however much they may keep the +commercial eye open. And having gone humanly blind they bump into one's +human self nastily: a nasty jar. You know then how they hate you. +Underneath, they hate us, and as human beings we are objects of envy and +malice. They hate us, with envy, and despise us, with jealousy. Which +perhaps doesn't hurt commercially. Humanly it is to me unpleasant.</p> + +<p>The dinner was over, and the bounder was lavishing cigarettes—Murattis, +if you please. We had all drunk two bottles of wine. Two other +commercial travellers had joined the bounder at our table—two smart +young fellows, one a bounder and one gentle and nice. Our<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_336" id="Page_336">[Pg 336]</a></span> two jewellers +remained quiet, talking their share, but quietly and so sensitively. One +could not help liking them. So we were seven people, six men.</p> + +<p>"Wheesky! Will you drink Wheesky, Mister?" said our original bounder. +"Yes, one small Scotch! One Scotch Wheesky." All this in a perfect +Scotty voice of a man standing at a bar calling for a drink. It was +comical, one could not but laugh: and very impertinent. He called for +the waiter, took him by the button-hole, and with a breast-to-breast +intimacy asked if there was whisky. The waiter, with the same tone of +you-and-I-are-men-who-have-the-same-feelings, said he didn't think there +was whisky, but he would look. Our bounder went round the table inviting +us all to whiskies, and pressing on us his expensive English cigarettes +with great aplomb.</p> + +<p>The whisky came—and five persons partook. It was fiery, oily stuff from +heaven knows where. The bounder rattled away, spouting his bits of +English and his four words of German. He was in high feather, wriggling +his large haunches on his chair and waving his hands. He had a peculiar +manner of wriggling from the bottom of his back, with fussy +self-assertiveness. It was my turn to offer whisky.</p> + +<p>I was able in a moment's lull to peer through the windows and see the +dim lights of Capri—the glimmer<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_337" id="Page_337">[Pg 337]</a></span> of Anacapri up on the black +shadow—the lighthouse. We had passed the island. In the midst of the +babel I sent out a few thoughts to a few people on the island. Then I +had to come back.</p> + +<p>The bounder had once more resumed his theme of l'Inghilterra, l'Italia, +la Germania. He swanked England as hard as he could. Of course England +was the top dog, and if he could speak some English, if he were talking +to English people, and if, as he said, he was going to England in April, +why he was so much the more top-doggy than his companions, who could not +rise to all these heights. At the same time, my nerves had too much to +bear.</p> + +<p>Where were we going and where had we been and where did we live? And ah, +yes, English people lived in Italy. Thousands, thousands of English +people lived in Italy. Yes, it was very nice for them. There used to be +many Germans, but now the Germans were down. But the English—what could +be better for them than Italy now: they had sun, they had warmth, they +had abundance of everything, they had a charming people to deal with, +and they had the <i>cambio</i>! Ecco! The other commercial travellers agreed. +They appealed to the q-b if it was not so. And altogether I had enough +of it.</p> + +<p>"Oh yes," said I, "it's very nice to be in Italy:<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_338" id="Page_338">[Pg 338]</a></span> especially if you are +not living in an hotel, and you have to attend to things for yourself. +It is very nice to be overcharged every time, and then insulted if you +say a word. It's very nice to have the <i>cambio</i> thrown in your teeth, if +you say two words to any Italian, even a perfect stranger. It's very +nice to have waiters and shop-people and railway porters sneering in a +bad temper and being insulting in small, mean ways all the time. It's +very nice to feel what they all feel against you. And if you understand +enough Italian, it's very nice to hear what they say when you've gone +by. Oh very nice. Very nice indeed!"</p> + +<p>I suppose the whisky had kindled this outburst in me. They sat dead +silent. And then our bounder began, in his sugary deprecating voice.</p> + +<p>"Why no! Why no! It is not true, signore. No, it is not true. Why, +England is the foremost nation in the world—"</p> + +<p>"And you want to pay her out for it."</p> + +<p>"But no, signore. But no. What makes you say so? Why, we Italians are so +good-natured. Noi Italiani siamo così buoni. Siamo così buoni."</p> + +<p>It was the identical words of the schoolmistress.</p> + +<p>"Buoni," said I. "Yes—perhaps. Buoni when it's not a question of the +exchange and of money. But<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_339" id="Page_339">[Pg 339]</a></span> since it is always a question of <i>cambio</i> +and <i>soldi</i> now, one is always, in a small way, insulted."</p> + +<p>I suppose it must have been the whisky. Anyhow Italians can never bear +hard bitterness. The jewellers looked distressed, the bounders looked +down their noses, half exulting even now, and half sheepish, being +caught. The third of the <i>commis voyageurs</i>, the gentle one, made large +eyes and was terrified that he was going to be sick. He represented a +certain Italian liqueur, and he modestly asked us to take a glass of it. +He went with the waiter to secure the proper brand. So we drank—and it +was good. But he, the giver, sat with large and haunted eyes. Then he +said he would go to bed. Our bounder gave him various advice regarding +seasickness. There was a mild swell on the sea. So he of the liqueur +departed.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Our bounder thrummed on the table and hummed something, and asked the +q-b if she knew the <i>Rosencavalier</i>. He always appealed to her. She said +she did. And ah, he was passionately fond of music, said he. Then he +warbled, in a head voice, a bit more. He only knew classical music, said +he. And he mewed a bit of Moussorgsky. The q-b said Moussorgsky was her +favourite musician, for opera. Ah, cried the bounder, if there were but +a piano!—There is a piano,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_340" id="Page_340">[Pg 340]</a></span> said his mate.—Yes, he replied, but it is +locked up.—Then let us get the key, said his mate, with aplomb. The +waiters, being men with the same feelings as our two, would give them +anything. So the key was forthcoming. We paid our bills—mine about +sixty francs. Then we went along the faintly rolling ship, up the curved +staircase to the drawing room. Our bounder unlocked the door of this +drawing room, and switched on the lights.</p> + +<p>It was quite a pleasant room, with deep divans upholstered in pale +colours, and palm-trees standing behind little tables, and a black +upright piano. Our bounder sat on the piano-stool and gave us an +exhibition. He splashed out noise on the piano in splashes, like water +splashing out of a pail. He lifted his head and shook his black mop of +hair, and yelled out some fragments of opera. And he wriggled his large, +bounder's back upon the piano stool, wriggling upon his well-filled +haunches. Evidently he had a great deal of feeling for music: but very +little prowess. He yelped it out, and wriggled, and splashed the piano. +His friend the other bounder, a quiet one in a pale suit, with stout +limbs, older than the wriggler, stood by the piano whilst the young one +exhibited. Across the space of carpet sat the two brother jewellers, +deep in a divan, their lean, semi-blond faces quite inscrutable.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_341" id="Page_341">[Pg 341]</a></span> The +q-b sat next to me, asking for this and that music, none of which the +wriggler could supply. He knew four scraps, and a few splashes—not +more. The elder bounder stood near him quietly comforting, encouraging, +and admiring him, as a lover encouraging and admiring his <i>ingénue</i> +betrothed. And the q-b sat bright-eyed and excited, admiring that a man +could perform so unself-consciously self-conscious, and give himself +away with such generous wriggles. For my part, as you may guess, I did +not admire.</p> + +<p>I had had enough. Rising, I bowed and marched off. The q-b came after +me. Good-night, said I, at the head of the corridor. She turned in, and +I went round the ship to look at the dark night of the sea.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Morning came sunny with pieces of cloud: and the Sicilian coast towering +pale blue in the distance. How wonderful it must have been to Ulysses to +venture into this Mediterranean and open his eyes on all the loveliness +of the tall coasts. How marvellous to steal with his ship into these +magic harbours. There is something eternally morning-glamourous about +these lands as they rise from the sea. And it is always the Odyssey +which comes back to one as one looks at them. All the lovely +morning-wonder of this world, in Homer's day!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_342" id="Page_342">[Pg 342]</a></span></p> + +<p>Our bounder was dashing about on deck, in one of those rain-coats +gathered in at the waist and ballooning out into skirts below the waist. +He greeted me with a cry of "It's a long, long way to Tipperary." "Very +long," said I. "Good-bye Piccadilly—" he continued. "Ciao," said I, as +he dashed jauntily down the steps. Soon we saw the others as well. But +it was morning, and I simply did not want to speak to them—except just +Good-day. For my life I couldn't say two more words to any of them this +morning: except to ask the mild one if he had been sick. He had not.</p> + +<p>So we waited for the great <i>Città di Trieste</i> to float her way into +Palermo harbour. It looked so near—the town there, the great circle of +the port, the mass of the hills crowding round. Panormus, the +All-harbour. I wished the bulky steamer would hurry up. For I hated her +now. I hated her swankiness, she seemed made for commercial travellers +with cash. I hated the big picture that filled one end of the +state-room: an elegant and ideal peasant-girl, a sort of Italia, +strolling on a lovely and ideal cliff's edge, among myriad blooms, and +carrying over her arm, in a most sophisticated fashion, a bough of +almond blossom and a sheaf of anemones. I hated the waiters, and the +cheap elegance, the common <i>de luxe</i>. I disliked the people, who all +turned their worst, cash-greasy sides<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_343" id="Page_343">[Pg 343]</a></span> outwards on this ship. Vulgar, +vulgar post-war commercialism and dog-fish money-stink. I longed to get +off. And the bloated boat edged her way so slowly into the port, and +then more slowly still edged round her fat stern. And even then we were +kept for fifteen minutes waiting for someone to put up the gangway for +the first class. The second class, of course, were streaming off and +melting like thawed snow into the crowds of onlookers on the quay, long +before we were allowed to come off.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Glad, glad I was to get off that ship: I don't know why, for she was +clean and comfortable and the attendants were perfectly civil. Glad, +glad I was not to share the deck with any more commercial travellers. +Glad I was to be on my own feet, independent. No, I would <i>not</i> take a +carriage. I carried my sack on my back to the hotel, looking with a +jaundiced eye on the lethargic traffic of the harbour front. It was +about nine o'clock.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Later on, when I had slept, I thought as I have thought before, the +Italians are not to blame for their spite against us. We, England, have +taken upon ourselves for so long the rôle of leading nation. And if now, +in the war or after the war, we have led them<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_344" id="Page_344">[Pg 344]</a></span> all into a real old +swinery—which we have, notwithstanding all Entente cant—then they have +a legitimate grudge against us. If you take upon yourself to lead, you +must expect the mud to be thrown at you if you lead into a nasty morass. +Especially if, once in the bog, you think of nothing else but scrambling +out over other poor devils' backs. Pretty behaviour of great nations!</p> + +<p>And still, for all that, I must insist that I am a single human being, +an individual, not a mere national unit, a mere chip of l'Inghilterra or +la Germania. I am not a chip of any nasty old block. I am myself.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>In the evening the q-b insisted on going to the marionettes, for which +she has a sentimental passion. So the three of us—we were with the +American friend once more—chased through dark and tortuous side-streets +and markets of Palermo in the night, until at last a friendly man led us +to the place. The back streets of Palermo felt friendly, not huge and +rather horrible, like Naples near the port.</p> + +<p>The theatre was a little hole opening simply off the street. There was +no one in the little ticket box, so we walked past the door-screen. A +shabby old man with a long fennel-stalk hurried up and made us places on +the back benches, and hushed us when we spoke of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_345" id="Page_345">[Pg 345]</a></span> tickets. The play was +in progress. A serpent-dragon was just having a tussle with a knight in +brilliant brass armour, and my heart came into my mouth. The audience +consisted mostly of boys, gazing with frantic interest on the bright +stage. There was a sprinkling of soldiers and elderly men. The place was +packed—about fifty souls crowded on narrow little ribbons of benches, +so close one behind the other that the end of the man in front of me +continually encroached and sat on my knee. I saw on a notice that the +price of entry was forty centimes.</p> + +<p>We had come in towards the end of the performance, and so sat rather +bewildered, unable to follow. The story was the inevitable Paladins of +France—one heard the names <i>Rinaldo!</i> <i>Orlando!</i> again and again. But +the story was told in dialect, hard to follow.</p> + +<p>I was charmed by the figures. The scene was very simple, showing the +interior of a castle. But the figures, which were about two-thirds of +human size, were wonderful in their brilliant, glittering gold armour, +and their martial prancing motions. All were knights—even the daughter +of the king of Babylon. She was distinguished only by her long hair. All +were in the beautiful, glittering armour, with helmets and visors that +could be let down at will. I am told this armour has been handed down +for many generations. It<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_346" id="Page_346">[Pg 346]</a></span> certainly is lovely. One actor alone was not +in armour, the wizard Magicce, or Malvigge, the Merlin of the Paladins. +He was in a long scarlet robe, edged with fur, and wore a three-cornered +scarlet hat.</p> + +<p>So we watched the dragon leap and twist and get the knight by the leg: +and then perish. We watched the knights burst into the castle. We +watched the wonderful armour-clashing embraces of the delivered knights, +Orlando and his bosom friend and the little dwarf, clashing their +armoured breasts to the breasts of their brothers and deliverers. We +watched the would-be tears flow.—And then the statue of the witch +suddenly go up in flames, at which a roar of exultation from the boys. +Then it was over. The theatre was empty in a moment, but the proprietors +and the two men who sat near us would not let us go. We must wait for +the next performance.</p> + +<p>My neighbour, a fat, jolly man, told me all about it. His neighbour, a +handsome tipsy man, kept contradicting and saying it wasn't so. But my +fat neighbour winked at me, not to take offence.</p> + +<p>This story of the Paladins of France lasted three nights. We had come on +the middle night—of course. But no matter—each night was a complete +story. I am sorry I have forgotten the names of the knights. But the +story was, that Orlando and his friend and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_347" id="Page_347">[Pg 347]</a></span> little dwarf, owing to +the tricks of that same dwarf, who belonged to the Paladins, had been +captured and immured in the enchanted castle of the ghastly old witch +who lived on the blood of Christians. It was now the business of Rinaldo +and the rest of the Paladins, by the help of Magicce the <i>good</i> wizard, +to release their captured brethren from the ghoulish old witch.</p> + +<p>So much I made out of the fat man's story, while the theatre was +filling. He knew every detail of the whole Paladin cycle. And it is +evident the Paladin cycle has lots of versions. For the handsome tipsy +neighbour kept saying he was wrong, he was wrong, and giving different +stories, and shouting for a jury to come and say who was right, he or my +fat friend. A jury gathered, and a storm began to rise. But the stout +proprietor with a fennel-wand came and quenched the noise, telling the +handsome tipsy man he knew too much and wasn't asked. Whereupon the +tipsy one sulked.</p> + +<p>Ah, said my friend, couldn't I come on Friday. Friday was a great night. +On Friday they were giving I Beati Paoli: The Blessed Pauls. He pointed +to the walls where were the placards announcing The Blessed Pauls. These +Pauls were evidently some awful secret society with masking hoods and +daggers and awful<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_348" id="Page_348">[Pg 348]</a></span> eyes looking through the holes. I said were they +assassins like the Black Hand. By no means, by no means. The Blessed +Pauls were a society for the protection of the poor. Their business was +to track down and murder the oppressive rich. Ah, they were a wonderful, +a splendid society. Were they, said I, a sort of camorra? Ah, on the +contrary—here he lapsed into a tense voice—they hated the camorra. +These, the Blest Pauls, were the powerful and terrible enemy of the +grand camorra. For the Grand Camorra oppresses the poor. And therefore +the Pauls track down in secret the leaders of the Grand Camorra, and +assassinate them, or bring them to the fearful hooded tribunal which +utters the dread verdict of the Beati Paoli. And when once the Beati +Paoli have decreed a man's death—all over. Ah bellissimo, bellissimo! +Why don't I come on Friday?</p> + +<p>It seems to me a queer moral for the urchins thick-packed and gazing at +the drop scene. They are all males: urchins or men. I ask my fat friend +why there are no women—no girls. Ah, he says, the theatre is so small. +But, I say, if there is room for all the boys and men, there is the same +room for girls and women. Oh no—not in this small theatre. Besides this +is nothing for women. Not that there is anything improper, he hastens to +add. Not at all. But what<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_349" id="Page_349">[Pg 349]</a></span> should women and girls be doing at the +marionette show? It was an affair for males.</p> + +<p>I agreed with him really, and was thankful we hadn't a lot of smirking +twitching girls and lasses in the audience. This male audience was so +tense and pure in its attention.</p> + +<p>But hist! the play is going to begin. A lad is grinding a broken +street-piano under the stage. The padrone yells <i>Silenzio!</i> with a roar, +and reaching over, pokes obstreperous boys with his long fennel-stalk, +like a beadle in church. When the curtain rises the piano stops, and +there is dead silence. On swings a knight, glittering, marching with +that curious hippety lilt, and gazing round with fixed and martial eyes. +He begins the prologue, telling us where we are. And dramatically he +waves his sword and stamps his foot, and wonderfully sounds his male, +martial, rather husky voice. Then the Paladins, his companions who are +to accompany him, swing one by one onto the stage, till they are five in +all, handsome knights, including the Babylonian Princess and the Knight +of Britain. They stand in a handsome, glittering line. And then comes +Merlin in his red robe. Merlin has a bright, fair, rather chubby face +and blue eyes, and seems to typify the northern intelligence. He now +tells them, in many words, how to proceed and what is to be done.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_350" id="Page_350">[Pg 350]</a></span></p> + +<p>So then, the glittering knights are ready. Are they ready? Rinaldo +flourishes his sword with the wonderful cry "Andiamo!" let us go—and +the others respond: "Andiamo". Splendid word.</p> + +<p>The first enemy were the knights of Spain, in red kirtles and half +turbans. With these a terrible fight. First of all rushes in the Knight +of Britain. He is the boaster, who always in words, does everything. But +in fact, poor knight of Britain, he falls lamed. The four Paladins have +stood shoulder to shoulder, glittering, watching the fray. Forth now +steps another knight, and the fight recommences. Terrible is the +smacking of swords, terrible the gasps from behind the dropped visors. +Till at last the knight of Spain falls—and the Paladin stands with his +foot on the dead. Then loud acclamations from the Paladins, and yells of +joy from the audience.</p> + +<p>"<i>Silenzio!</i>" yells the padrone, flourishing the fennel-stalk.</p> + +<p>Dead silence, and the story goes on. The Knight of Britain of course +claims to have slain the foe: and the audience faintly, jeeringly +hisses. "He's always the boaster, and he never does anything, the Knight +of Britain," whispers my fat friend. He has forgotten my nationality. I +wonder if the Knight of Britain is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_351" id="Page_351">[Pg 351]</a></span> pure tradition, or if a political +touch of today has crept in.</p> + +<p>However, this fray is over—Merlin comes to advise for the next move. +And are we ready? We are ready. <i>Andiamo!</i> Again the word is yelled out, +and they set off. At first one is all engaged watching the figures: +their brilliance, their blank, martial stare, their sudden, angular, +gestures. There is something extremely suggestive in them. How much +better they fit the old legend-tales than living people would do. Nay, +if we are going to have human beings on the stage, they should be masked +and disguised. For in fact drama is enacted by symbolic creatures formed +out of human consciousness: puppets if you like: but not human +<i>individuals</i>. Our stage is all wrong, so boring in its personality.</p> + +<p>Gradually, however, I found that my eyes were of minor importance. +Gradually it was the voice that gained hold of the blood. It is a +strong, rather husky, male voice that acts direct on the blood, not on +the mind. Again the old male Adam began to stir at the roots of my soul. +Again the old, first-hand indifference, the rich, untamed male blood +rocked down my veins. What does one care? What does one care for precept +and mental dictation? Is there not the massive brilliant, out-flinging +recklessness in the male<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_352" id="Page_352">[Pg 352]</a></span> soul, summed up in the sudden word: <i>Andiamo!</i> +Andiamo! Let us go on. Andiamo!—let us go hell knows where, but let us +go on. The splendid recklessness and passion that knows no precept and +no school-teacher, whose very molten spontaneity is its own guide.</p> + +<p>I loved the voices of the Paladins—Rinaldo's voice, and Orlando's +voice: the voice of men once more, men who are not to be tutored. To be +sure there was Merlin making his long speeches in rather a chuntering, +prosy tone. But who was he? Was he a Paladin and a splendour? Not he. A +long-gowned chunterer. It is the reckless blood which achieves all, the +piff-piff-piffing of the mental and moral intelligence is but a +subsidiary help, a mere instrument.</p> + +<p>The dragon was splendid: I have seen dragons in Wagner, at Covent Garden +and at the Prinz-Regenten Theater in Munich, and they were ridiculous. +But this dragon simply frightened me, with his leaping and twisting. And +when he seized the knight by the leg, my blood ran cold.</p> + +<p>With smoke and sulphur leaps in Beelzebub. But he is merely the servant +of the great old witch. He is black and grinning, and he flourishes his +posterior and his tail. But he is curiously inefficacious: a sort of +lackey of wicked powers.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_353" id="Page_353">[Pg 353]</a></span></p> + +<p>The old witch with her grey hair and staring eyes succeeds in being +ghastly. With just a touch, she would be a tall, benevolent old lady. +But listen to her. Hear her horrible female voice with its scraping +yells of evil lustfulness. Yes, she fills me with horror. And I am +staggered to find how I believe in her as <i>the</i> evil principle. +Beelzebub, poor devil, is only one of her instruments.</p> + +<p>It is her old, horrible, grinning female soul which locks up the heroes, +and which sends forth the awful and almost omnipotent malevolence. This +old, ghastly woman-spirit is the very core of mischief. And I felt my +heart getting as hot against her as the hearts of the lads in the +audience were. Red, deep hate I felt of that symbolic old ghoul-female. +Poor male Beelzebub is her loutish slave. And it takes all Merlin's +bright-faced intelligence, and all the surging hot urgency of the +Paladins, to conquer her.</p> + +<p>She will never be finally destroyed—she will never finally die, till +her statue, which is immured in the vaults of the castle, is +burned.—Oh, it was a very psychoanalytic performance altogether, and +one could give a very good Freudian analysis of it.—But behold this +image of the witch: this white, submerged <i>idea</i> of woman which rules +from the deeps of the unconscious. Behold, the reckless, untamable male +knights<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_354" id="Page_354">[Pg 354]</a></span> will do for it. As the statue goes up in flame—it is only +paper over wires—the audience yells! And yells again. And would God the +symbolic act were really achieved. It is only little boys who yell. Men +merely smile at the trick. They know well enough the white image +endures.</p> + +<p>So it is over. The knights look at us once more. Orlando, hero of +heroes, has a slight inward cast of the eyes. This gives him that look +of almost fierce good-nature which these people adore: the look of a man +who does not think, but whose heart is all the time red hot with +burning, generous blood-passion. This is what they adore.</p> + +<p>So my knights go. They all have wonderful faces, and are so splendidly +glittering and male. I am sorry they will be laid in a box now.</p> + +<p>There is a great gasp of relief. The piano starts its lame rattle. +Somebody looking round laughs. And we all look round. And seated on the +top of the ticket office is a fat, solemn urchin of two or three years, +hands folded over his stomach, his forehead big and blank, like some +queer little Buddha. The audience laughs with that southern sympathy: +physical sympathy: that is what they love to feel and to arouse.</p> + +<p>But there is a little after-scene: in front of the drop-curtain jerks +out a little fat flat caricature of a Neapolitan,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_355" id="Page_355">[Pg 355]</a></span> and from the opposite +side jerks the tall caricature of a Sicilian. They jerk towards one +another and bump into one another with a smack. And smack goes the +Neapolitan, down on his posterior. And the boys howl with joy. It is the +eternal collision between the two peoples, Neapolitan and Sicilian. Now +goes on a lot of fooling between the two clowns, in the two dialects. +Alas, I can hardly understand anything at all. But it sounds comic, and +looks very funny. The Neapolitan of course gets most of the knocks. And +there seems to be no indecency at all—unless once.—The boys howl and +rock with joy, and no one says Silenzio!</p> + +<p>But it is over. All is over. The theatre empties in a moment. And I +shake hands with my fat neighbour, affectionately, and in the right +spirit. Truly I loved them all in the theatre: the generous, hot +southern blood, so subtle and spontaneous, that asks for blood contact, +not for mental communion or spirit sympathy. I was sorry to leave them.</p> + + +<h3>FINIS.</h3> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/backcover.jpg" alt=""/> +</div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Sea and Sardinia, by D. H. 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H. Lawrence + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Sea and Sardinia + +Author: D. H. Lawrence + +Illustrator: Jan Juta + +Release Date: August 26, 2011 [EBook #37206] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SEA AND SARDINIA *** + + + + +Produced by Charlene Taylor, Mary Meehan and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + + + + + + + + + + + SEA AND SARDINIA + + BY D. H. LAWRENCE + + + WITH EIGHT PICTURES + IN COLOR BY + Jan Juta + + [Illustration] + + NEW YORK + THOMAS SELTZER + 1921 + + COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY + THOMAS SELTZER, INC. + + _All rights reserved_ + + _Printed in the United States of America_ + + +[Illustration: OROSEI] + + + + +CONTENTS + + + I. AS FAR AS PALERMO 11 + + II. THE SEA 44 + + III. CAGLIARI 99 + + IV. MANDAS 127 + + V. TO SORGONO 154 + + VI. TO NUORO 212 + + VII. TO TERRANOVA AND THE STEAMER 260 + + VIII. BACK 312 + + + + +LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS + + + OROSEI _Frontispiece_ + + MAP--BY D. H. LAWRENCE 44 + + ISILI 100 + + TONARA 148 + + SORGONO 180 + + FONNI 204 + + GAVOI 236 + + NUORO 268 + + TERRANOVA 300 + + + + +SEA AND SARDINIA + + + + +I. + +AS FAR AS PALERMO. + + +Comes over one an absolute necessity to move. And what is more, to move +in some particular direction. A double necessity then: to get on the +move, and to know whither. + +Why can't one sit still? Here in Sicily it is so pleasant: the sunny +Ionian sea, the changing jewel of Calabria, like a fire-opal moved in +the light; Italy and the panorama of Christmas clouds, night with the +dog-star laying a long, luminous gleam across the sea, as if baying at +us, Orion marching above; how the dog-star Sirius looks at one, looks at +one! he is the hound of heaven, green, glamorous and fierce!--and then +oh regal evening star, hung westward flaring over the jagged dark +precipices of tall Sicily: then Etna, that wicked witch, resting her +thick white snow under heaven, and slowly, slowly rolling her +orange-coloured smoke. They called her the Pillar of Heaven, the +Greeks. It seems wrong at first, for she trails up in a long, magical, +flexible line from the sea's edge to her blunt cone, and does not seem +tall. She seems rather low, under heaven. But as one knows her better, +oh awe and wizardy! Remote under heaven, aloof, so near, yet never with +us. The painters try to paint her, and the photographers to photograph +her, in vain. Because why? Because the near ridges, with their olives +and white houses, these are with us. Because the river-bed, and Naxos +under the lemon groves, Greek Naxos deep under dark-leaved, many-fruited +lemon groves, Etna's skirts and skirt-bottoms, these still are our +world, our own world. Even the high villages among the oaks, on Etna. +But Etna herself, Etna of the snow and secret changing winds, she is +beyond a crystal wall. When I look at her, low, white, witch-like under +heaven, slowly rolling her orange smoke and giving sometimes a breath of +rose-red flame, then I must look away from earth, into the ether, into +the low empyrean. And there, in that remote region, Etna is alone. If +you would see her, you must slowly take off your eyes from the world and +go a naked seer to the strange chamber of the empyrean. Pedestal of +heaven! The Greeks had a sense of the magic truth of things. Thank +goodness one still knows enough about them to find one's kinship at +last. There are so many photographs, there are so infinitely many +water-colour drawings and oil paintings which purport to render Etna. +But pedestal of heaven! You must cross the invisible border. Between the +foreground, which is our own, and Etna, pivot of winds in lower heaven, +there is a dividing line. You must change your state of mind. A +metempsychosis. It is no use thinking you can see and behold Etna and +the foreground both at once. Never. One or the other. Foreground and a +transcribed Etna. Or Etna, pedestal of heaven. + +Why, then, must one go? Why not stay? Ah, what a mistress, this Etna! +with her strange winds prowling round her like Circe's panthers, some +black, some white. With her strange, remote communications and her +terrible dynamic exhalations. She makes men mad. Such terrible +vibrations of wicked and beautiful electricity she throws about her, +like a deadly net! Nay, sometimes, verily, one can feel a new current of +her demon magnetism seize one's living tissue and change the peaceful +life of one's active cells. She makes a storm in the living plasm and a +new adjustment. And sometimes it is like a madness. + +This timeless Grecian Etna, in her lower-heaven loveliness, so lovely, +so lovely, what a torturer! Not many men can really stand her, without +losing their souls. She is like Circe. Unless a man is very strong, she +takes his soul away from him and leaves him not a beast, but an +elemental creature, intelligent and soulless. Intelligent, almost +inspired, and soulless, like the Etna Sicilians. Intelligent daimons, +and humanly, according to us, the most stupid people on earth. Ach, +horror! How many men, how many races, has Etna put to flight? It was she +who broke the quick of the Greek soul. And after the Greeks, she gave +the Romans, the Normans, the Arabs, the Spaniards, the French, the +Italians, even the English, she gave them all their inspired hour and +broke their souls. + +Perhaps it is she one must flee from. At any rate, one must go: and at +once. After having come back only at the end of October, already one +must dash away. And it is only the third of January. And one cannot +afford to move. Yet there you are: at the Etna bidding one goes. + + * * * * * + +Where does one go? There is Girgenti by the south. There is Tunis at +hand. Girgenti, and the sulphur spirit and the Greek guarding temples, +to make one madder? Never. Neither Syracuse and the madness of its great +quarries. Tunis? Africa? Not yet, not yet. Not the Arabs, not yet. +Naples, Rome, Florence? No good at all. Where then? + +Where then? Spain or Sardinia. Spain or Sardinia. Sardinia, which is +like nowhere. Sardinia, which has no history, no date, no race, no +offering. Let it be Sardinia. They say neither Romans nor Phoenicians, +Greeks nor Arabs ever subdued Sardinia. It lies outside; outside the +circuit of civilisation. Like the Basque lands. Sure enough, it is +Italian now, with its railways and its motor-omnibuses. But there is an +uncaptured Sardinia still. It lies within the net of this European +civilisation, but it isn't landed yet. And the net is getting old and +tattered. A good many fish are slipping through the net of the old +European civilisation. Like that great whale of Russia. And probably +even Sardinia. Sardinia then. Let it be Sardinia. + + * * * * * + +There is a fortnightly boat sailing from Palermo--next Wednesday, three +days ahead. Let us go, then. Away from abhorred Etna, and the Ionian +sea, and these great stars in the water, and the almond trees in bud, +and the orange trees heavy with red fruit, and these maddening, +exasperating, impossible Sicilians, who never knew what truth was and +have long lost all notion of what a human being is. A sort of +sulphureous demons. _Andiamo!_ + +But let me confess, in parenthesis, that I am not at all sure whether I +don't really prefer these demons to our sanctified humanity. + +Why does one create such discomfort for oneself! To have to get up in +the middle of the night--half past one--to go and look at the clock. Of +course this fraud of an American watch has stopped, with its impudent +phosphorescent face. Half past one! Half past one, and a dark January +night. Ah, well! Half past one! And an uneasy sleep till at last it is +five o'clock. Then light a candle and get up. + +The dreary black morning, the candle-light, the house looking +night-dismal. Ah, well, one does all these things for one's pleasure. So +light the charcoal fire and put the kettle on. The queen bee shivering +round half dressed, fluttering her unhappy candle. + +"It's fun," she says, shuddering. + +"Great," say I, grim as death. + +First fill the thermos with hot tea. Then fry bacon--good English bacon +from Malta, a god-send, indeed--and make bacon sandwiches. Make also +sandwiches of scrambled eggs. Make also bread and butter. Also a little +toast for breakfast--and more tea. But ugh, who wants to eat at this +unearthly hour, especially when one is escaping from bewitched Sicily. + +Fill the little bag we call the kitchenino. Methylated spirit, a small +aluminium saucepan, a spirit-lamp, two spoons, two forks, a knife, two +aluminium plates, salt, sugar, tea--what else? The thermos flask, the +various sandwiches, four apples, and a little tin of butter. So much for +the kitchenino, for myself and the queen bee. Then my knapsack and the +q-b's handbag. + +Under the lid of the half-cloudy night sky, far away at the rim of the +Ionian sea, the first light, like metal fusing. So swallow the cup of +tea and the bit of toast. Hastily wash up, so that we can find the house +decent when we come back. Shut the door-windows of the upper terrace and +go down. Lock the door: the upper half of the house made fast. + +The sky and sea are parting like an oyster shell, with a low red gape. +Looking across from the veranda at it, one shivers. Not that it is cold. +The morning is not at all cold. But the ominousness of it: that long red +slit between a dark sky and a dark Ionian sea, terrible old bivalve +which has held life between its lips so long. And here, at this house, +we are ledged so awfully above the dawn, naked to it. + +Fasten the door-windows of the lower veranda. One won't fasten at all. +The summer heat warped it one way, the masses of autumn rain warped it +another. Put a chair against it. Lock the last door and hide the key. +Sling the knapsack on one's back, take the kitchenino in one's hand and +look round. The dawn-red widening, between the purpling sea and the +troubled sky. A light in the capucin convent across there. Cocks crowing +and the long, howling, hiccuping, melancholy bray of an ass. "All +females are dead, all females--och! och! och!--hoooo! Ahaa!--there's one +left." So he ends on a moaning grunt of consolation. This is what the +Arabs tell us an ass is howling when he brays. + + * * * * * + +Very dark under the great carob tree as we go down the steps. Dark still +the garden. Scent of mimosa, and then of jasmine. The lovely mimosa tree +invisible. Dark the stony path. The goat whinnies out of her shed. The +broken Roman tomb which lolls right over the garden track does not fall +on me as I slip under its massive tilt. Ah, dark garden, dark garden, +with your olives and your wine, your medlars and mulberries and many +almond trees, your steep terraces ledged high up above the sea, I am +leaving you, slinking out. Out between the rosemary hedges, out of the +tall gate, on to the cruel steep stony road. So under the dark, big +eucalyptus trees, over the stream, and up towards the village. There, I +have got so far. + + * * * * * + +It is full dawn--dawn, not morning, the sun will not have risen. The +village is nearly all dark in the red light, and asleep still. No one +at the fountain by the capucin gate: too dark still. One man leading a +horse round the corner of the Palazzo Corvaia. One or two dark men along +the Corso. And so over the brow, down the steep cobble-stone street +between the houses, and out to the naked hill front. This is the +dawn-coast of Sicily. Nay, the dawn-coast of Europe. Steep, like a vast +cliff, dawn-forward. A red dawn, with mingled curdling dark clouds, and +some gold. It must be seven o'clock. The station down below, by the sea. +And noise of a train. Yes, a train. And we still high on the steep +track, winding downwards. But it is the train from Messina to Catania, +half an hour before ours, which is from Catania to Messina. + + * * * * * + +So jolt, and drop, and jolt down the old road that winds on the cliff +face. Etna across there is smothered quite low, quite low in a dense +puther of ink-black clouds. Playing some devilry in private, no doubt. +The dawn is angry red, and yellow above, the sea takes strange colors. I +hate the station, pigmy, drawn out there beside the sea. On this steep +face, especially in the windless nooks, the almond blossom is already +out. In little puffs and specks and stars, it looks very like bits of +snow scattered by winter. Bits of snow, bits of blossom, fourth day of +the year 1921. Only blossom. And Etna indescribably cloaked and +secretive in her dense black clouds. She has wrapped them quite round +her, quite low round her skirts. + + * * * * * + +At last we are down. We pass the pits where men are burning +lime--red-hot, round pits--and are out on the high-way. Nothing can be +more depressing than an Italian high-road. From Syracuse to Airolo it is +the same: horrible, dreary, slummy high-roads the moment you approach a +village or any human habitation. Here there is an acrid smell of lemon +juice. There is a factory for making citrate. The houses flush on the +road, under the great lime-stone face of the hill, open their slummy +doors, and throw out dirty water and coffee dregs. We walk over the +dirty water and coffee dregs. Mules rattle past with carts. Other people +are going to the station. We pass the Dazio and are there. + + * * * * * + +Humanity is, externally, too much alike. Internally there are +insuperable differences. So one sits and thinks, watching the people on +the station: like a line of caricatures between oneself and the naked +sea and the uneasy, clouding dawn. + +You would look in vain this morning for the swarthy feline southerner of +romance. It might, as far as features are concerned, be an early morning +crowd waiting for the train on a north London suburb station. As far as +features go. For some are fair and some colorless and none racially +typical. The only one that is absolutely like a race caricature is a +tall stout elderly fellow with spectacles and a short nose and a +bristling moustache, and he is the German of the comic papers of twenty +years ago. But he is pure Sicilian. + +They are mostly young fellows going up the line to Messina to their job: +not artizans, lower middle class. And externally, so like any other +clerks and shop-men, only rather more shabby, much less _socially_ +self-conscious. They are lively, they throw their arms round one +another's necks, they all but kiss. One poor chap has had earache, so a +black kerchief is tied round his face, and his black hat is perched +above, and a comic sight he looks. No one seems to think so, however. +Yet they view my arrival with a knapsack on my back with cold +disapprobation, as unseemly as if I had arrived riding on a pig. I ought +to be in a carriage, and the knapsack ought to be a new suit-case. I +know it, but am inflexible. + +That is how they are. Each one thinks he is as handsome as Adonis, and +as "fetching" as Don Juan. Extraordinary! At the same time, all flesh is +grass, and if a few trouser-buttons are missing or if a black hat +perches above a thick black face-muffle and a long excruciated face, it +is all in the course of nature. They seize the black-edged one by the +arm, and in profound commiseration: "Do you suffer? Are you suffering?" +they ask. + +And that also is how they are. So terribly physically all over one +another. They pour themselves one over the other like so much melted +butter over parsnips. They catch each other under the chin, with a +tender caress of the hand, and they smile with sunny melting tenderness +into each other's face. Never in the world have I seen such melting gay +tenderness as between casual Sicilians on railway platforms, whether +they be young lean-cheeked Sicilians or huge stout Sicilians. + +There must be something curious about the proximity of a volcano. Naples +and Catania alike, the men are hugely fat, with great macaroni paunches, +they are expansive and in a perfect drip of casual affection and love. +But the Sicilians are even more wildly exuberant and fat and all over +one another than the Neapolitans. They never leave off being amorously +friendly with almost everybody, emitting a relentless physical +familiarity that is quite bewildering to one not brought up near a +volcano. + +This is more true of the middle classes than of the lower. The working +men are perforce thinner and less exuberant. But they hang together in +clusters, and can never be physically near enough. + + * * * * * + +It is only thirty miles to Messina, but the train takes two hours. It +winds and hurries and stops beside the lavender grey morning sea. A +flock of goats trail over the beach near the lapping wave's edge, +dismally. Great wide deserts of stony river-beds run down to the sea, +and men on asses are picking their way across, and women are kneeling by +the small stream-channel washing clothes. The lemons hang pale and +innumerable in the thick lemon groves. Lemon trees, like Italians, seem +to be happiest when they are touching one another all round. Solid +forests of not very tall lemon trees lie between the steep mountains and +the sea, on the strip of plain. Women, vague in the orchard +under-shadow, are picking the lemons, lurking as if in the undersea. +There are heaps of pale yellow lemons under the trees. They look like +pale, primrose-smouldering fires. Curious how like fires the heaps of +lemons look, under the shadow of foliage, seeming to give off a pallid +burning amid the suave, naked, greenish trunks. When there comes a +cluster of orange trees, the oranges are red like coals among the darker +leaves. But lemons, lemons, innumerable, speckled like innumerable tiny +stars in the green firmament of leaves. So many lemons! Think of all +the lemonade crystals they will be reduced to! Think of America drinking +them up next summer. + + * * * * * + +I always wonder why such vast wide river-beds of pale boulders come out +of the heart of the high-rearing, dramatic stone mountains, a few miles +to the sea. A few miles only: and never more than a few threading +water-trickles in river-beds wide enough for the Rhine. But that is how +it is. The landscape is ancient, and classic--romantic, as if it had +known far-off days and fiercer rivers and more verdure. Steep, craggy, +wild, the land goes up to its points and precipices, a tangle of +heights. But all jammed on top of one another. And in old landscapes, as +in old people, the flesh wears away, and the bones become prominent. +Rock sticks up fantastically. The jungle of peaks in this old Sicily. + + * * * * * + +The sky is all grey. The Straits are grey. Reggio, just across the +water, is white looking, under the great dark toe of Calabria, the toe +of Italy. On Aspromonte there is grey cloud. It is going to rain. After +such marvelous ringing blue days, it is going to rain. What luck! + + * * * * * + +Aspromonte! Garibaldi! I could always cover my face when I see it, +Aspromonte. I wish Garibaldi had been prouder. Why did he go off so +humbly, with his bag of seed-corn and a flea in his ear, when His +Majesty King Victor Emmanuel arrived with his little short legs on the +scene. Poor Garibaldi! He wanted to be a hero and a dictator of free +Sicily. Well, one can't be a dictator and humble at the same time. One +must be a hero, which he was, and proud, which he wasn't. Besides people +don't nowadays choose proud heroes for governors. Anything but. They +prefer constitutional monarchs, who are paid servants and who know it. +That is democracy. Democracy admires its own servants and nothing else. +And you couldn't make a real servant even of Garibaldi. Only of His +Majesty King Victor Emmanuel. So Italy chose Victor Emmanuel, and +Garibaldi went off with a corn bag and a whack on the behind like a +humble ass. + + * * * * * + +It is raining--dismally, dismally raining. And this is Messina coming. +Oh horrible Messina, earthquake-shattered and renewing your youth like a +vast mining settlement, with rows and streets and miles of concrete +shanties, squalor and a big street with shops and gaps and broken houses +still, just back of the tram-lines, and a dreary squalid +earthquake-hopeless port in a lovely harbor. People don't forget and +don't recover. The people of Messina seem to be today what they were +nearly twenty years ago, after the earthquake: people who have had a +terrible shock, and for whom all life's institutions are really nothing, +neither civilization nor purpose. The meaning of everything all came +down with a smash in that shuddering earthquake, and nothing remains but +money and the throes of some sort of sensation. Messina between the +volcanoes, Etna and Stromboli, having known the death-agony's terror. I +always dread coming near the awful place, yet I have found the people +kind, almost feverishly so, as if they knew the awful need for kindness. + + * * * * * + +Raining, raining hard. Clambering down on to the wet platform and +walking across the wet lines to the cover. Many human beings scurrying +across the wet lines, among the wet trains, to get out into the ghastly +town beyond. Thank heaven one need not go out into the town. Two +convicts chained together among the crowd--and two soldiers. The +prisoners wear fawny homespun clothes, of cloth such as the peasants +weave, with irregularly occurring brown stripes. Rather nice handmade +rough stuff. But linked together, dear God! And those horrid caps on +their hairless foreheads. No hair. Probably they are going to a convict +station on the Lipari islands. The people take no notice. + +No, but convicts are horrible creatures: at least, the old one is, with +his long, nasty face: his long, clean-shaven, horrible face, without +emotions, or with emotions one cannot follow. Something cold, sightless. +A sightless, ugly look. I should loathe to have to touch him. Of the +other I am not so sure. He is younger, and with dark eyebrows. But a +roundish, softish face, with a sort of leer. No, evil is horrible. I +used to think there was no absolute evil. Now I know there is a great +deal. So much that it threatens life altogether. That ghastly +abstractness of criminals. They don't _know_ any more what other people +feel. Yet some horrible force drives them. + +It is a great mistake to abolish the death penalty. If I were dictator, +I should order the old one to be hung at once. I should have judges with +sensitive, living hearts: not abstract intellects. And because the +instinctive heart recognised a man as evil, I would have that man +destroyed. Quickly. Because good warm life is now in danger. + + * * * * * + +Standing on Messina station--dreary, dreary hole--and watching the +winter rain and seeing the pair of convicts, I must remember again Oscar +Wilde on Reading platform, a convict. What a terrible mistake, to let +oneself be martyred by a lot of canaille. A man must say his say. But +_noli me tangere_. + +Curious these people are. Up and down, up and down go a pair of +officials. The young one in a black gold-laced cap talks to the elder in +a scarlet gold-laced cap. And he walks, the young one, with a mad little +hop, and his fingers fly as if he wanted to scatter them to the four +winds of heaven, and his words go off like fireworks, with more than +Sicilian speed. On and on, up and down, and his eye is dark and excited +and unseeing, like the eye of a fleeing rabbit. Strange and beside +itself is humanity. + + * * * * * + +What a lot of officials! You know them by their caps. Elegant tubby +little officials in kid-and-patent boots and gold-laced caps, tall +long-nosed ones in more gold-laced caps, like angels in and out of the +gates of heaven they thread in and out of the various doors. As far as I +can see, there are three scarlet station-masters, five black-and-gold +substation-masters, and a countless number of principalities and powers +in more or less broken boots and official caps. They are like bees round +a hive, humming in an important _conversazione_, and occasionally +looking at some paper or other, and extracting a little official honey. +But the _conversazione_ is the affair of affairs. To an Italian +official, life seems to be one long and animated conversation--the +Italian word is better--interrupted by casual trains and telephones. And +besides the angels of heaven's gates, there are the mere ministers, +porters, lamp-cleaners, etc. These stand in groups and talk socialism. A +lamp-man slashes along, swinging a couple of lamps. Bashes one against a +barrow. Smash goes the glass. Looks down as if to say, What do you mean +by it? Glances over his shoulder to see if any member of the higher +hierarchies is looking. Seven members of higher hierarchies are +assiduously not looking. On goes the minister with the lamp, blithely. +Another pane or two gone. _Vogue la galere._ + +Passengers have gathered again, some in hoods, some in nothing. Youths +in thin, paltry clothes stand out in the pouring rain as if they did not +know it was raining. One sees their coat-shoulders soaked. And yet they +do not trouble to keep under shelter. Two large station dogs run about +and trot through the standing trains, just like officials. They climb up +the footboard, hop into a train and hop out casually when they feel like +it. Two or three port-porters, in canvas hats as big as umbrellas, +literally, spreading like huge fins over their shoulders, are looking +into more empty trains. More and more people appear. More and more +official caps stand about. It rains and rains. The train for Palermo +and the train for Syracuse are both an hour late already, coming from +the port. Flea-bite. Though these are the great connections from Rome. + +Loose locomotives trundle back and forth, vaguely, like black dogs +running and turning back. The port is only four minutes' walk. If it +were not raining so hard, we would go down, walk along the lines and get +into the waiting train down there. Anybody may please himself. There is +the funnel of the great unwieldy ferry-object--she is just edging in. +That means the connection from the mainland at last. But it is cold, +standing here. We eat a bit of bread and butter from the kitchenino in +resignation. After all, what is an hour and a half? It might just as +easily be five hours, as it was the last time we came down from Rome. +And the _wagon-lit_, booked to Syracuse, calmly left stranded in the +station of Messina, to go no further. All get out and find yourselves +rooms for the night in vile Messina. Syracuse or no Syracuse, Malta boat +or no Malta boat. We are the _Ferrovia dello Stato_. + +But there, why grumble. Noi Italiani siamo cosi buoni. Take it from +their own mouth. + + * * * * * + +Ecco! Finalmente! The crowd is quite joyful as the two express trains +surge proudly in, after their half-a-mile creep. Plenty of room, for +once. Though the carriage floor is a puddle, and the roof leaks. This +is second class. + + * * * * * + +Slowly, with two engines, we grunt and chuff and twist to get over the +break-neck heights that shut Messina in from the north coast. The +windows are opaque with steam and drops of rain. No matter--tea from the +thermos flask, to the great interest of the other two passengers who had +nervously contemplated the unknown object. + +"Ha!" says he with joy, seeing the hot tea come out. "It has the +appearance of a bomb." + +"Beautiful hot!" says she, with real admiration. All apprehension at +once dissipated, peace reigns in the wet, mist-hidden compartment. We +run through miles and miles of tunnel. The Italians have made wonderful +roads and railways. + + * * * * * + +If one rubs the window and looks out, lemon groves with many wet-white +lemons, earthquake-broken houses, new shanties, a grey weary sea on the +right hand, and on the left the dim, grey complication of steep heights +from which issue stone river-beds of inordinate width, and sometimes a +road, a man on a mule. Sometimes near at hand, long-haired, melancholy +goats leaning sideways like tilted ships under the eaves of some scabby +house. They call the house-eaves the dogs' umbrellas. In town you see +the dogs trotting close under the wall out of the wet. Here the goats +lean like rock, listing inwards to the plaster wall. Why look out? + +Sicilian railways are all single line. Hence, the _coincidenza_. A +_coincidenza_ is where two trains meet in a loop. You sit in a world of +rain and waiting until some silly engine with four trucks puffs +alongside. Ecco la coincidenza! Then after a brief _conversazione_ +between the two trains, _diretto_ and _merce_, express and goods, the +tin horn sounds and away we go, happily, towards the next coincidence. +Clerks away ahead joyfully chalk up our hours of lateness on the +announcement slate. All adds to the adventurous flavour of the journey, +dear heart. We come to a station where we find the other diretto, the +express from the other direction, awaiting our coincidential arrival. +The two trains run alongside one another, like two dogs meeting in the +street and snuffing one another. Every official rushes to greet every +other official, as if they were all David and Jonathan meeting after a +crisis. They rush into each other's arms and exchange cigarettes. And +the trains can't bear to part. And the station can't bear to part with +us. The officials tease themselves and us with the word _pronto_, +meaning _ready!_ Pronto! And again Pronto! And shrill whistles. +Anywhere else a train would go off its tormented head. But no! Here only +that angel's trump of an official little horn will do the business. And +get them to blow that horn if you can. They can't bear to part. + + * * * * * + +Rain, continual rain, a level grey wet sky, a level grey wet sea, a wet +and misty train winding round and round the little bays, diving through +tunnels. Ghosts of the unpleasant-looking Lipari islands standing a +little way out to sea, heaps of shadow deposited like rubbish heaps in +the universal greyness. + + * * * * * + +Enter more passengers. An enormously large woman with an extraordinarily +handsome face: an extraordinarily large man, quite young: and a +diminutive servant, a little girl-child of about thirteen, with a +beautiful face.--But the Juno--it is she who takes my breath away. She +is quite young, in her thirties still. She has that queenly stupid +beauty of a classic Hera: a pure brow with level dark brows, large, +dark, bridling eyes, a straight nose, a chiselled mouth, an air of +remote self-consciousness. She sends one's heart straight back to pagan +days. And--and--she is simply enormous, like a house. She wears a black +toque with sticking-up wings, and a black rabbit fur spread on her +shoulders. She edges her way in carefully: and once seated, is +terrified to rise to her feet. She sits with that motionlessness of her +type, closed lips, face muted and expressionless. And she expects me to +admire her: I can see that. She expects me to pay homage to her beauty: +just to that: not homage to herself, but to her as a _bel pezzo_. She +casts little aloof glances at me under her eyelids. + +It is evident she is a country beauty become a _bourgeoise_. She speaks +unwillingly to the other squint-eyed passenger, a young woman who also +wears a black-rabbit fur, but without pretensions. + +The husband of Juno is a fresh-faced bourgeois young fellow, and he also +is simply huge. His waistcoat would almost make the overcoat of the +fourth passenger, the unshaven companion of the squinting young woman. +The young Jupiter wears kid gloves: a significant fact here. He, too, +has pretensions. But he is quite affable with the unshaven one, and +speaks Italian unaffectedly. Whereas Juno speaks the dialect with +affectation. + +No one takes any notice of the little maid. She has a gentle, virgin +moon-face, and those lovely grey Sicilian eyes that are translucent, and +into which the light sinks and becomes black sometimes, sometimes dark +blue. She carries the bag and the extra coat of the huge Juno, and sits +on the edge of the seat between me and the unshaven, Juno having +motioned her there with a regal inclination of the head. + +The little maid is rather frightened. Perhaps she is an orphan +child--probably. Her nut-brown hair is smoothly parted and done in two +pigtails. She wears no hat, as is proper for her class. On her shoulders +one of those little knitted grey shoulder-capes that one associates with +orphanages. Her stuff dress is dark grey, her boots are strong. + +The smooth, moon-like, expressionless virgin face, rather pale and +touching, rather frightened, of the girl-child. A perfect face from a +mediaeval picture. It moves one strangely. Why? It is so unconscious, as +we are conscious. Like a little muted animal it sits there, in distress. +She is going to be sick. She goes into the corridor and is sick--very +sick, leaning her head like a sick dog on the window-ledge. Jupiter +towers above her--not unkind, and apparently feeling no repugnance. The +physical convulsion of the girl does not affect him as it affects us. He +looks on unmoved, merely venturing to remark that she had eaten too much +before coming on to the train. An obviously true remark. After which he +comes and talks a few common-places to me. By and by the girl-child +creeps in again and sits on the edge of the seat facing Juno. But no, +says Juno, if she is sick she will be sick over me. So Jupiter +accommodatingly changes places with the girl-child, who is thus next to +me. She sits on the edge of the seat with folded little red hands, her +face pale and expressionless. Beautiful the thin line of her nut-brown +eyebrows, the dark lashes of the silent, pellucid dark eyes. Silent, +motionless, like a sick animal. + +But Juno tells her to wipe her splashed boots. The child gropes for a +piece of paper. Juno tells her to take her pocket handkerchief. Feebly +the sick girl-child wipes her boots, then leans back. But no good. She +has to go in the corridor and be sick again. + +After a while they all get out. Queer to see people so natural. Neither +Juno nor Jupiter is in the least unkind. He even seems kind. But they +are just not upset. Not half as upset as we are--the q-b wanting to +administer tea, and so on. We should have to hold the child's head. They +just quite naturally leave it alone to its convulsions, and are neither +distressed nor repelled. It just is so. + +Their naturalness seems unnatural to us. Yet I am sure it is best. +Sympathy would only complicate matters, and spoil that strange, remote +virginal quality. The q-b says it is largely stupidity. + + * * * * * + +Nobody washes out the corner of the corridor, though we stop at +stations long enough, and there are two more hours journey. Train +officials go by and stare, passengers step over and stare, new-comers +stare and step over. Somebody asks _who_? Nobody thinks of just throwing +a pail of water. Why should they? It is all in the course of +nature.--One begins to be a bit chary of this same "nature", in the +south. + + * * * * * + +Enter two fresh passengers: a black-eyed, round-faced, bright-sharp man +in corduroys and with a gun, and a long-faced, fresh-colored man with +thick snowy hair, and a new hat and a long black overcoat of smooth +black cloth, lined with rather ancient, once expensive fur. He is +extremely proud of this long black coat and ancient fur lining. +Childishly proud he wraps it again over his knee, and gloats. The beady +black-eyes of the hunter look round with pleased alertness. He sits +facing the one in the overcoat, who looks like the last sprout of some +Norman blood. The hunter in corduroys beams abroad, with beady black +eyes in a round red face, curious. And the other tucks his fur-lined +long coat between his legs and gloats to himself: all to himself +gloating, and looking as if he were deaf. But no, he's not. He wears +muddy high-low boots. + +At Termini it is already lamp-light. Business men crowd in. We get five +business men: all stout, respected Palermitans. The one opposite me has +whiskers, and a many-colored, patched traveling rug over his fat knees. +Queer how they bring that feeling of physical intimacy with them. You +are never surprised if they begin to take off their boots, or their +collar-and-tie. The whole world is a sort of bedroom to them. One +shrinks, but in vain. + +There is some conversation between the black-eyed, beady hunter and the +business men. Also the young white-haired one, the aristocrat, tries to +stammer out, at great length, a few words. As far as I can gather the +young one is mad--or deranged--and the other, the hunter, is his keeper. +They are traveling over Europe together. There is some talk of "the +Count". And the hunter says the unfortunate "has had an accident." But +that is a southern gentleness presumably, a form of speech. Anyhow it is +queer: and the hunter in his corduroys, with his round, ruddy face and +strange black-bright eyes and thin black hair is a puzzle to me, even +more than the albino, long-coated, long-faced, fresh-complexioned, queer +last remnant of a baron as he is. They are both muddy from the land, and +pleased in a little mad way of their own. + +But it is half-past six. We are at Palermo, capital of Sicily. The +hunter slings his gun over his shoulder, I my knapsack, and in the +throng we all disappear, into the Via Maqueda. + + * * * * * + +Palermo has two great streets, the Via Maqueda, and the Corso, which +cross each other at right-angles. The Via Maqueda is narrow, with narrow +little pavements, and is always choked with carriages and +foot-passengers. + +It had ceased raining. But the narrow road was paved with large, convex +slabs of hard stone, inexpressibly greasy. To cross the Via Maqueda +therefore was a feat. However, once accomplished, it was done. The near +end of the street was rather dark, and had mostly vegetable shops. +Abundance of vegetables--piles of white-and-green fennel, like celery, +and great sheaves of young, purplish, sea-dust-colored artichokes, +nodding their buds, piles of big radishes, scarlet and bluey purple, +carrots, long strings of dried figs, mountains of big oranges, scarlet +large peppers, a last slice of pumpkin, a great mass of colors and +vegetable freshnesses. A mountain of black-purple cauliflowers, like +niggers' heads, and a mountain of snow-white ones next to them. How the +dark, greasy, night-stricken street seems to beam with these vegetables, +all this fresh delicate flesh of luminous vegetables piled there in the +air, and in the recesses of the windowless little caverns of the shops, +and gleaming forth on the dark air, under the lamps. The q-b at once +wants to buy vegetables. "Look! Look at the snow-white broccoli. Look at +the huge finocchi. Why don't we get them? I _must_ have some. Look at +those great clusters of dates--ten francs a kilo, and we pay sixteen. +It's monstrous. Our place is simply monstrous." + +For all that, one doesn't buy vegetables to take to Sardinia. + +Cross the Corso at that decorated maelstrom and death-trap of the +Quattro Canti. I, of course, am nearly knocked down and killed. Somebody +is nearly knocked down and killed every two minutes. But there--the +carriages are light, and the horses curiously aware creatures. They +would never tread on one. + +The second part of the Via Maqueda is the swell part: silks and plumes, +and an infinite number of shirts and ties and cuff-links and mufflers +and men's fancies. One realises here that man-drapery and man-underwear +is quite as important as woman's, if not more. + +I, of course, in a rage. The q-b stares at every rag and stitch, and +crosses and re-crosses this infernal dark stream of a Via Maqueda, +which, as I have said, is choked solid with strollers and carriages. Be +it remembered that I have on my back the brown knapsack, and the q-b +carries the kitchenino. This is enough to make a travelling menagerie +of us. If I had my shirt sticking out behind, and if the q-b had +happened merely to catch up the table-cloth and wrap it round her as she +came out, all well and good. But a big brown knapsack! And a basket with +thermos flask, etc! No, one could not expect such things to pass in a +southern capital. + +But I am case-hardened. And I am sick of shops. True, we have not been +in a town for three months. But _can_ I care for the innumerable +_fantasias_ in the drapery line? Every wretched bit of would-be-extra +chic is called a fantasia. The word goes lugubriously to my bowels. + +Suddenly I am aware of the q-b darting past me like a storm. Suddenly I +see her pouncing on three giggling young hussies just in front--the +inevitable black velveteen tam, the inevitable white curly muffler, the +inevitable lower-class flappers. "Did you want something? Have you +something to say? Is there something that amuses you? Oh-h! You must +laugh, must you? Oh--laugh! Oh-h! Why? Why? You ask why? Haven't I heard +you! Oh--you spik Ingleesh! You spik Ingleesh! Yes--why! That's why! +Yes, that's why." + +The three giggling young hussies shrink together as if they would all +hide behind one another, after a vain uprearing and a demand why? Madam +tells them why. So they uncomfortably squeeze together under the +unexpected strokes of the q-b's sledge-hammer Italian and more than +sledge-hammer retaliation, there full in the Via Maqueda. They edge +round one another, each attempting to get back of the other, away from +the looming q-b. I perceive that this rotary motion is equivalent to a +standstill, so feel called upon to say something in the manly line. + +"Beastly Palermo bad-manners," I say, and throw a nonchalant "Ignoranti" +at the end, in a tone of dismissal. + +Which does it. Off they go down-stream, still huddling and shrinking +like boats that are taking sails in, and peeping to see if we are +coming. Yes, my dears, we are coming. + +"Why do you bother?" say I to the q-b, who is towering with rage. + +"They've followed us the whole length of the street--with their _sacco +militario_ and their _parlano inglese_ and their _you spik Ingleesh_, +and their jeering insolence. But the English are fools. They always put +up with this Italian impudence." + +Which is perhaps true.--But this knapsack! It might be full of +bronze-roaring geese, it would not attract more attention! + +However, and however, it is seven o'clock, and the shops are beginning +to shut. No more shop-gazing. Only one lovely place: raw ham, boiled +ham, chickens in aspic, chicken vol-au-vents, sweet curds, curd-cheese, +rustic cheese-cake, smoked sausages, beautiful fresh mortadella, huge +Mediterranean red lobsters, and those lobsters without claws. "So good! +So good!" We stand and cry it aloud. + +But this shop too is shutting. I ask a man for the Hotel Pantechnico. +And treating me in that gentle, strangely tender southern manner, he +takes me and shows me. He makes me feel such a poor, frail, helpless +leaf. A foreigner, you know. A bit of an imbecile, poor dear. Hold his +hand and show him the way. + + * * * * * + +To sit in the room of this young American woman, with its blue hangings, +and talk and drink tea till midnght! Ah these naive Americans--they are +a good deal older and shrewder than we, once it nears the point. And +they all seem to feel as if the world were coming to an end. And they +are so truly generous of their hospitality, in this cold world. + + + + +II. + +THE SEA. + + +The fat old porter knocks. Ah me, once more it is dark. Get up again +before dawn. A dark sky outside, cloudy. The thrilling tinkle of +innumerable goat-bells as the first flock enters the city, such a +rippling sound. Well, it must be morning, even if one shivers at it. And +at least it does not rain. + + * * * * * + +That pale, bluish, theatrical light outside, of the first dawn. And a +cold wind. We come on to the wide, desolate quay, the curve of the +harbour Panormus. That horrible dawn-pallor of a cold sea out there. And +here, port mud, greasy: and fish: and refuse. The American girl is with +us, wrapped in her sweater. A coarse, cold, black-slimy world, she seems +as if she would melt away before it. But these frail creatures, what a +lot they can go through! + +[Illustration: MAP FOR SEA AND SARDINIA] + +Across the great, wide, badly paved, mud-greasy, despairing road of the +quay side, and to the sea. There lies our steamer, over there in the +dawn-dusk of the basin, half visible. "That one who is smoking her +cigarette," says the porter. She looks little, beside the huge _City of +Trieste_ who is lying up next her. + + * * * * * + +Our row-boat is hemmed in by many empty boats, huddled to the side of +the quay. She works her way out like a sheepdog working his way out of a +flock of sheep, or like a boat through pack-ice. We are on the open +basin. The rower stands up and pushes the oars from him. He gives a +long, melancholy cry to someone on the quay. The water goes chock-chock +against the urging bows. The wind is chill. The fantastic peaks behind +Palermo show half-ghostly in a half-dark sky. The dawn seems reluctant +to come. Our steamer still smokes her cigarette--meaning the +funnel-smoke--across there. So, one sits still, and crosses the level +space of half-dark water. Masts of sailing-ships, and spars, cluster on +the left, on the undarkening sky. + + * * * * * + +Climb up, climb up, this is our ship. Up we go, up the ladder. "Oh but!" +says the American girl. "Isn't she small! Isn't she impossibly small! Oh +my, will you go in such a little thing? Oh dear! Thirty two hours in +such a little boat? Why no, I wouldn't care for it at all." + +A bunch of stewards, cooks, waiters, engineers, pan-cleaners and +what-not, mostly in black canvas jackets. Nobody else on the ship. A +little black bunch of loutish crew with nothing to do, and we the first +passengers served up to be jeered at. There you are, in the grey light. + +"Who is going?" + +"We two--the signorina is not going." + +"Tickets!" + +These are casual proletarian manners. + +We are taken into the one long room with a long table and many +maple-golden doors, alternate panels having a wedge-wood blue-and-white +picture inserted--a would-be Goddess of white marble on a blue ground, +like a health-salts Hygeia advertisement. One of the plain panels +opens--our cabin. + +"Oh dear! Why it isn't as big as a china-closet. However will you get +in!" cries the American girl. + +"One at a time," say I. + +"But it's the tiniest place I _ever_ saw." + +It really was tiny. One had to get into a bunk to shut the door. That +did not matter to me, I am no Titanic American. I pitched the knapsack +on one bunk, the kitchenino on the other, and we shut the door. The +cabin disappeared into a maple-wood panel of the long, subterranean +state-room. + +"Why, is this the only place you've got to sit in?" cried the American +girl. "But how perfectly awful! No air, and so dark, and smelly. Why I +never saw such a boat! Will you really go? Will you really!" + +The state-room was truly rather subterranean and stuffy, with nothing +but a long table and an uncanny company of screw-pin chairs seated +thereat, and no outlet to the air at all, but it was not so bad +otherwise, to me who have never been out of Europe. Those maple-wood +panels and ebony curves--and those Hygeias! They went all round, even +round the curve at the dim, distant end, and back up the near side. Yet +how beautiful old, gold-coloured maple-wood is! how very lovely, with +the ebony curves of the door arch! There was a wonderful old-fashioned, +Victorian glow in it, and a certain splendour. Even one could bear the +Hygeias let in under glass--the colour was right, that wedge-wood and +white, in such lovely gold lustre. There was a certain homely grandeur +still in the days when this ship was built: a richness of choice +material. And health-salts Hygeias, wedge-wood Greek goddesses on +advertisement placards! Yet they _weren't_ advertisements. That was +what really worried me. They never had been. Perhaps Weego's Health +Salts stole her later. + + * * * * * + +We have no coffee--that goes without saying. Nothing doing so early. The +crew still stands in a gang, exactly like a gang of louts at a +street-corner. And they've got the street all to themselves--this ship. +We climb to the upper deck. + + * * * * * + +She is a long, slender, old steamer with one little funnel. And she +seems so deserted, now that one can't see the street-corner gang of the +casual crew. They are just below. Our ship is deserted. + +The dawn is wanly blueing. The sky is a curdle of cloud, there is a bit +of pale gold eastwards, beyond Monte Pellegrino. The wind blows across +the harbour. The hills behind Palermo prick up their ears on the +sky-line. The city lies unseen, near us and level. There--a big ship is +coming in: the Naples boat. + +And the little boats keep putting off from the near quay, and coming to +us. We watch. A stout officer, cavalry, in grayey-green, with a big +dark-blue cloak lined with scarlet. The scarlet lining keeps flashing. +He has a little beard, and his uniform is not quite clean. He has big +wooden chests, tied with rope, for luggage. Poor and of no class. Yet +that scarlet, splendid lining, and the spurs. It seems a pity they must +go second-class. Yet so it is, he goes forward when the dock porter has +hoisted those wooden boxes. No fellow-passenger yet. + +Boats still keep coming. Ha-ha! Here is the commissariat! Various sides +of kid, ready for roasting: various chickens: fennel like celery: wine +in a bottiglione: new bread: packages! Hand them up, hand them up. "Good +food!" cries the q-b in anticipation. + +It must be getting near time to go. Two more passengers--young thick men +in black broad-cloth standing up in the stern of a little boat, their +hands in their pockets, looking a little cold about the chin. Not quite +Italian, too sturdy and manly. Sardinians from Cagliari, as a matter of +fact. + + * * * * * + +We go down from the chill upper-deck. It is growing full day. Bits of +pale gold are flying among delicate but cold flakes of cloud from the +east, over Monte Pellegrino, bits of very new turquoise sky come out. +Palermo on the left crouches upon her all-harbour--a little desolate, +disorderly, end-of-the-world, end-of-the-sea, along her quay front. Even +from here we can see the yellow carts rattling slowly, the mules +nodding their high weird plumes of scarlet along the broad weary +harbour-side. Oh painted carts of Sicily, with all history on your +panels! + + * * * * * + +Arrives an individual at our side. "The captain fears it will not be +possible to start. There is much wind outside. Much wind!" + +How they _love_ to come up with alarming, disquieting, or annoying news! +The joy it gives them. What satisfaction on all the faces: of course all +the other loafers are watching us, the street-corner loungers of this +deck. But we have been many times bitten. + +"Ah ma!" say I, looking at the sky, "not so much wind as all that." + +An air of quiet, shrugging indifference is most effectual: as if you +knew all about it, a good deal more than they knew. + +"Ah si! Molto vento! Molto vento! Outside! Outside!" + +With a long face and a dramatic gesture he points out of the harbour, to +the grey sea. I too look out of the harbour at the pale line of sea +beyond the mole. But I do not trouble to answer, and my eye is calm. So +he goes away, only half triumphant. + + * * * * * + +"Things seem to get worse and worse!" cries the American friend. "What +will you do on such a boat if you have an awful time out in the +Mediterranean here? Oh no--will you risk it, really? Won't you go from +Civita Vecchia?" + +"How awful it will be!" cries the q-b, looking round the grey harbour, +the many masts clustering in the grey sky on the right: the big Naples +boat turning her posterior to the quay-side a little way off, and +cautiously budging backwards: the almost entirely shut-in harbour: the +bits of blue and flying white cloud overhead: the little boats like +beetles scuttling hither and thither across the basin: the thick crowd +on the quay come to meet the Naples boat. + + * * * * * + +Time! Time! The American friend must go. She bids us goodbye, more than +sympathetically. + +"I shall be awfully interested to hear how you get on." + +So down the side she goes. The boatman wants twenty francs--wants +more--but doesn't get it. He gets ten, which is five too much. And so, +sitting rather small and pinched and cold-looking, huddled in her +sweater, she bibbles over the ripply water to the distant stone steps. +We wave farewell. But other traffic comes between us. And the q-b, +feeling nervous, is rather cross because the American friend's ideas of +luxury have put us in such a poor light. We feel like the poorest of +poor sea-faring relations. + + * * * * * + +Our ship is hooting for all she's worth. An important last-minuter comes +surging up. The rope hawsers are being wound clankily in. Seagulls--they +are never very many in the Mediterranean--seagulls whirl like a few +flakes of snow in the upper chill air. Clouds spin. And without knowing +it we are evaporating away from the shore, from our mooring, between the +great _City of Trieste_ and another big black steamer that lies like a +wall. We breathe towards this second black wall of steamer: distinctly. +And of course an individual in an official cap is standing on the bottom +of our departure ladder just above the water, yelling Barca! +Barca!--shouting for a boat. And an old man on the sea stands up to his +oars and comes pushing his clumsy boat with gathering speed between us +and the other black wall. There he stands away below there, small, +firing his clumsy boat along, remote as if in a picture on the dark +green water. And our black side insidiously and evilly aspires to the +other huge black wall. He rows in the canyon between, and is nearly +here. + +When lo, the individual on the bottom step turns in the other direction. +Another boat from the open basin is sweeping up: it is a race: she is +near, she is nearer, she is up. With a curvet the boat from the open +rounds up at the ladder. The boat between the gulf backs its oars. The +official individual shouts and waves, the old man backing his oars in +the gulf below yells expostulation, the boat from the open carries off +its prey, our ship begins slowly to puddle-puddle-puddle, working her +screw, the man in the gulf of green water rows for his life--we are +floating into the open basin. + +Slowly, slowly we turn round: and as the ship turns, our hearts turn. +Palermo fades from our consciousness: the Naples boat, the disembarking +crowds, the rattling carriages to the land--the great _City of +Trieste_--all fades from our heart. We see only the open gap of the +harbour entrance, and the level, pale-grey void of the sea beyond. There +are wisps of gleamy light--out there. + +And out there our heart watches--though Palermo is near us, just behind. +We look round, and see it all behind us--but already it is gone, gone +from our heart. The fresh wind, the gleamy wisps of light, the running, +open sea beyond the harbour bars. + + * * * * * + +And so we steam out. And almost at once the ship begins to take a long, +slow, dizzy dip, and a fainting swoon upwards, and a long, slow, dizzy +dip, slipping away from beneath one. The q-b turns pale. Up comes the +deck in that fainting swoon backwards--then down it fades in that +indescribable slither forwards. It is all quite gentle--quite, quite +gentle. But oh, so long, and so slow, and so dizzy. + +"Rather pleasant!" say I to the q-b. + +"Yes. Rather lovely _really_," she answers wistfully. To tell the truth +there is something in the long, slow lift of the ship, and her long, +slow slide forwards which makes my heart beat with joy. It is the motion +of freedom. To feel her come up--then slide slowly forward, with a sound +of the smashing of waters, is like the magic gallop of the sky, the +magic gallop of elemental space. That long, slow, waveringly rhythmic +rise and fall of the ship, with waters snorting as it were from her +nostrils, oh God what a joy it is to the wild innermost soul. One is +free at last--and lilting in a slow flight of the elements, winging +outwards. Oh God, to be free of all the hemmed-in life--the horror of +human tension, the absolute insanity of machine persistence. The agony +which a train is to me, really. And the long-drawn-out agony of a life +among tense, resistant people on land. And then to feel the long, slow +lift and drop of this almost empty ship, as she took the waters. Ah God, +liberty, liberty, elemental liberty. I wished in my soul the voyage +might last forever, that the sea had no end, that one might float in +this wavering, tremulous, yet long and surging pulsation while ever time +lasted: space never exhausted, and no turning back, no looking back, +even. + + * * * * * + +The ship was almost empty--save of course for the street-corner louts +who hung about just below, on the deck itself. We stood alone on the +weather-faded little promenade deck, which has old oak seats with old, +carved little lions at the ends, for arm-rests--and a little cabin +mysteriously shut, which much peeping determined as the wireless office +and the operator's little curtained bed-niche. + + * * * * * + +Cold, fresh wind, a black-blue, translucent, rolling sea on which the +wake rose in snapping foam, and Sicily on the left: Monte Pellegrino, a +huge, inordinate mass of pinkish rock, hardly crisped with the faintest +vegetation, looming up to heaven from the sea. Strangely large in mass +and bulk Monte Pellegrino looks: and bare, like a Sahara in heaven: and +old-looking. These coasts of Sicily are very imposing, terrific, +fortifying the interior. And again one gets the feeling that age has +worn them bare: as if old, old civilisations had worn away and exhausted +the soil, leaving a terrifying blankness of rock, as at Syracuse in +plateaus, and here in a great mass. + + * * * * * + +There seems hardly any one on board but ourselves: we alone on the +little promenade deck. Strangely lonely, floating on a bare old ship +past the great bare shores, on a rolling sea, stooping and rising in the +wind. The wood of the fittings is all bare and weather-silvered, the +cabin, the seats, even the little lions of the seats. The paint wore +away long ago: and this timber will never see paint any more. Strange to +put one's hand on the old oaken wood, so sea-fibred. Good old +delicate-threaded oak: I swear it grew in England. And everything so +carefully done, so solidly and everlastingly. I look at the lions, with +the perfect-fitting oaken pins through their paws clinching them down, +and their little mouths open. They are as solid as they were in +Victorian days, as immovable. They will never wear away. What a joy in +the careful, thorough, manly, everlasting work put into a ship: at least +into this sixty-year-old vessel. Every bit of this old oak wood so +sound, so beautiful: and the whole welded together with joints and +wooden pins far more beautifully and livingly than iron welds. Rustless, +life-born, living-tissued old wood: rustless as flesh is rustless, and +happy-seeming as iron never can be. She rides so well, she takes the +sea so beautifully, as a matter of course. + + * * * * * + +Various members of the crew wander past to look at us. This little +promenade deck is over the first-class quarters, full in the stern. So +we see first one head then another come up the ladder--mostly bare +heads: and one figure after another slouches past, smoking a cigarette. +All crew. At last the q-b stops one of them--it is what they are all +waiting for, an opportunity to talk--and asks if the weird object on the +top of Pellegrino is a ruin. Could there be a more touristy question! +No, it is the semaphore station. Slap in the eye for the q-b! She +doesn't mind, however, and the member of the crew proceeds to converse. +He is a weedy, hollow-cheeked town-product: a Palermitan. He wears faded +blue over-alls and informs us he is the ship's carpenter: happily +unemployed for the rest of his life, apparently, and taking it as rather +less than his dues. The ship once did the Naples-Palermo course--a very +important course--in the old days of the General Navigation Company. The +General Navigation Company sold her for eighty thousand liras years ago, +and now she was worth two million. We pretend to believe: but I make a +poor show. I am thoroughly sick to death of the sound of liras. No man +can overhear ten words of Italian today without two thousand or two +million or ten or twenty or two liras flying like venomous mosquitoes +round his ears. Liras--liras--liras--nothing else. Romantic, poetic, +cypress-and-orange-tree Italy is gone. Remains an Italy smothered in the +filthy smother of innumerable Lira notes: ragged, unsavoury paper money +so thick upon the air that one breathes it like some greasy fog. Behind +this greasy fog some people may still see the Italian sun. I find it +hard work. Through this murk of Liras you peer at Michael Angelo and at +Botticelli and the rest, and see them all as through a glass, darkly. +For heavy around you is Italy's after-the-war atmosphere, darkly +pressing you, squeezing you, milling you into dirty paper notes. King +Harry was lucky that they only wanted to coin him into gold. Italy wants +to mill you into filthy paper Liras. + + * * * * * + +Another head--and a black alpaca jacket and a serviette this time--to +tell us coffee is ready. Not before it is time, too. We go down into the +subterranean state-room and sit on the screw-pin chairs, while the ship +does the slide-and-slope trot under us, and we drink a couple of cups of +coffee-and-milk, and eat a piece of bread and butter. At least one of +the innumerable members of the crew gives me one cup, then casts me +off. It is most obviously his intention that I shall get no more: +because of course the innumerable members of the crew could all just do +with another coffee and milk. However, though the ship heaves and the +alpaca coats cluster menacingly in the doorway, I balance my way to the +tin buffet and seize the coffee pot and the milk pot, and am quite +successful in administering to the q-b and myself. Having restored the +said vessels to their tin altar, I resume my spin chair at the long and +desert board. The q-b and I are alone--save that in the distance a very +fat back with gold-braid collar sits sideways and a fat hand disposes of +various papers--he is part of the one-and-only table, of course. The +tall lean alpaca jacket, with a face of yellow stone and a big black +moustache moves from the outer doorway, glowers at our filled cups, and +goes to the tin altar and touches the handles of the two vessels: just +touches them to an arrangement: as one who should say: These are mine. +What dirty foreigner dares help himself! + + * * * * * + +As quickly as possible we stagger up from the long dungeon where the +alpaca jackets are swooping like blue-bottles upon the coffee pots, into +the air. There the carpenter is waiting for us, like a spider. + +"Isn't the sea a little quieter?" says the q-b wistfully. She is growing +paler. + +"No, Signora--how should it be?" says the gaunt-faced carpenter. "The +wind is waiting for us behind Cape Gallo. You see that cape?" he points +to a tall black cliff-front in the sea ahead. "When we get to that cape +we get the wind and the sea. Here--" he makes a gesture--"it is +moderate." + +"Ugh!" says the q-b, turning paler. "I'm going to lie down." + +She disappears. The carpenter, finding me stony ground, goes forward, +and I see him melting into the crowd of the innumerable crew, that +hovers on the lower-deck passage by the kitchen and the engines. + + * * * * * + +The clouds are flying fast overhead: and sharp and isolated come drops +of rain, so that one thinks it must be spray. But no, it is a handful of +rain. The ship swishes and sinks forward, gives a hollow thudding and +rears slowly backward, along this pinkish lofty coast of Sicily that is +just retreating into a bay. From the open sea comes the rain, come the +long waves. + + * * * * * + +No shelter. One must go down. The q-b lies quietly in her bunk. The +state-room is stale like a passage on the underground railway. No +shelter, save near the kitchen and the engines, where there is a bit of +warmth. The cook is busy cleaning fish, making the whiting bite their +tails venomously at a little board just outside his kitchen-hole. A slow +stream of kitchen-filth swilkers back and forth along the ship's side. A +gang of the crew leans near me--a larger gang further down. Heaven knows +what they can all be--but they never do anything but stand in gangs and +talk and eat and smoke cigarettes. They are mostly young--mostly +Palermitan--with a couple of unmistakable Neapolitans, having the +peculiar Neapolitan hang-dog good looks, the chiselled cheek, the little +black moustache, the large eyes. But they chew with their cheeks bulged +out, and laugh with their fine, semi-sarcastic noses. The whole gang +looks continually sideways. Nobody ever commands them--there seems to be +absolutely no control. Only the fat engineer in grey linen looks as +clean and as competent as his own machinery. Queer how machine-control +puts the pride and self-respect into a man. + + * * * * * + +The rain over, I go and squat against the canvas that is spread over the +arched sky-lights on the small promenade deck, sitting on the seat that +is fixed to the sky-light sides. The wind is cold: there are snatches of +sun and spits of rain. The big cape has come and is being left behind: +we are heading for a far-off cape like a cloud in the grey air. A +dimness comes over one's mind: a sort of stupefaction owing to the wind +and the relentless slither-and-rearing of the ship. Not a sickness, but +a sort of dim faintness. So much motion, such moving, powerful air. And +withal a constant triumph in the long, slow sea-gallop of the ship. + + * * * * * + +A great loud bell: midday and the crew going to eat, rushing to eat. +After some time we are summoned. "The Signora isn't eating?" asks the +waiter eagerly: hoping she is not. "Yes, she is eating," say I. I fetch +the q-b from her berth. Rather wanly she comes and gets into her spin +chair. Bash comes a huge plate of thick, oily cabbage soup, very full, +swilkering over the sides. We do what we can with it. So does the third +passenger: a young woman who never wears a hat, thereby admitting +herself simply as one of "the people," but who has an expensive +complicated dress, nigger-coloured thin silk stockings, and suede +high-heeled shoes. She is handsome, sturdy, with large dark eyes and a +robust, frank manner: far too robustly downright for Italy. She is from +Cagliari--and can't do much with the cabbage soup: and tells the waiter +so, in her deep, hail-fellow-well-met voice. In the doorway hovers a +little cloud of alpaca jackets grinning faintly with malignant +anticipation of food, hoping, like blow-flies, we shall be too ill to +eat. Away goes the soup and appears a massive yellow omelette, like some +log of bilious wood. It is hard, and heavy, and cooked in the usual +rank-tasting olive oil. The young woman doesn't have much truck with it: +neither do we. To the triumph of the blow-flies, who see the yellow +monster borne to their altar. After which a long long slab of the +inevitable meat cut into innumerable slices, tasting of dead nothingness +and having a thick sauce of brown neutrality: sufficient for twelve +people at least. This, with masses of strong-tasting greenish +cauliflower liberally weighted with oil, on a ship that was already +heaving its heart out, made up the dinner. Accumulating malevolent +triumph among the blow-flies in the passage. So on to a dessert of +oranges, pears with wooden hearts and thick yellowish wash-leather +flesh, and apples. Then coffee. + +And we had sat through it, which is something. The alpaca blue-bottles +buzzed over the masses of food that went back on the dishes to the tin +altar. Surely it had been made deliberately so that we should not eat +it! The Cagliarese young woman talked to us. Yes, she broke into that +awful language which the Italians--the quite ordinary ones--call +French, and which they insist on speaking for their own glorification: +yea, when they get to heaven's gate they will ask St. Peter for: + +"OOn bigliay pour ung--trozzieme classe." + +Fortunately or unfortunately her inquisitiveness got the better of her, +and she fell into her native Italian. What were we, where did we come +from, where were we going, _why_ were we going, had we any children, did +we want any, etc. After every answer she nodded her head and said Ahu! +and watched us with energetic dark eyes. Then she ruminated over our +nationalities and said, to the unseeing witnesses: Una bella coppia, a +fine couple. As at the moment we felt neither beautiful nor coupled, we +only looked greener. The grim man-at-arms coming up to ask us again if +we weren't going to have a little wine, she lapsed into her ten-pounder +French, which was most difficult to follow. And she said that on a +sea-voyage one must eat, one must eat, if only a little. But--and she +lapsed into Italian--one must by no means drink wine--no--no! One didn't +want to, said I sadly. Whereupon the grim man-at-arms, whom, of course, +we had cheated out of the bottle we refused to have opened for us, said +with a lost sarcasm that wine made a man of a man, etc., etc. I was too +weary of that underground, however. All I knew was that he wanted wine, +wine, wine, and we hadn't ordered any. He didn't care for food. + +The Cagliarese told us she came now from Naples, and her husband was +following in a few days. He was doing business in Naples. I nearly asked +if he was a little dog-fish--this being the Italian for profiteer, but +refrained in time. So the two ladies retired to lie down, I went and sat +under my tarpaulin. + + * * * * * + +I felt very dim, and only a bit of myself. And I dozed blankly. The +afternoon grew more sunny. The ship turned southwards, and with the wind +and waves behind, it became much warmer, much smoother. The sun had the +lovely strong winey warmth, golden over the dark-blue sea. The old +oak-wood looked almost white, the afternoon was sweet upon the sea. And +in the sunshine and the swishing of the sea, the speedier running of the +empty ship, I slept a warm, sweet hour away, and awoke new. To see ahead +pale, uplooming islands upon the right: the windy Egades: and on the +right a mountain or high conical hill, with buildings on the summit: and +in front against the sea, still rather far away, buildings rising upon a +quay, within a harbor: and a mole, and a castle forward to sea, all +small and far away, like a view. The buildings were square and fine. +There was something impressive--magical under the far sunshine and the +keen wind, the square and well-proportioned buildings waiting far off, +waiting like a lost city in a story, a Rip van Winkle city. I knew it +was Trapani, the western port of Sicily, under the western sun. + + * * * * * + +And the hill near us was Mount Eryx. I had never seen it before. So I +had imagined a mountain in the sky. But it was only a hill, with +undistinguishable cluster of a village on the summit, where even now +cold wisps of vapour caught. They say it is 2,500 feet high. Still it +looks only a hill. + +But why in the name of heaven should my heart stand still as I watch +that hill which rises above the sea? It is the Etna of the west: but +only a town-crowned hill. To men it must have had a magic almost greater +than Etna's. Watching Africa! Africa, showing her coast on clear days. +Africa the dreaded. And the great watch-temple of the summit, +world-sacred, world-mystic in the world that was. Venus of the +aborigines, older than Greek Aphrodite. Venus of the aborigines, from +her watch-temple looking at Africa, beyond the Egatian isles. The +world-mystery, the smiling Astarte. This, one of the world centres, +older than old! and the woman-goddess watching Africa! _Erycina +ridens._ Laughing, the woman-goddess, at this centre of an ancient, +quite-lost world. + +I confess my heart stood still. But is mere historical fact so strong, +that what one learns in bits from books can move one so? Or does the +very word call an echo out of the dark blood? It seems so to me. It +seems to me from the darkest recesses of my blood comes a terrible echo +at the name of Mount Eryx: something quite unaccountable. The name of +Athens hardly moves me. At Eryx--my darkness quivers. Eryx, looking west +into Africa's sunset. _Erycina ridens._ + +There is a tick-tocking in the little cabin against which I lean. The +wireless operator is busy communicating with Trapani, no doubt. He is a +fat young man with fairish curly hair and an important bearing. Give a +man control of some machine, and at once his air of importance and +more-than-human dignity develops. One of the unaccountable members of +the crew lounges in the little doorway, like a chicken on one foot, +having nothing to do. The girl from Cagliari comes up with two young +men--also Sardinians by their thick-set, independent look, and the touch +of pride in their dark eyes. She has no wraps at all: just her elegant +fine-cloth dress, her bare head from which the wisps of hair blow across +her brow, and the transparent "nigger" silk stockings. Yet she does not +seem cold. She talks with great animation, sitting between the two +young men. And she holds the hand of the one in the overcoat +affectionately. She is always holding the hand of one or other of the +two young men: and wiping wisps of wind-blown hair from her brow: and +talking in her strong, nonchalant voice, rapidly, ceaselessly, with +massive energy. Heaven knows if the two young men--they are third-class +passengers--were previous acquaintances. But they hold her hand like +brothers--quite simply and nicely, not at all sticky and libidinous. It +all has an air of "Why not?" + +She shouts at me as I pass, in her powerful, extraordinary French: + +"Madame votre femme, elle est au lit?" + +I say she is lying down. + +"Ah!" she nods. "Elle a le mal de mer?" + +No, she is not sea-sick, just lying down. + +The two young men, between whom she is sitting as between two pillows, +watch with the curious Sardinian dark eyes that seem alert and show the +white all round. They are pleasant--a bit like seals. And they have a +numb look for the moment, impressed by this strange language. She +proceeds energetically to translate into Sardinian, as I pass on. + +We do not seem to be going to Trapani. There lies the town on the left, +under the hill, the square buildings that suggest to me the factories +of the East India Company shining in the sun along the curious, +closed-in harbour, beyond the running, dark blue sea. We seem to be +making for the island bulk of Levanzo. Perhaps we shall steer away to +Sardinia without putting in to Trapani. + +On and on we run--and always as if we were going to steer between the +pale blue, heaped-up islands, leaving Trapani behind us on our left. The +town has been in sight for an hour or more: and still we run out to sea +towards Levanzo. And the wireless-operator busily tick-tocks and throbs +in his little cabin on this upper deck. Peeping in, one sees his bed and +chair behind a curtain, screened off from his little office. And all so +tidy and pleased-looking. + +From the islands one of the Mediterranean sailing ships is beating her +way, across our track, to Trapani. I don't know the name of ships but +the carpenter says she is a schooner: he says it with that Italian +misgiving which doesn't really know but which can't bear not to know. +Anyhow on she comes, with her tall ladder of square sails white in the +afternoon light, and her lovely prow, curved in with a perfect hollow, +running like a wild animal on a scent across the waters. There--the +scent leads her north again. She changes her tack from the harbour +mouth, and goes coursing away, passing behind us. Lovely she is, nimble +and quick and palpitating, with all her sails white and bright and +eager. + +We are changing our course. We have all the time been heading for the +south of Levanzo. Now I see the island slowly edging back, as if +clearing out of the way for us, like a man in the street. The island +edges and turns aside: and walks away. And clearly we are making for the +harbour mouth. We have all this time been running, out at sea, round the +back of the harbour. Now I see the fortress-castle, an old thing, out +forward to sea: and a little lighthouse and the way in. And beyond, the +town-front with great palm trees and other curious dark trees, and +behind these the large square buildings of the south rising imposingly, +as if severe, big palaces upon the promenade. It all has a stately, +southern, imposing appearance, withal remote from our modern centuries: +standing back from the tides of our industrial life. + +I remember the Crusaders, how they called here so often on their way to +the East. And Trapani seems waiting for them still, with its palm trees +and its silence, full in the afternoon sun. It has not much to do but +wait, apparently. + +The q-b emerges into the sun, crying out how lovely! And the sea is +quieter: we are already in the lea of the harbour-curve. From the north +the many-sailed ship from the islands is running down towards us, with +the wind. And away on the south, on the sea-level, numerous short +windmills are turning their sails briskly, windmill after windmill, +rather stumpy, spinning gaily in the blue, silent afternoon, among the +salt-lagoons stretching away towards Marsala. But there is a whole +legion of windmills, and Don Quixote would have gone off his head. There +they spin, hither and thither, upon the pale-blue sea-levels. And +perhaps one catches a glitter of white salt-heaps. For these are the +great salt-lagoons which make Trapani rich. + + * * * * * + +We are entering the harbour-basin, however, past the old castle out on +the spit, past the little lighthouse, then through the entrance, +slipping quietly on the now tranquil water. Oh, and how pleasant the +fulness of the afternoon sun flooding this round, fast-sleeping harbour, +along whose side the tall palms drowse, and whose waters are fast +asleep. It seems quite a small, cosy harbour, with the great buildings +warm-colored in the sun behind the dark tree-avenue of the marina. The +same silent, sleeping, endlessly sun-warmed stateliness. + +In the midst of this tranquillity we slowly turn round upon the shining +water, and in a few moments are moored. There are other ships moored +away to the right: all asleep, apparently, in the flooding of the +afternoon sun. Beyond the harbour entrance runs the great sea and the +wind. Here all is still and hot and forgotten. + +"Vous descendez en terre?" shouts the young woman, in her energetic +French--she leaves off holding the young men's hands for the moment. We +are not quite sure: and we don't want her to come with us, anyhow, for +her French is not our French. + +The land sleeps on: nobody takes any notice of us: but just one boat +paddles out the dozen yards to our side. We decide to set foot on shore. + + * * * * * + +One should not, and we knew it. One should never enter into these +southern towns that look so nice, so lovely, from the outside. However, +we thought we would buy some cakes. So we crossed the avenue which looks +so beautiful from the sea, and which, when you get into it, is a cross +between an outside place where you throw rubbish and a humpy unmade road +in a raw suburb, with a few iron seats, and litter of old straw and rag. +Indescribably dreary in itself: yet with noble trees, and lovely +sunshine, and the sea and the islands gleaming magic beyond the harbour +mouth, and the sun, the eternal sun full focussed. A few mangy, +nothing-to-do people stand disconsolately about, in southern fashion, +as if they had been left there, water-logged, by the last flood, and +were waiting for the next flood to wash them further. Round the corner +along the quay a Norwegian steamer dreams that she is being loaded, in +the muddle of the small port. + + * * * * * + +We looked at the cakes--heavy and wan they appeared to our sea-rolled +stomachs. So we strolled into a main street, dark and dank like a sewer. +A tram bumped to a standstill, as if now at last was the end of the +world. Children coming from school ecstatically ran at our heels, with +bated breath, to hear the vocal horrors of our foreign speech. We turned +down a dark side alley, about forty paces deep: and were on the northern +bay, and on a black stench that seemed like the perpetual sewer, a bank +of mud. + +So we got to the end of the black main street, and turned in haste to +the sun. Ah--in a moment we were in it. There rose the palms, there lay +our ship in the shining, curving basin--and there focussed the sun, so +that in a moment we were drunk or dazed by it. Dazed. We sat on an iron +seat in the rubbish-desolate, sun-stricken avenue. + +A ragged and dirty girl was nursing a fat and moist and immovable baby +and tending to a grimy fat infant boy. She stood a yard away and gazed +at us as one would gaze at a pig one was going to buy. She came nearer, +and examined the q-b. I had my big hat down over my eyes. But no, she +had taken her seat at my side, and poked her face right under my hat +brim, so that her towzled hair touched me, and I thought she would kiss +me. But again no. With her breath on my cheek she only gazed on my face +as if it were a wax mystery. I got up hastily. + +"Too much for me," said I to the q-b. + +She laughed, and asked what the baby was called. The baby was called +Beppina, as most babies are. + +Driven forth, we wandered down the desolate avenue of shade and sun +towards the ship, and turned once more into the town. We had not been on +shore more than ten minutes. This time we went to the right, and found +more shops. The streets were dark and sunless and cold. And Trapani +seemed to me to sell only two commodities: cured rabbit skins and +cat-skins, and great, hideous, modern bed-spread arrangements of heavy +flowered silk and fabulous price. They seem to think nothing of +thousands of liras, in Trapani. + +But most remarkable was bunny and pussy. Bunny and pussy, flattened out +like pressed leaves, dangling in clusters everywhere. Furs! white bunny, +black bunny in great abundance, piebald bunny, grey bunny:--then pussy, +tabby pussy, and tortoiseshell pussy, but mostly black pussy, in a +ghastly semblance of life, all flat, of course. Just single furs. +Clusters, bunches, heaps, and dangling arrays of plain-superficies puss +and bun-bun! Puss and bun by the dozen and the twenty, like dried +leaves, for your choice. If a cat from a ship should chance to find +itself in Trapani streets, it would give a mortal yell, and go mad, I am +sure. + +We strolled for ten more minutes in this narrow, tortuous, unreal town, +that seemed to have plenty of flourishing inhabitants, and a fair number +of Socialists, if one was to judge by the great scrawlings on the walls: +W. LENIN and ABASSO LA BORGHESIA. Don't imagine, by the way, that Lenin +is another Wille on the list. The apparent initial stands for _Evviva_, +the double V. + + * * * * * + +Cakes one dared not buy, after looking at them. But we found macaroon +biscuits, and a sort of flat plaster-casts of the Infant Jesus under a +dove, of which we bought two. The q-b ate her macaroon biscuits all +through the streets, and we went towards the ship. The fat boatman +hailed us to take us back. It was just about eight yards of water to +row, the ship being moored on the quay: one could have jumped it. I gave +the fat boatman two liras, two francs. He immediately put on the +socialist-workman indignation, and thrust the note back at me. Sixty +centimes more! The fee was thirteen sous each way! In Venice or Syracuse +it would be two sous. I looked at him and gave him the money and said: +"Per Dio, we are in Trapani!" He muttered back something about +foreigners. But the hateful, unmanly insolence of these lords of toil, +now they have their various "unions" behind them and their "rights" as +working men, sends my blood black. They are ordinary men no more: the +human, happy Italian is most marvellously vanished. New honors come upon +them, etc. The dignity of human labour is on its hind legs, busy giving +every poor innocent who isn't ready for it a kick in the mouth. + + * * * * * + +But, once more in parenthesis, let me remind myself that it is our own +English fault. We have slobbered about the nobility of toil, till at +last the nobles naturally insist on eating the cake. And more than that, +we have set forth, politically, on such a high and Galahad quest of holy +liberty, and been caught so shamelessly filling our pockets, that no +wonder the naive and idealistic south turns us down with a bang. + + * * * * * + +Well, we are back on the ship. And we want tea. On the list by the door +it says we are to have coffee, milk and butter at 8.30: luncheon at +11.30: tea, coffee or chocolate at 3.00: and dinner at 6.30. And +moreover: "The company will feed the passengers for the normal duration +of the voyage only." Very well--very well. Then where is tea? Not any +signs! and the alpaca jackets giving us a wide berth. But we find our +man, and demand our rights: at least the q-b does. + +The tickets from Palermo to Cagliari cost, together, 583 liras. Of this, +250 liras was for the ticket, and 40 liras each for the food. This, for +two tickets, would make 580 liras. The odd three for usual stamps. The +voyage was supposed to last about thirty or thirty-two hours: from eight +of the morning of departure to two or four of the following afternoon. +Surely we pay for our tea. + +The other passengers have emerged: a large, pale, fat, "handsome" +Palermitan who is going to be professor at Cagliari: his large, fat, but +high-coloured wife: and three children, a boy of fourteen like a thin, +frail, fatherly girl, a little boy in a rabbit-skin overcoat, coming +rather unfluffed, and a girl-child on the mother's knee. The +one-year-old girl-child being, of course, the only man in the party. + +They have all been sick all day, and look washed out. We sympathise. +They lament the cruelties of the journey--and _senza servizio! senza +servizio!_ without any maid servant. The mother asks for coffee, and a +cup of milk for the children: then, seeing our tea with lemon, and +knowing it by repute, she will have tea. But the rabbit-boy will have +coffee--coffee and milk--and nothing else. And an orange. And the baby +will have lemon, pieces of lemon. And the fatherly young "miss" of an +adolescent brother laughs indulgently at all the whims of these two +young ones: the father laughs and thinks it all adorable and expects us +to adore. He is almost too washed-out to attend properly, to give the +full body of his attention. + +So the mother gets her cup of tea--and puts a piece of lemon in--and +then milk on top of that. The rabbit boy sucks an orange, slobbers in +the tea, insists on coffee and milk, tries a piece of lemon, and gets a +biscuit. The baby, with weird faces, chews pieces of lemon: and drops +them in the family cup: and fishes them out with a little sugar, and +dribbles them across the table to her mouth, throws them away and +reaches for a new sour piece. They all think it humorous and adorable. +Arrives the milk, to be treated as another loving cup, mingled with +orange, lemon, sugar, tea, biscuit, chocolate, and cake. Father, +mother, and elder brother partake of nothing, they haven't the +stomach. But they are charmed, of course, by the pretty pranks and +messes of the infants. They have extraordinary amiable patience, +and find the young ones a perpetual source of charming amusement. +They look at one another, the elder ones, and laugh and comment, +while the two young ones mix themselves and the table into a +lemon-milk-orange-tea-sugar-biscuit-cake-chocolate mess. This inordinate +Italian amiable patience with their young monkeys is astonishing. It +makes the monkeys more monkey-like, and self-conscious incredibly, so +that a baby has all the tricks of a Babylonian harlot, making eyes and +trying new pranks. Till at last one sees the southern Holy Family as an +unholy triad of imbecility. + +Meanwhile I munched my Infant-Jesus-and-Dove arrangement, which was +rather like eating thin glass, so hard and sharp. It was made of almond +and white of egg presumably, and was not so bad if you could eat it at +all. It was a Christmas relic.--And I watched the Holy Family across the +narrow board, and tried not to look all I felt. + + * * * * * + +Going on deck as soon as possible, we watched the loading of barrels of +wine into the hold--a mild and happy-go-lucky process. The ship seemed +to be almost as empty of cargo as of passengers. Of the latter, we were +apparently twelve adults, all told, and the three children. And as for +cargo, there were the wooden chests of the officer, and these fourteen +barrels of wine from Trapani. The last were at length settled more or +less firm, the owner, or the responsible landsman seeing to it. No one +on the ship seemed to be responsible for anything. And four of the +innumerable crew were replacing the big planks over the hold. It was +curious how forlorn the ship seemed to feel, now she was ready for sea +again. Her innumerable crew did not succeed in making her alive. She ran +her course like a lost soul across the Mid-Mediterranean. + + * * * * * + +Outside the harbour the sun was sinking, gorgeous gold and red the sky, +and vast, beyond the darkening islands of the Egades group. Coming as we +did from the east side of the island, where dawn beyond the Ionian sea +is the day's great and familiar event: so decisive an event, that as the +light appears along the sea's rim, so do my eyes invariably open and +look at it, and know it is dawn, and as the night-purple is fused back, +and a little scarlet thrills towards the zenith, invariably, day by day, +I feel I must get up: coming from the east, shut off hermetically from +the west by the steep spikes of the mountains at our back, we felt this +sunset in the African sea terrible and dramatic. It seemed much more +magnificent and tragic than our Ionian dawn, which has always a +suggestion of a flower opening. But this great red, trumpet-flaring +sunset had something African, half-sinister, upon the sea: and it seemed +so far off, in an unknown land. Whereas our Ionian dawn always seems +near and familiar and happy. + +A different goddess the Eryx Astarte, the woman Ashtaroth, _Erycina +ridens_ must have been, in her prehstoric dark smiling, watching the +fearful sunsets beyond the Egades, from our gold-lighted Apollo of the +Ionian east. She is a strange goddess to me, this Erycina Venus, and the +west is strange and unfamiliar and a little fearful, be it Africa or be +it America. + +Slowly at sunset we moved out of the harbour. And almost as we passed +the bar, away in front we saw, among the islands, the pricking of a +quick pointed light. Looking back, we saw the light at the harbour +entrance twitching: and the remote, lost town beginning to glimmer. And +night was settling down upon the sea, through the crimsoned purple of +the last afterglow. + +The islands loomed big as we drew nearer, dark in the thickening +darkness. Overhead a magnificent evening-star blazed above the open sea, +giving me a pang at the heart, for I was so used to see her hang just +above the spikes of the mountains, that I felt she might fall, having +the space beneath. + +Levanzo and the other large island were quite dark: absolutely dark, +save for one beam of a lighthouse low down in the distance. The wind was +again strong and cold: the ship had commenced her old slither and heave, +slither and heave, which mercifully we had forgotten. Overhead were +innumerable great stars active as if they were alive in the sky. I saw +Orion high behind us, and the dog-star glaring. And _swish!_ went the +sea as we took the waves, then after a long trough, _swish!_ This +curious rhythmic swishing and hollow drumming of a steamer at sea has a +narcotic, almost maddening effect on the spirit, a long, hissing burst +of waters, then the hollow roll, and again the upheaval to a sudden +hiss-ss-ss! + +A bell had clanged and we knew the crew were once more feeding. At every +moment of the day and presumably of the night, feeding was going on--or +coffee-drinking. + + * * * * * + +We were summoned to dinner. Our young woman was already seated: and a +fat uniformed mate or purser or official of some sort was finishing off +in the distance. The pale professor also appeared: and at a certain +distance down the table sat a little hard-headed grey man in a long grey +alpaca travelling coat. Appeared the beloved macaroni with tomato sauce: +no food for the sea. I put my hopes on the fish. Had I not seen the +cook making whiting bite their own tails viciously?--The fish appeared. +And what was it? Fried ink-pots. A _calamaio_ is an ink-pot: also it is +a polyp, a little octopus which, alas, frequents the Mediterranean and +squirts ink if offended. This polyp with its tentacles is cut up and +fried, and reduced to the consistency of boiled celluloid. It is +esteemed a delicacy: but is tougher than indiarubber, gristly through +and through. + +I have a peculiar aversion to these ink-pots. Once in Liguria we had a +boat of our own and paddled with the peasant paddlers. Alessandro caught +ink-pots: and like this. He tied up a female by a string in a cave--the +string going through a convenient hole in her end. There she lived, like +an Amphitrite's wire-haired terrier tied up, till Alessandro went +a-fishing. Then he towed her, like a poodle behind. And thus, like a +poodly-bitch, she attracted hangers-on in the briny seas. And these poor +polyp inamorati were the victims. They were lifted as prey on board, +where I looked with horror on their grey, translucent tentacles and +large, cold, stony eyes. The she-polyp was towed behind again. But after +a few days she died. + +And I think, even for creatures so awful-looking, this method is +indescribably base, and shows how much lower than an octopus even, is +lordly man. + +Well, we chewed a few ends of oil-fried ink-pots, and gave it up. The +Cagliari girl gave up too: the professor had not even tried. Only the +hard-headed grey man in the alpaca coat chewed animatedly, with bouncing +jaws. Mountains of calamaio remained for the joyous blue-bottles. + +Arrived the inevitable meat--this long piece of completely tasteless +undercut in innumerable grey-brown slices. Oh, Italy! The professor +fled. + +Arrived the wash-leather pears, the apples, the oranges--we saved an +apple for a happier hour. + +Arrived coffee, and, as a magnificent treat, a few well-known pastries. +They all taste wearily alike. The young woman shakes her head. I shake +mine, but the q-b, like a child, is pleased. Most pleased of all, +however, are the blue-bottles, who dart in a black-alpaca bunch to the +tin altar, and there loudly buzz, wildly, above the sallow cakes. + +The citron-cheeked, dry one, however, cares darkly nothing for cakes. He +comes once more to twit us about wine. So much so that the Cagliari girl +orders a glass of Marsala: and I must second her. So there we are, three +little glasses of brown liquid. The Cagliari girl sips hers and suddenly +flees. The q-b sips hers with infinite caution, and quietly retires. I +finish the q-b's little glass, and my own, and the voracious blow-flies +buzz derisively and excited. The yellow-cheeked one has disappeared with +the bottle. + +From the professorial cabin faint wails, sometimes almost fierce, as one +or another is going to be ill. Only a thin door is between this +state-room and them. The most down-trodden frayed ancient rag of a man +goes discreetly with basins, trying not to let out glimpses of the awful +within. I climb up to look at the vivid, drenching stars, to breathe the +cold wind, to see the dark sea sliding. Then I too go to the cabin, and +watch the sea run past the porthole for a minute, and insert myself like +the meat in a sandwich into the tight lower bunk. Oh, infinitesimal +cabin, where we sway like two matches in a match box! Oh strange, but +even yet excellent gallop of a ship at sea. + + * * * * * + +I slept not so badly through the stifled, rolling night--in fact later +on slept soundly. And the day was growing bright when I peered through +the porthle, the sea was much smoother. It was a brilliant clear +morning. I made haste and washed myself cursorily in the saucer that +dribbled into a pail in a corner: there was not space even for one +chair, this saucer was by my bunk-head. And I went on deck. + +Ah the lovely morning! Away behind us the sun was just coming above the +sea's horizon, and the sky all golden, all a joyous, fire-heated gold, +and the sea was glassy bright, the wind gone still, the waves sunk into +long, low undulations, the foam of the wake was pale ice-blue in the +yellow air. Sweet, sweet wide morning on the sea, with the sun coming, +swimming up, and a tall sailing bark, with her flat fore-ladder of sails +delicately across the light, and a far-far steamer on the electric vivid +morning horizon. + +The lovely dawn: the lovely pure, wide morning in the mid-sea, so +golden-aired and delighted, with the sea like sequins shaking, and the +sky far, far, far above, unfathomably clear. How glad to be on a ship! +What a golden hour for the heart of man! Ah if one could sail for ever, +on a small quiet, lonely ship, from land to land and isle to isle, and +saunter through the spaces of this lovely world, always through the +spaces of this lovely world. Sweet it would be sometimes to come to the +opaque earth, to block oneself against the stiff land, to annul the +vibration of one's flight against the inertia of our _terra firma!_ but +life itself would be in the flight, the tremble of space. Ah the +trembling of never-ended space, as one moves in flight! Space, and the +frail vibration of space, the glad lonely wringing of the heart. Not to +be clogged to the land any more. Not to be any more like a donkey with a +log on its leg, fastened to weary earth that has no answer now. But to +be off. + +To find three masculine, world-lost souls, and world-lost saunter, and +saunter on along with them, across the dithering space, as long as life +lasts! Why come to anchor? There is nothing to anchor for. Land has no +answer to the soul any more. It has gone inert. Give me a little ship, +kind gods, and three world-lost comrades. Hear me! And let me wander +aimless across this vivid outer world, the world empty of man, where +space flies happily. + + * * * * * + +The lovely, celandine-yellow morning of the open sea, paling towards a +rare, sweet blue! The sun stood above the horizon, like the great +burning stigma of the sacred flower of day. Mediterranean sailing-ships, +so mediaeval, hovered on the faint morning wind, as if uncertain which +way to go, curious, odd-winged insects of the flower. The steamer, +hull-down, was sinking towards Spain. Space rang clear about us: the +level sea! + +Appeared the Cagliari young woman and her two friends. She was looking +handsome and restored now the sea was easy. Her two male friends stood +touching her, one at either shoulder. + +"Bonjour, Monsieur!" she barked across at me. "Vous avez pris le cafe?" + +"Pas encore. Et vous?" + +"Non! Madame votre femme...." + +She roared like a mastiff dog: and then translated with unction to her +two uninitiated friends. How it was they did not understand her French I +do not know, it was so like travestied Italian. + +I went below to find the q-b. + + * * * * * + +When we came up, the faint shape of land appeared ahead, more +transparent than thin pearl. Already Sardinia. Magic are high lands seen +from the sea, when they are far, far off, and ghostly translucent like +ice-bergs. This was Sardinia, looming like fascinating shadows in +mid-sea. And the sailing ships, as if cut out of frailest pearl +translucency, were wafting away towards Naples. I wanted to count their +sails--five square ones which I call the ladder, one above the +other--but how many wing-blades? That remained yet to be seen. + + * * * * * + +Our friend the carpenter spied us out: at least, he was not my friend. +He didn't find me _simpatico_, I am sure. But up he came, and proceeded +to entertain us with weary banality. Again the young woman called, had +we had coffee? We said we were just going down. And then she said that +whatever we had today we had to pay for: our food ended with the one +day. At which the q-b was angry, feeling swindled. But I had known +before. + + * * * * * + +We went down and had our coffee notwithstanding. The young woman came +down, and made eyes at one of the alpaca blue-bottles. After which we +saw a cup of coffee and milk and two biscuits being taken to her into +her cabin, discreetly. When Italians are being discreet and on the sly, +the very air about them becomes tell-tale, and seems to shout with a +thousand tongues. So with a thousand invisible tongues clamouring the +fact, the young woman had her coffee secretly and _gratis_, in her +cabin. + + * * * * * + +But the morning was lovely. The q-b and I crept round the bench at the +very stern of the ship and sat out of the wind and out of sight, just +above the foaming of the wake. Before us was the open morning--and the +glisten of our ship's track, like a snail's path, trailing across the +sea: straight for a little while, then giving a bend to the left, always +a bend towards the left: and coming at us from the pure horizon, like a +bright snail-path. Happy it was to sit there in the stillness, with +nothing but the humanless sea to shine about us. + +But no, we were found out. Arrived the carpenter. + +"Ah, you have found a fine place--!" + +"Molto bello!" This from the q-b. I could not bear the irruption. + +He proceeded to talk--and as is inevitable, the war. Ah, the war--it was +a terrible thing. He had become ill--very ill. Because, you see, not +only do you go without proper food, without proper rest and warmth, but, +you see, you are in an agony of fear for your life all the time. An +agony of fear for your life. And that's what does it. Six months in +hospital--! The q-b, of course, was sympathetic. + +The Sicilians are quite simple about it. They just tell you they were +frightened to death, and it made them ill. The q-b, woman-like, loves +them for being so simple about it. I feel angry somewhere. For they +_expect_ a full-blown sympathy. And however the great god Mars may have +shrunk and gone wizened in the world, it still annoys me to hear him +_so_ blasphemed. + + * * * * * + +Near us the automatic log was spinning, the thin rope trailing behind us +in the sea. Erratically it jerked and spun, with spasmodic torsion. He +explained that the little screw at the end of the line spun to the +speed of travelling. We were going from ten to twelve Italian miles to +the hour. Ah, yes, we _could_ go twenty. But we went no faster than ten +or twelve, to save the coal. + +The coal--il carbone! I knew we were in for it. England--l'Inghilterra +she has the coal. And what does she do? She sells it very dear. +Particularly to Italy. Italy won the war and now can't even have coal. +Because why! The price. The exchange! _Il cambio._ Now I am doubly in +for it. Two countries had been able to keep their money high--England +and America. The English sovereign--la sterlina--and the American +dollar--_sa_, these were money. The English and the Americans flocked to +Italy, with their _sterline_ and their _dollari_, and they bought what +they wanted for nothing, for nothing. Ecco! Whereas we poor Italians--we +are in a state of ruination--proper ruination. The allies, etc., etc. + +I am so used to it--I am so wearily used to it. I can't walk a stride +without having this wretched _cambio_, the exchange, thrown at my head. +And this with an injured petulant spitefulness which turns my blood. For +I assure them, whatever I have in Italy I pay for: and I am not England. +I am not the British Isles on two legs. + +Germany--La Germania--she did wrong to make the war. But--there you +are, that was war. Italy and Germany--l'Italia e la Germania--they had +always been friends. In Palermo.... + +My God, I felt I could not stand it another second. To sit above the +foam and have this miserable creature stuffing wads of chewed newspaper +into my ear--no, I could not bear it. In Italy, there is no escape. Say +two words, and the individual starts chewing old newspaper and stuffing +it into you. No escape. You become--if you are English--_l'Inghilterra_, +_il carbone_, and _il cambio_; and as England, coal and exchange you are +treated. It is more than useless to try to be human about it. You are a +State usury system, a coal fiend and an exchange thief. Every Englishman +has disappeared into this triple abstraction, in the eyes of the +Italian, of the proletariat particularly. Try and get them to be human, +try and get them to see that you are simply an individual, if you can. +After all, I am no more than a single human man wandering my lonely way +across these years. But no--to an Italian I am a perfected abstraction, +England--coal--exchange. The Germans were once devils for inhuman +theoretic abstracting of living beings. But now the Italians beat them. +I am a walking column of statistics, which adds up badly for Italy. +Only this and nothing more. Which being so, I shut my mouth and walk +away. + + * * * * * + +For the moment the carpenter is shaken off. But I am in a rage, fool +that I am. It is like being pestered by their mosquitoes. The sailing +ships are near--and I count fifteen sails. Beautiful they look! Yet if I +were on board somebody would be chewing newspaper at me, and addressing +me as England--coal--exchange. + +The mosquito hovers--and hovers. But the stony blank of the side of my +cheek keeps him away. Yet he hovers. And the q-b feels sympathetic +towards him: quite sympathetic. Because of course he treats her--a _bel +pezzo_--as if he would lick her boots, or anything else that she would +let him lick. + + * * * * * + +Meanwhile we eat the apples from yesterday's dessert, and the remains of +the q-b's Infant-Jesus-and-dove cake. The land is drawing nearer--we can +see the shape of the end promontory and peninsula--and a white speck +like a church. The bulk of the land is forlorn and rather shapeless, +coming towards us: but attractive. + +Looking ahead towards the land gives us away. The mosquito swoops on us. +Yes--he is not sure--he thinks the white speck is a church--or a +lighthouse. When you pass the cape on the right, and enter the wide bay +between Cape Spartivento and Cape Carbonara, then you have two hours +sail to Cagliari. We shall arrive between two and three o'clock. It is +now eleven. + +Yes, the sailing ships are probably going to Naples. There is not much +wind for them now. When there is wind they go fast, faster than our +steamer. Ah Naples--bella, bella, eh? A little dirty, say I. But what do +you want? says he. A great city! Palermo of course is better. + +Ah--the Neapolitan women--he says, a propos or not. They do their hair +so fine, so neat and beautiful--but underneath--sotto--sotto--they are +dirty. This being received in cold silence, he continues: _Noi giriamo +il mondo! Noi, chi giriamo, conosciamo il mondo._ _We_ travel about, +and _we_ know the world. Who _we_ are, I do not know: his highness the +Palermitan carpenter lout, no doubt. But _we_, who travel, know the +world. He is preparing his shot. The Neapolitan women, and the English +women, in this are equal: that they are dirty underneath. Underneath, +they are dirty. The women of London-- + +But it is getting too much for me. + +"You who look for dirty women," say I, "find dirty women everywhere." + +He stops short and watches me. + +"No! No! You have not understood me. No! I don't mean that. I mean that +the Neapolitan women and the English women have dirty underclothing--" + +To which he gets no answer but a cold look and a cold cheek. Whereupon +he turns to the q-b, and proceeds to be _simpatica_. And after a few +moments he turns again to me: + +"Il signore is offended! He is offended with me." + +But I turn the other way. And at last he clears out: in triumph, I must +admit: like a mosquito that has bitten one in the neck. As a matter of +fact one should _never_ let these fellows get into conversation +nowadays. They are no longer human beings. They hate one's Englishness, +and leave out the individual. + + * * * * * + +We walk forward, towards the fore-deck, where the captain's lookout +cabin is. The captain is an elderly man, silent and crushed: with the +look of a gentleman. But he looks beaten down. Another, still another +member of the tray-carrying department is just creeping up his ladder +with a cup of black coffee. Returning, we peep down the sky-light into +the kitchen. And there we see roast chicken and sausages--roast chicken +and sausages! Ah, this is where the sides of kid and the chickens and +the good things go: all down the throats of the crew. There is no more +food for us, until we land. + + * * * * * + +We have passed the cape--and the white thing is a lighthouse. And the +fattish, handsome professor has come up carrying the little girl-child, +while the femalish elder brother leads the rabbit-fluffy small boy by +the hand. So _en famille_: so terribly _en famille_. They deposit +themselves near us, and it threatens another conversation. But not for +anything, my dears! + +The sailors--not sailors, some of the street-corner loafers, are +hoisting the flag, the red-white-and-green Italian tricolor. It floats +at the mast-head, and the femalish brother, in a fine burst of feeling, +takes off his funny hat with a flourish and cries: + +"Ecco la bandiera italiana!" + +Ach, the hateful sentimentalism of these days. + +The land passes slowly, very slowly. It is hilly, but barren looking, +with few trees. And it is not spikey and rather splendid, like Sicily. +Sicily has style. We keep along the east side of the bay--away in the +west is Cape Spartivento. And still no sight of Cagliari. + +"Two hours yet!" cries the Cagliari girl. "Two hours before we eat. Ah, +when I get on land, what a good meal I shall eat." + +The men haul in the automatic log. The sky is clouding over with that +icy curd which comes after midday when the bitter north wind is blowing. +It is no longer warm. + + * * * * * + +Slowly, slowly we creep along the formless shore. An hour passes. We see +a little fort ahead, done in enormous black-and-white checks, like a +fragment of gigantic chess-board. It stands at the end of a long spit of +land--a long, barish peninsula that has no houses and looks as if it +might be golf-links. But it is not golf-links. + +And suddenly there is Cagliari: a naked town rising steep, steep, +golden-looking, piled naked to the sky from the plain at the head of the +formless hollow bay. It is strange and rather wonderful, not a bit like +Italy. The city piles up lofty and almost miniature, and makes me think +of Jerusalem: without trees, without cover, rising rather bare and +proud, remote as if back in history, like a town in a monkish, +illuminated missal. One wonders how it ever got there. And it seems like +Spain--or Malta: not Italy. It is a steep and lonely city, treeless, as +in some old illumination. Yet withal rather jewel-like: like a sudden +rose-cut amber jewel naked at the depth of the vast indenture. The air +is cold, blowing bleak and bitter, the sky is all curd. And that is +Cagliari. It has that curious look, as if it could be seen, but not +entered. It is like some vision, some memory, something that has passed +away. Impossible that one can actually _walk_ in that city: set foot +there and eat and laugh there. Ah, no! Yet the ship drifts nearer, +nearer, and we are looking for the actual harbour. + + * * * * * + +The usual sea-front with dark trees for a promenade and palatial +buildings behind, but here not so pink and gay, more reticent, more +sombre of yellow stone. The harbour itself a little basin of water, into +which we are slipping carefully, while three salt-barges laden with salt +as white as snow creep round from the left, drawn by an infinitesimal +tug. There are only two other forlorn ships in the basin. It is cold on +deck. The ship turns slowly round, and is being hauled to the quay side. +I go down for the knapsack, and a fat blue-bottle pounces at me. + +"You pay nine francs fifty." + +I pay them, and we get off that ship. + + + + +III. + +CAGLIARI. + + +There is a very little crowd waiting on the quay: mostly men with their +hands in their pockets. But, thank Heaven, they have a certain aloofness +and reserve. They are not like the tourist-parasites of these post-war +days, who move to the attack with a terrifying cold vindictiveness the +moment one emerges from any vehicle. And some of these men look really +poor. There are no poor Italians any more: at least, loafers. + +Strange the feeling round the harbour: as if everybody had gone away. +Yet there are people about. It is "festa" however, Epiphany. But it is +so different from Sicily: none of the suave Greek-Italian charms, none +of the airs and graces, none of the glamour. Rather bare, rather stark, +rather cold and yellow--somehow like Malta, without Malta's foreign +liveliness. Thank Goodness no one wants to carry my knapsack. Thank +Goodness no one has a fit at the sight of it. Thank Heaven no one takes +any notice. They stand cold and aloof, and don't move. + +We make our way through the Customs: then through the Dazio, the City +Customs-house. Then we are free. We set off up a steep, new, broad road, +with little trees on either side. But stone, arid, new, wide stone, +yellowish under the cold sky--and abandoned-seeming. Though, of course, +there are people about. The north wind blows bitingly. + +We climb a broad flight of steps, always upwards, up the wide, +precipitous, dreary boulevard with sprouts of trees. Looking for the +Hotel, and dying with hunger. + + * * * * * + +At last we find it, the Scala di Ferro: through a courtyard with green +plants. And at last a little man with lank, black hair, like an esquimo, +comes smiling. He is one brand of Sardinian--esquimo looking. There is +no room with two beds: only single rooms. And thus we are led off, if +you please, to the "bagnio": the bathing-establishment wing, on the dank +ground floor. Cubicles on either side a stone passage, and in every +cubicle a dark stone bath, and a little bed. We can have each a little +bath cubicle. If there's nothing else for it, there isn't: but it seems +dank and cold and horrid, underground. And one thinks of all the +unsavory "assignations" at these old bagnio places. True, at the end of +the passage are seated two carabinieri. But whether to ensure +respectibility or not, Heaven knows. We are in the baths, that's all. + +[Illustration: ISILI] + +The esquimo returns after five minutes, however. There _is_ a bedroom in +the house. He is pleased, because he didn't like putting us into the +bagnio. Where he found the bedroom I don't know. But there it was, +large, sombre, cold, and over the kitchen fumes of a small inner court +like a well. But perfectly clean and all right. And the people seemed +warm and good-natured, like human beings. One has got so used to the +non-human ancient-souled Sicilians, who are suave and so completely +callous. + + * * * * * + +After a really good meal we went out to see the town. It was after three +o'clock and everywhere was shut up like an English Sunday. Cold, stony +Cagliari: in summer you must be sizzling hot, Cagliari, like a kiln. The +men stood about in groups, but without the intimate Italian watchfulness +that never leaves a passer-by alone. + +Strange, stony Cagliari. We climbed up a street like a corkscrew +stairway. And we saw announcements of a children's fancy-dress ball. +Cagliari is very steep. Half-way up there is a strange place called the +bastions, a large, level space like a drill-ground with trees, +curiously suspended over the town, and sending off a long shoot like a +wide viaduct, across above the corkscrew street that comes climbing up. +Above this bastion place the town still rises steeply to the Cathedral +and the fort. What is so curious is that this terrace or bastion is so +large, like some big recreation ground, that it is almost dreary, and +one cannot understand its being suspended in mid-air. Down below is the +little circle of the harbour. To the left a low, malarial-looking sea +plain, with tufts of palm trees and Arab-looking houses. From this runs +out the long spit of land towards that black-and-white watch-fort, the +white road trailing forth. On the right, most curiously, a long strange +spit of sand runs in a causeway far across the shallows of the bay, with +the open sea on one hand, and vast, end-of-the-world lagoons on the +other. There are peaky, dark mountains beyond this--just as across the +vast bay are gloomy hills. It is a strange, strange landscape: as if +here the world left off. The bay is vast in itself; and all these +curious things happening at its head: this curious, craggy-studded town, +like a great stud of house-covered rock jutting up out of the bay flats: +around it on one side the weary, Arab-looking palm-desolated malarial +plain, and on the other side great salt lagoons, dead beyond the +sand-bar: these backed again by serried, clustered mountains, suddenly, +while away beyond the plain, hills rise to sea again. Land and sea both +seem to give out, exhausted, at the bay head: the world's end. And into +this world's end starts up Cagliari, and on either side, sudden, +serpent-crest hills. + +But it still reminds me of Malta: lost between Europe and Africa and +belonging to nowhere. Belonging to nowhere, never having belonged to +anywhere. To Spain and the Arabs and the Phoenicians most. But as if +it had never really had a fate. No fate. Left outside of time and +history. + +The spirit of the place is a strange thing. Our mechanical age tries to +override it. But it does not succeed. In the end the strange, sinister +spirit of the place, so diverse and adverse in differing places, will +smash our mechanical oneness into smithereens, and all that we think the +real thing will go off with a pop, and we shall be left staring. + + * * * * * + +On the great parapet above the Municipal Hall and above the corkscrew +high-street a thick fringe of people is hanging, looking down. We go to +look too: and behold, below there is the entrance to the ball. Yes, +there is a china shepherdess in pale blue and powdered hair, crook, +ribbons, Marie Antoinette satin daintiness and all, slowly and +haughtily walking up the road, and gazing superbly round. She is not +more than twelve years old, moreover. Two servants accompany her. She +gazes supremely from right to left as she goes, mincingly, and I would +give her the prize for haughtiness. She is perfect--a little too haughty +for Watteau, but "marquise" to a T. The people watch in silence. There +is no yelling and screaming and running. They watch in a suitable +silence. + +Comes a carriage with two fat bay horses slithering, almost swimming up +the corkscrew high-street. That in itself is a "tour-de-force": for +Cagliari doesn't have carriages. Imagine a street like a corkscrew +stair, paved with slippery stone. And imagine two bay horses rowing +their way up it: they did not walk a single stride. But they arrived. +And there fluttered out three strangely exquisite children, two frail, +white satin Pierrots and a white satin Pierrette. They were like fragile +winter butterflies with black spots. They had a curious, indefinable +remote elegance, something conventional and "fin-de-siecle". But not our +century. The wonderful artificial delicacy of the eighteenth. The boys +had big, perfect ruffs round their necks: and behind were slung old, +cream-colored Spanish shawls, for warmth. They were frail as tobacco +flowers, and with remote, cold elegance they fluttered by the carriage, +from which emerged a large black-satin Mama. Fluttering their queer +little butterfly feet on the pavement, hovering round the large Mama +like three frail-tissued ghosts, they found their way past the solid, +seated Carabinieri into the hall. + +Arrived a primrose-brocade beau, with ruffles, and his hat under his +arm: about twelve years old. Walking statelily, without a qualm up the +steep twist of the street. Or perhaps so perfect in his +self-consciousness that it became an elegant "aplomb" in him. He was a +genuine eighteenth-century exquisite, rather stiffer than the French, +maybe, but completely in the spirit. Curious, curious children! They had +a certain stand-offish superbness, and not a single trace of misgiving. +For them, their "noblesse" was indisputable. For the first time in my +life I recognized the true cold superbness of the old "noblesse". They +had not a single qualm about their own perfect representing of the +higher order of being. + +Followed another white satin "marquise", with a maid-servant. They are +strong on the eighteenth century in Cagliari. Perhaps it is the last +bright reality to them. The nineteenth hardly counts. + + * * * * * + +Curious the children in Cagliari. The poor seem thoroughly +poor-bare-footed urchins, gay and wild in the narrow dark streets. But +the more well-to-do children are so fine: so extraordinarily elegantly +dressed. It quite strikes one of a heap. Not so much the grown-ups. The +children. All the "chic," all the fashion, all the originality is +expended on the children. And with a great deal of success. Better than +Kensington Gardens very often. And they promenade with Papa and Mama +with such alert assurance, having quite brought it off, their +fashionable get-up. Who would have expected it? + + * * * * * + +Oh narrow, dark, and humid streets going up to the Cathedral, like +crevices. I narrowly miss a huge pail of slop-water which comes crashing +down from heaven. A small boy who was playing in the street, and whose +miss is not quite a clean miss, looks up with that naive, impersonal +wonder with which children stare at a star or a lamp-lighter. + +The Cathedral must have been a fine old pagan stone fortress once. Now +it has come, as it were, through the mincing machine of the ages, and +oozed out baroque and sausagey, a bit like the horrible baldachins in +St. Peter's at Rome. None the less it is homely and hole-and-cornery, +with a rather ragged high mass trailing across the pavement towards the +high altar, since it is almost sunset, and Epiphany. It feels as if one +might squat in a corner and play marbles and eat bread and cheese and be +at home: a comfortable old-time churchey feel. + +There is some striking filet lace on the various altar-cloths. And St. +Joseph must be a prime saint. He has an altar and a verse of invocation +praying for the dying. + +"Oh, St. Joseph, true potential father of Our Lord." What can it profit +a man, I wonder, to be the potential father of anybody! For the rest I +am not Baedeker. + + * * * * * + +The top of Cagliari is the fortress: the old gate, the old ramparts, of +honey-combed, fine yellowish sandstone. Up in a great sweep goes the +rampart wall, Spanish and splendid, dizzy. And the road creeping down +again at the foot, down the back of the hill. There lies the country: +that dead plain with its bunch of palms and a fainting sea, and inland +again, hills. Cagliari must be on a single, loose, lost bluff of rock. + +From the terrace just below the fortress, above the town, not behind it, +we stand and look at the sunset. It is all terrible, taking place beyond +the knotted, serpent-crested hills that lie, bluey and velvety, beyond +the waste lagoons. Dark, sultry, heavy crimson the west is, hanging +sinisterly, with those gloomy blue cloud-bars and cloud-banks drawn +across. All behind the blue-gloomy peaks stretches the curtain of +sinister, smouldering red, and away to the sea. Deep below lie the +sea-meres. They seem miles and miles, and utterly waste. But the +sand-bar crosses like a bridge, and has a road. All the air is dark, a +sombre bluish tone. The great west burns inwardly, sullenly, and gives +no glow, yet a deep red. It is cold. + +We go down the steep streets, smelly, dark, dank, and very cold. No +wheeled vehicle can scramble up them, presumably. People live in one +room. Men are combing their hair or fastening their collars in the +doorways. Evening is here, and it is a feast day. + + * * * * * + +At the bottom of the street we come to a little bunch of masked youths, +one in a long yellow frock and a frilled bonnet, another like an old +woman, another in red twill. They are arm in arm and are accosting the +passers-by. The q-b gives a cry, and looks for escape. She has a terror +of maskers, a terror that comes from childhood. To say the truth, so +have I. We hasten invisibly down the far side of the street, and come +out under the bastions. Then we go down our own familiar wide, short, +cold boulevard to the sea. + +At the bottom, again, is a carriage with more maskers. Carnival is +beginning. A man dressed as a peasant woman in native costume is +clambering with his great wide skirts and wide strides on to the box, +and, flourishing his ribboned whip, is addressing a little crowd of +listeners. He opens his mouth wide and goes on with a long yelling +harangue of taking a drive with his mother--another man in old-woman's +gaudy finery and wig who sits already bobbing on the box. The would-be +daughter flourishes, yells, and prances up there on the box of the +carriage. The crowd listens attentively and mildly smiles. It all seems +real to them. The q-b hovers in the distance, half-fascinated, and +watches. With a great flourish of whip and legs--showing his frilled +drawers--the masker pulls round to drive along the boulevard by the +sea--the only place where one can drive. + + * * * * * + +The big street by the sea is the Via Roma. It has the cafes on one side +and across the road the thick tufts of trees intervening between the sea +and us. Among these thick tufts of sea-front trees the little steam +tram, like a little train, bumps to rest, after having wound round the +back of the town. + +The Via Roma is all social Cagliari. Including the cafes with their +outdoor tables on the one side of the road, and the avenue strand on the +other, it is very wide, and at evening it contains the whole town. Here, +and here alone carriages can spank along, very slowly, officers can +ride, and the people can promenade "en masse." + +We were amazed at the sudden crowd we found ourselves amongst--like a +short, dense river of people streaming slowly in a mass. There is +practically no vehicular traffic--only the steady dense streams of human +beings of all sorts, all on a human footing. It must have been something +like this in the streets of imperial Rome, where no chariots might drive +and humanity was all on foot. + +Little bunches of maskers, and single maskers danced and strutted along +in the thick flow under the trees. If you are a mask you don't walk like +a human being: you dance and prance along extraordinarily like the +life-size marionettes, conducted by wires from above. That is how you +go: with that odd jauntiness as if lifted and propelled by wires from +the shoulders. In front of me went a charming coloured harlequin, all in +diamond-shaped colours, and beautiful as a piece of china. He tripped +with the light, fantastic trip, quite alone in the thick crowd, and +quite blithe. Came two little children hand in hand in brilliant scarlet +and white costumes, sauntering calmly. They did not do the mask trip. +After a while a sky-blue girl with a high hat and full skirts, very +short, that went flip-flip-flip, as a ballet dancer's, whilst she +strutted; after her a Spanish grandee capering like a monkey. They +threaded among the slow stream of the crowd. Appeared Dante and +Beatrice, in Paradise apparently, all in white sheet-robes, and with +silver wreaths on their heads, arm in arm, and prancing very slowly and +majestically, yet with the long lilt as if hitched along by wires from +above. They were very good: all the well-known vision come to life, +Dante incorporate, and white as a shroud, with his tow-haired, +silver-crowned, immortal Beatrice on his arm, strutting the dark +avenues. He had the nose and cheek-bones and banded cheek, and the +stupid wooden look, and offered a modern criticism on the Inferno. + + * * * * * + +It had become quite dark, the lamps were lighted. We crossed the road to +the Cafe Roma, and found a table on the pavement among the crowd. In a +moment we had our tea. The evening was cold, with ice in the wind. But +the crowd surged on, back and forth, back and forth, slowly. At the +tables were seated mostly men, taking coffee or vermouth or aqua vitae, +all familiar and easy, without the modern self-consciousness. There was +a certain pleasant, natural robustness of spirit, and something of a +feudal free-and-easiness. Then arrived a family, with children, and +nurse in her native costume. They all sat at table together, perfectly +easy with one another, though the marvellous nurse seemed to be seated +below the salt. She was bright as a poppy, in a rose-scarlet dress of +fine cloth, with a curious little waistcoat of emerald green and purple, +and a bodice of soft, homespun linen with great full sleeves. On her +head she had a rose-scarlet and white head-dress, and she wore great +studs of gold filigree, and similar ear-rings. The feudal-bourgeois +family drank its syrup-drinks and watched the crowd. Most remarkable is +the complete absence of self-consciousness. They all have a perfect +natural "sang-froid," the nurse in her marvellous native costume is as +thoroughly at her ease as if she were in her own village street. She +moves and speaks and calls to a passer-by without the slightest +constraint, and much more, without the slightest presumption. She is +below the invisible salt, the invisible but insuperable salt. And it +strikes me the salt-barrier is a fine thing for both parties: they both +remain natural and human on either side of it, instead of becoming +devilish, scrambling and pushing at the barricade. + + * * * * * + +The crowd is across the road, under the trees near the sea. On this side +stroll occasional pedestrians. And I see my first peasant in costume. +He is an elderly, upright, handsome man, beautiful in the +black-and-white costume. He wears the full-sleeved white shirt and the +close black bodice of thick, native frieze, cut low. From this sticks +out a short kilt or frill, of the same black frieze, a band of which +goes between the legs, between the full loose drawers of coarse linen. +The drawers are banded below the knee into tight black frieze gaiters. +On his head he has the long black stocking cap, hanging down behind. How +handsome he is, and so beautifully male! He walks with his hands loose +behind his back, slowly, upright, and aloof. The lovely +unapproachableness, indomitable. And the flash of the black and white, +the slow stride of the full white drawers, the black gaiters and black +cuirass with the bolero, then the great white sleeves and white breast +again, and once more the black cap--what marvellous massing of the +contrast, marvellous, and superb, as on a magpie.--How beautiful +maleness is, if it finds its right expression.--And how perfectly +ridiculous it is made in modern clothes. + +There is another peasant too, a young one with a swift eye and hard +cheek and hard, dangerous thighs. He has folded his stocking cap, so +that it comes forward to his brow like a phrygian cap. He wears close +knee breeches and close sleeved waistcoat of thick brownish stuff that +looks like leather. Over the waistcoat a sort of cuirass of black, rusty +sheepskin, the curly wool outside. So he strides, talking to a comrade. +How fascinating it is, after the soft Italians, to see these limbs in +their close knee-breeches, so definite, so manly, with the old +fierceness in them still. One realises, with horror, that the race of +men is almost extinct in Europe. Only Christ-like heroes and +woman-worshipping Don Juans, and rabid equality-mongrels. The old, +hardy, indomitable male is gone. His fierce singleness is quenched. The +last sparks are dying out in Sardinia and Spain. Nothing left but the +herd-proletariat and the herd-equality mongrelism, and the wistful +poisonous self-sacrificial cultured soul. How detestable. + +But that curious, flashing, black-and-white costume! I seem to have +known it before: to have worn it even: to have dreamed it. To have +dreamed it: to have had actual contact with it. It belongs in some way +to something in me--to my past, perhaps. I don't know. But the uneasy +sense of blood-familiarity haunts me. I _know_ I have known it before. +It is something of the same uneasiness I feel before Mount Eryx: but +without the awe this time. + + * * * * * + +In the morning the sun was shining from a blue, blue sky, but the +shadows were deadly cold, and the wind like a flat blade of ice. We went +out running to the sun. The hotel could not give us coffee and milk: +only a little black coffee. So we descended to the sea-front again, to +the Via Roma, and to our cafe. It was Friday: people seemed to be +bustling in from the country with huge baskets. + +The Cafe Roma had coffee and milk, but no butter. We sat and watched the +movement outside. Tiny Sardinian donkeys, the tiniest things ever seen, +trotted their infinitesimal little paws along the road, drawing little +wagons like handcarts. Their proportion is so small, that they make a +boy walking at their side look like a tall man, while a natural man +looks like a Cyclops stalking hugely and cruelly. It is ridiculous for a +grown man to have one of these little creatures, hardly bigger than a +fly, hauling his load for him. One is pulling a chest of drawers on a +cart, and it seems to have a whole house behind it. Nevertheless it +plods bravely, away beneath the load, a wee thing. + +They tell me there used to be flocks of these donkeys, feeding half wild +on the wild, moor-like hills of Sardinia. But the war--and also the +imbecile wantonness of the war-masters--consumed these flocks too, so +that few are left. The same with the cattle. Sardinia, home of cattle, +hilly little Argentine of the Mediterranean, is now almost deserted. It +is war, say the Italiana.--And also the wanton, imbecile, foul +lavishness of the war-masters. It was not alone the war which exhausted +the world. It was the deliberate evil wastefulness of the war-makers in +their own countries. Italy ruined Italy. + + * * * * * + +Two peasants in black-and-white are strolling in the sun, flashing. And +my dream of last evening was not a dream. And my nostalgia for something +I know not what was not an illusion. I feel it again, at once, at the +sight of the men in frieze and linen, a heart yearning for something I +have known, and which I want back again. + +It is market day. We turn up the Largo Carlo-Felice, the second wide gap +of a street, a vast but very short boulevard, like the end of something. +Cagliari is like that: all bits and bobs. And by the side of the +pavement are many stalls, stalls selling combs and collar-studs, cheap +mirrors, handkerchiefs, shoddy Manchester goods, bed-ticking, +boot-paste, poor crockery, and so on. But we see also Madame of Cagliari +going marketing, with a servant accompanying her, carrying a huge +grass-woven basket: or returning from marketing, followed by a small +boy supporting one of these huge grass-woven baskets--like huge +dishes--on his head, piled with bread, eggs, vegetables, a chicken, and +so forth. Therefore we follow Madame going marketing, and find ourselves +in the vast market house, and it fairly glows with eggs: eggs in these +great round dish-baskets of golden grass: but eggs in piles, in mounds, +in heaps, a Sierra Nevada of eggs, glowing warm white. How they glow! I +have never noticed it before. But they give off a warm, pearly +effulgence into the air, almost a warmth. A pearly-gold heat seems to +come out of them. Myriads of eggs, glowing avenues of eggs. + +And they are marked--60 centimes, 65 centimes. Ah, cries the q-b, I must +live in Cagliari--For in Sicily the eggs cost 1.50 each. + +This is the meat and poultry and bread market. There are stalls of new, +various-shaped bread, brown and bright: there are tiny stalls of +marvellous native cakes, which I want to taste, there is a great deal of +meat and kid: and there are stalls of cheese, all cheeses, all shapes, +all whitenesses, all the cream-colours, on into daffodil yellow. Goat +cheese, sheeps cheese, Swiss cheese, Parmegiano, stracchino, +caciocavallo, torolone, how many cheeses I don't know the names of! But +they cost about the same as in Sicily, eighteen francs, twenty francs, +twenty-five francs the kilo. And there is lovely ham--thirty and +thirty-five francs the kilo. There is a little fresh butter too--thirty +or thirty-two francs the kilo. Most of the butter, however, is tinned in +Milan. It costs the same as the fresh. There are splendid piles of +salted black olives, and huge bowls of green salted olives. There are +chickens and ducks and wild-fowl: at eleven and twelve and fourteen +francs a kilo. There is mortadella, the enormous Bologna sausage, thick +as a church pillar: 16 francs: and there are various sorts of smaller +sausage, salami, to be eaten in slices. A wonderful abundance of food, +glowing and shining. We are rather late for fish, especially on Friday. +But a barefooted man offers us two weird objects from the Mediterranean, +which teems with marine monsters. + +The peasant women sit behind their wares, their home-woven linen skirts, +hugely full, and of various colours, ballooning round them. The yellow +baskets give off a glow of light. There is a sense of profusion once +more. But alas no sense of cheapness: save the eggs. Every month, up +goes the price of everything. + +"I must come and live in Cagliari, to do my shopping here," says the +q-b. "I must have one of those big grass baskets." + +We went down to the little street--but saw more baskets emerging from a +broad flight of stone stairs, enclosed. So up we went-and found +ourselves in the vegetable market. Here the q-b was happier still. +Peasant women, sometimes barefoot, sat in their tight little bodices and +voluminous, coloured skirts behind the piles of vegetables, and never +have I seen a lovelier show. The intense deep green of spinach seemed to +predominate, and out of that came the monuments of curd-white and +black-purple cauliflowers: but marvellous cauliflowers, like a +flower-show, the purple ones intense as great bunches of violets. From +this green, white, and purple massing struck out the vivid rose-scarlet +and blue crimson of radishes, large radishes like little turnips, in +piles. Then the long, slim, grey-purple buds of artichokes, and dangling +clusters of dates, and piles of sugar-dusty white figs and +sombre-looking black figs, and bright burnt figs: basketfuls and +basketfuls of figs. A few baskets of almonds, and many huge walnuts. +Basket-pans of native raisins. Scarlet peppers like trumpets: +magnificent fennels, so white and big and succulent: baskets of new +potatoes: scaly kohlrabi: wild asparagus in bunches, yellow-budding +sparacelli: big, clean-fleshed carrots: feathery salads with white +hearts: long, brown-purple onions and then, of course pyramids of big +oranges, pyramids of pale apples, and baskets of brilliant shiny +mandarini, the little tangerine orange with their green-black leaves. +The green and vivid-coloured world of fruit-gleams I have never seen in +such splendour as under the market roof at Cagliari: so raw and +gorgeous. And all quite cheap, the one remaining cheapness, except +potatoes. Potatoes of any sort are 1.40 or 1.50 the kilo. + +"Oh!" cried the q-b, "If I don't live at Cagliari and come and do my +shopping here, I shall die with one of my wishes unfulfilled." + + * * * * * + +But out of the sun it was cold, nevertheless. We went into the streets +to try and get warm. The sun was powerful. But alas, as in southern +towns generally, the streets are sunless as wells. + +So the q-b and I creep slowly along the sunny bits, and then perforce +are swallowed by shadow. We look at the shops. But there is not much to +see. Little, frowsy provincial shops, on the whole. + +But a fair number of peasants in the streets, and peasant women in +rather ordinary costume: tight-bodiced, volume-skirted dresses of +hand-woven linen or thickish cotton. The prettiest is of +dark-blue-and-red, stripes-and-lines, intermingled, so made that the +dark-blue gathers round the waist into one colour, the myriad pleats +hiding all the rosy red. But when she walks, the full-petticoated +peasant woman, then the red goes flash-flash-flash, like a bird showing +its colours. Pretty that looks in the sombre street. She has a plain, +light bodice with a peak: sometimes a little vest, and great full white +sleeves, and usually a handkerchief or shawl loose knotted. It is +charming the way they walk, with quick, short steps. When all is said +and done, the most attractive costume for women in my eye, is the tight +little bodice and the many-pleated skirt, full and vibrating with +movement. It has a charm which modern elegance lacks completely--a +bird-like play in movement. + + * * * * * + +They are amusing, these peasant girls and women: so brisk and defiant. +They have straight backs, like little walls, and decided, well-drawn +brows. And they are amusingly on the alert. There is no eastern +creeping. Like sharp, brisk birds they dart along the streets, and you +feel they would fetch you a bang over the head as leave as look at you. +Tenderness, thank heaven, does not seem to be a Sardinian quality. Italy +is so tender--like cooked macaroni--yards and yards of soft tenderness +ravelled round everything. Here men don't idealise women, by the looks +of things. Here they don't make these great leering eyes, the inevitable +yours-to-command look of Italian males. When the men from the country +look at these women, then it is Mind-yourself, my lady. I should think +the grovelling Madonna-worship is not much of a Sardinian feature. These +women have to look out for themselves, keep their own back-bone stiff +and their knuckles hard. Man is going to be male Lord if he can. And +woman isn't going to give him too much of his own way, either. So there +you have it, the fine old martial split between the sexes. It is tonic +and splendid, really, after so much sticky intermingling and +backboneless Madonna-worship. The Sardinian isn't looking for the "noble +woman nobly planned." No, thank you. He wants that young madam over +there, a young stiff-necked generation that she is. Far better sport +than with the nobly-planned sort: hollow frauds that they are. Better +sport too than with a Carmen, who gives herself away too much, In these +women there is something shy and defiant and un-get-atable. The defiant, +splendid split between the sexes, each absolutely determined to defend +his side, her side, from assault. So the meeting has a certain wild, +salty savour, each the deadly unknown to the other. And at the same +time, each his own, her own native pride and courage, taking the +dangerous leap and scrambling back. + +Give me the old, salty way of love. How I am nauseated with sentiment +and nobility, the macaroni slithery-slobbery mess of modern adorations. + + * * * * * + +One sees a few fascinating faces in Cagliari: those great dark unlighted +eyes. There are fascinating dark eyes in Sicily, bright, big, with an +impudent point of light, and a curious roll, and long lashes: the eyes +of old Greece, surely. But here one sees eyes of soft, blank darkness, +all velvet, with no imp looking out of them. And they strike a stranger, +older note: before the soul became self-conscious: before the mentality +of Greece appeared in the world. Remote, always remote, as if the +intelligence lay deep within the cave, and never came forward. One +searches into the gloom for one second, while the glance lasts. But +without being able to penetrate to the reality. It recedes, like some +unknown creature deeper into its lair. There is a creature, dark and +potent. But what? + +Sometimes Velasquez, and sometimes Goya gives us a suggestion of these +large, dark, unlighted eyes. And they go with fine, fleecy black +hair--almost as fine as fur. I have not seen them north of Cagliari. + + * * * * * + +The q-b spies some of the blue-and-red stripe-and-line cotton stuff of +which the peasants make their dress: a large roll in the doorway of a +dark shop. In we go, and begin to feel it. It is just soft, thickish +cotton stuff--twelve francs a metre. Like most peasant patterns, it is +much more complicated and subtle than appears: the curious placing of +the stripes, the subtle proportion, and a white thread left down one +side only of each broad blue block. The stripes, moreover, run _across_ +the cloth, not lengthwise with it. But the width would be just long +enough for a skirt--though the peasant skirts have almost all a band at +the bottom with the stripes running round-ways. + +The man--he is the esquimo type, simple, frank and aimiable--says the +stuff is made in France, and this the first roll since the war. It is +the old, old pattern, quite correct--but the material not _quite_ so +good. The q-b takes enough for a dress. + +He shows us also cashmeres, orange, scarlet, sky-blue, royal blue: good, +pure-wool cashmeres that were being sent to India, and were captured +from a German mercantile sub-marine. So he says. Fifty francs a +metre--very, very wide. But they are too much trouble to carry in a +knapsack, though their brilliance fascinates. + + * * * * * + +So we stroll and look at the shops, at the filigree gold jewelling of +the peasants, at a good bookshop. But there is little to see and +therefore the question is, shall we go on? Shall we go forward? + +There are two ways of leaving Cagliari for the north: the State railway +that runs up the west side of the island, and the narrow-gauge secondary +railway that pierces the centre. But we are too late for the big trains. +So we will go by the secondary railway, wherever it goes. + +There is a train at 2.30, and we can get as far as Mandas, some fifty +miles in the interior. When we tell the queer little waiter at the +hotel, he says he comes from Mandas, and there are two inns. So after +lunch--a strictly fish menu--we pay our bill. It comes to sixty odd +francs--for three good meals each, with wine, and the night's lodging, +this is cheap, as prices now are in Italy. + +Pleased with the simple and friendly Scala di Ferre, I shoulder my sack +and we walk off to the second station. The sun is shining hot this +afternoon--burning hot, by the sea. The road and the buildings look dry +and desiccated, the harbour rather weary and end of the world. + +There is a great crowd of peasants at the little station. And almost +every man has a pair of woven saddle-bags--a great flat strip of +coarse-woven wool, with flat pockets at either end, stuffed with +purchases. These are almost the only carrying bags. The men sling them +over their shoulder, so that one great pocket hangs in front, one +behind. + +These saddle bags are most fascinating. They are coarsely woven in bands +of raw black-rusty wool, with varying bands of raw white wool or hemp or +cotton--the bands and stripes of varying widths going cross-wise. And on +the pale bands are woven sometimes flowers in most lovely colours, +rose-red and blue and green, peasant patterns--and sometimes fantastic +animals, beasts, in dark wool again. So that these striped zebra bags, +some wonderful gay with flowery colours on their stripes, some weird +with fantastic, griffin-like animals, are a whole landscape in +themselves. + +The train has only first and third class. It costs about thirty francs +for the two of us, third class to Mandas, which is some sixty miles. In +we crowd with the joyful saddle-bags, into the wooden carriage with its +many seats. + +And, wonder of wonders, punctually to the second, off we go, out of +Cagliari. En route again. + + + + +IV. + +MANDAS. + + +The coach was fairly full of people, returning from market. On these +railways the third class coaches are not divided into compartments. They +are left open, so that one sees everybody, as down a room. The +attractive saddle-bags, _bercole_, were disposed anywhere, and the bulk +of the people settled down to a lively _conversazione_. It is much +nicest, on the whole, to travel third class on the railway. There is +space, there is air, and it is like being in a lively inn, everybody in +good spirits. + +At our end was plenty of room. Just across the gangway was an elderly +couple, like two children, coming home very happily. He was fat, fat all +over, with a white moustache and a little not-unamiable frown. She was a +tall lean, brown woman, in a brown full-skirted dress and black apron, +with huge pocket. She wore no head covering, and her iron grey hair was +parted smoothly. They were rather pleased and excited being in the +train. She took all her money out of her big pocket, and counted it and +gave it to him: all the ten Lira notes, and the five Lira and the two +and the one, peering at the dirty scraps of pink-backed one-lira notes +to see if they were good. Then she gave him her half-pennies. And he +stowed them away in the trouser pocket, standing up to push them down +his fat leg. And then one saw, to one's amazement, that the whole of his +shirt-tail was left out behind, like a sort of apron worn backwards. +Why--a mystery. He was one of those fat, good-natured, unheeding men +with a little masterful frown, such as usually have tall, lean, +hard-faced, obedient wives. + +They were very happy. With amazement he watched us taking hot tea from +the Thermos flask. I think he too had suspected it might be a bomb. He +had blue eyes and standing-up white eyebrows. + +"Beautiful hot--!" he said, seeing the tea steam. It is the inevitable +exclamation. "Does it do you good?" + +"Yes," said the q-b. "Much good." And they both nodded complacently. +They were going home. + + * * * * * + +The train was running over the malarial-looking sea-plain--past the +down-at-heel palm trees, past the mosque-looking buildings. At a level +crossing the woman crossing-keeper darted out vigorously with her red +flag. And we rambled into the first village. It was built of sun-dried +brick-adobe houses, thick adobe garden-walls, with tile ridges to keep +off the rain. In the enclosures were dark orange trees. But the +clay-coloured villages, clay-dry, looked foreign: the next thing to mere +earth they seem, like fox-holes or coyote colonies. + +Looking back, one sees Cagliari bluff on her rock, rather fine, with the +thin edge of the sea's blade curving round. It is rather hard to believe +in the real sea, on this sort of clay-pale plain. + + * * * * * + +But soon we begin to climb to the hills. And soon the cultivation begins +to be intermittent. Extraordinary how the heathy, moor-like hills come +near the sea: extraordinary how scrubby and uninhabited the great spaces +of Sardinia are. It is wild, with heath and arbutus scrub and a sort of +myrtle, breast-high. Sometimes one sees a few head of cattle. And then +again come the greyish arable-patches, where the corn is grown. It is +like Cornwall, like the Land's End region. Here and there, in the +distance, are peasants working on the lonely landscape. Sometimes it is +one man alone in the distance, showing so vividly in his black-and-white +costume, small and far-off like a solitary magpie, and curiously +distinct. All the strange magic of Sardinia is in this sight. Among the +low, moor-like hills, away in a hollow of the wide landscape one +solitary figure, small but vivid black-and-white, working alone, as if +eternally. There are patches and hollows of grey arable land, good for +corn. Sardinia was once a great granary. + +Usually, however, the peasants of the South have left off the costume. +Usually it is the invisible soldiers' grey-green cloth, the Italian +khaki. Wherever you go, wherever you be, you see this khaki, this +grey-green war-clothing. How many millions of yards of the thick, +excellent, but hateful material the Italian government must have +provided I don't know: but enough to cover Italy with a felt carpet, I +should think. It is everywhere. It cases the tiny children in stiff and +neutral frocks and coats, it covers their extinguished fathers, and +sometimes it even encloses the women in its warmth. It is symbolic of +the universal grey mist that has come over men, the extinguishing of all +bright individuality, the blotting out of all wild singleness. Oh +democracy! Oh khaki democracy! + + * * * * * + +This is very different from Italian landscape. Italy is almost always +dramatic, and perhaps invariably romantic. There is drama in the plains +of Lombardy, and romance in the Venetian lagoons, and sheer scenic +excitement in nearly all the hilly parts of the peninsula. Perhaps it is +the natural floridity of lime-stone formations. But Italian landscape is +really eighteenth-century landscape, to be represented in that +romantic-classic manner which makes everything rather marvelous and very +topical: aqueducts, and ruins upon sugar-loaf mountains, and craggy +ravines and Wilhelm Meister water-falls: all up and down. + +Sardinia is another thing. Much wider, much more ordinary, not +up-and-down at all, but running away into the distance. Unremarkable +ridges of moor-like hills running away, perhaps to a bunch of dramatic +peaks on the southwest. This gives a sense of space, which is so lacking +in Italy. Lovely space about one, and traveling distances--nothing +finished, nothing final. It is like liberty itself, after the peaky +confinement of Sicily. Room--give me room--give me room for my spirit: +and you can have all the toppling crags of romance. + +So we ran on through the gold of the afternoon, across a wide, almost +Celtic landscape of hills, our little train winding and puffing away +very nimbly. Only the heath and scrub, breast-high, man-high, is too big +and brigand-like for a Celtic land. The horns of black, wild-looking +cattle show sometimes. + +After a long pull, we come to a station after a stretch of loneliness. +Each time, it looks as if there were nothing beyond--no more +habitations. And each time we come to a station. + +Most of the people have left the train. And as with men driving in a +gig, who get down at every public-house, so the passengers usually +alight for an airing at each station. Our old fat friend stands up and +tucks his shirt-tail comfortably in his trousers, which trousers all the +time make one hold one's breath, for they seem at each very moment to be +just dropping right down: and he clambers out, followed by the long, +brown stalk of a wife. + +So the train sits comfortably for five or ten minutes, in the way the +trains have. At last we hear whistles and horns, and our old fat friend +running and clinging like a fat crab to the very end of the train as it +sets off. At the same instant a loud shriek and a bunch of shouts from +outside. We all jump up. There, down the line, is the long brown stork +of a wife. She had just walked back to a house some hundred yards off, +for a few words, and has now seen the train moving. + +Now behold her with her hands thrown to heaven, and hear the wild shriek +"Madonna!" through all the hubbub. But she picks up her two skirt-knees, +and with her thin legs in grey stockings starts with a mad rush after +the train. In vain. The train inexorably pursues its course. Prancing, +she reaches one end of the platform as we leave the other end. Then she +realizes it is not going to stop for her. And then, oh horror, her long +arms thrown out in wild supplication after the retreating train: then +flung aloft to God: then brought down in absolute despair on her head. +And this is the last sight we have of her, clutching her poor head in +agony and doubling forward. She is left--she is abandoned. + +The poor fat husband has been all the time on the little outside +platform at the end of the carriage, holding out his hand to her and +shouting frenzied scolding to her and frenzied yells for the train to +stop. And the train has not stopped. And she is left--left on that +God-forsaken station in the waning light. + +So, his face all bright, his eyes round and bright as two stars, +absolutely transfigured by dismay, chagrin, anger and distress, he comes +and sits in his seat, ablaze, stiff, speechless. His face is almost +beautiful in its blaze of conflicting emotions. For some time he is as +if unconscious in the midst of his feelings. Then anger and resentment +crop out of his consternation. He turns with a flash to the long-nosed, +insidious, Phoenician-looking guard. Why couldn't they stop the train +for her! And immediately, as if someone had set fire to him, off flares +the guard. Heh!--the train can't stop for every person's convenience! +The train is a train--the time-table is a time-table. What did the old +woman want to take her trips down the line for? Heh! She pays the +penalty for her own inconsiderateness. Had _she_ paid for the +train--heh? And the fat man all the time firing off his unheeding and +unheeded answers. One minute--only one minute--if he, the conductor had +told the driver! if he, the conductor, had shouted! A poor woman! Not +another train! What was she going to do! Her ticket? And no money. A +poor woman-- + +There was a train back to Cagliari that night, said the conductor, at +which the fat man nearly burst out of his clothing like a bursting +seed-pod. He bounced on his seat. What good was that? What good was a +train back to Cagliari, when their home was in Snelli! Making matters +worse-- + +So they bounced and jerked and argued at one another, to their hearts' +content. Then the conductor retired, smiling subtly, in a way they have. +Our fat friend looked at us with hot, angry, ashamed, grieved eyes and +said it was a shame. Yes, we chimed, it _was_ a shame. Whereupon a +self-important miss who said she came from some Collegio at Cagliari +advanced and asked a number of impertinent questions in a tone of pert +sympathy. After which our fat friend, left alone, covered his clouded +face with his hand, turned his back on the world, and gloomed. + +It had all been so dramatic that in spite of ourselves we laughed, even +while the q-b shed a few tears. + + * * * * * + +Well, the journey lasted hours. We came to a station, and the conductor +said we must get out: these coaches went no further. Only two coaches +would proceed to Mandas. So we climbed out with our traps, and our fat +friend with his saddle-bag, the picture of misery. + +The one coach into which we clambered was rather crowded. The only other +coach was most of it first-class. And the rest of the train was freight. +We were two insignificant passenger wagons at the end of a long string +of freight-vans and trucks. + +There was an empty seat, so we sat on it: only to realize after about +five minutes, that a thin old woman with two children--her +grandchildren--was chuntering her head off because it was _her_ +seat--why she had left it she didn't say. And under my legs was her +bundle of bread. She nearly went off her head. And over my head, on the +little rack, was her bercola, her saddle-bag. Fat soldiers laughed at +her good-naturedly, but she fluttered and flipped like a tart, +featherless old hen. Since she had another seat and was quite +comfortable, we smiled and let her chunter. So she clawed her bread +bundle from under my legs, and, clutching it and a fat child, sat tense. + + * * * * * + +It was getting quite dark. The conductor came and said that there was no +more paraffin. If what there was in the lamps gave out, we should have +to sit in the dark. There was no more paraffin all along the line.--So +he climbed on the seats, and after a long struggle, with various boys +striking matches for him, he managed to obtain a light as big as a pea. +We sat in this _clair-obscur_, and looked at the sombre-shadowed faces +round us: the fat soldier with a gun, the handsome soldier with huge +saddle-bags, the weird, dark little man who kept exchanging a baby with +a solid woman who had a white cloth tied round her head, a tall +peasant-woman in costume, who darted out at a dark station and returned +triumphant with a piece of chocolate: a young and interested young man, +who told us every station. And the man who spat: there is always one. + +Gradually the crowd thinned. At a station we saw our fat friend go by, +bitterly, like a betrayed soul, his bulging saddle-bag hanging before +and after, but no comfort in it now--no comfort. The pea of light from +the paraffin lamp grew smaller. We sat in incredible dimness, and the +smell of sheeps-wool and peasant, with only our fat and stoic young man +to tell us where we were. The other dusky faces began to sink into a +dead, gloomy silence. Some took to sleep. And the little train ran on +and on, through unknown Sardinian darkness. In despair we drained the +last drop of tea and ate the last crusts of bread. We knew we must +arrive some time. + + * * * * * + +It was not much after seven when we came to Mandas. Mandas is a junction +where these little trains sit and have a long happy chat after their +arduous scramble over the downs. It had taken us somewhere about five +hours to do our fifty miles. No wonder then that when the junction at +last heaves in sight everybody bursts out of the train like seeds from +an exploding pod, and rushes somewhere for something. To the station +restaurant, of course. Hence there is a little station restaurant that +does a brisk trade, and where one can have a bed. + +A quite pleasant woman behind the little bar: a brown woman with brown +parted hair and brownish eyes and brownish, tanned complexion and tight +brown velveteen bodice. She led us up a narrow winding stone stair, as +up a fortress, leading on with her candle, and ushered us into the +bedroom. It smelled horrid and sourish, as shutup bedrooms do. We threw +open the window. There were big frosty stars snapping ferociously in +heaven. + +The room contained a huge bed, big enough for eight people, and quite +clean. And the table on which stood the candle actually had a cloth. But +imagine that cloth! I think it had been originally white: now, however, +it was such a web of time-eaten holes and mournful black inkstains and +poor dead wine stains that it was like some 2000 B.C. mummy-cloth. I +wonder if it could have been lifted from that table: or if it was +mummified on to it! I for one made no attempt to try. But that +table-cover impressed me, as showing degrees I had not imagined.--A +table-cloth. + +We went down the fortress-stair to the eating-room. Here was a long +table with soup-plates upside down and a lamp burning an uncanny naked +acetylene flame. We sat at the cold table, and the lamp immediately +began to wane. The room--in fact the whole of Sardinia--was stone cold, +stone, stone cold. Outside the earth was freezing. Inside there was no +thought of any sort of warmth: dungeon stone floors, dungeon stone walls +and a dead, corpse-like atmosphere, too heavy and icy to move. + +The lamp went quite out, and the q-b gave a cry. The brown woman poked +her head through a hole in the wall. Beyond her we saw the flames of the +cooking, and two devil-figures stirring the pots. The brown woman came +and shook the lamp--it was like a stodgy porcelain mantelpiece +vase--shook it well and stirred up its innards, and started it going +once more. Then she appeared with a bowl of smoking cabbage soup, in +which were bits of macaroni: and would we have wine? I shuddered at the +thought of death-cold red wine of the country, so asked what else there +was. There was malvagia--malvoisie, the same old malmsey that did for +the Duke of Clarence. So we had a pint of malvagia, and were comforted. +At least we were being so, when the lamp went out again. The brown woman +came and shook and smacked it, and started it off again. But as if to +say "Shan't for you", it whipped out again. + +Then came the host with a candle and a pin, a large, genial Sicilian +with pendulous mustaches. And he thoroughly pricked the wretch with the +pin, shook it, and turned little screws. So up flared the flame. We were +a little nervous. He asked us where we came from, etc. And suddenly he +asked us, with an excited gleam, were we Socialists. Aha, he was going +to hail us as citizens and comrades. He thought we were a pair of +Bolshevist agents: I could see it. And as such he was prepared to +embrace us. But no, the q-b disclaimed the honor. I merely smiled and +shook my head. It is a pity to rob people of their exciting illusions. + +"Ah, there is too much socialism everywhere!" cried the q-b. + +"Ma--perhaps, perhaps--" said the discreet Sicilian. She saw which way +the land lay, and added: + +"Si vuole un _pocchetino_ di Socialismo: one wants a tiny bit of +socialism in the world, a tiny bit. But not much. Not much. At present +there is too much." + +Our host, twinkling at this speech which treated of the sacred creed as +if it were a pinch of salt in the broth, believing the q-b was throwing +dust in his eyes, and thoroughly intrigued by us as a pair of deep ones, +retired. No sooner had he gone than the lamp-flame stood up at its full +length, and started to whistle. The q-b drew back. Not satisfied by +this, another flame suddenly began to whip round the bottom of the +burner, like a lion lashing its tail. Unnerved, we made room: the q-b +cried again: in came the host with a subtle smile and a pin and an air +of benevolence, and tamed the brute. + +What else was there to eat? There was a piece of fried pork for me, and +boiled eggs for the q-b. As we were proceeding with these, in came the +remainder of the night's entertainment: three station officials, two in +scarlet peaked caps, one in a black-and-gold peaked cap. They sat down +with a clamour, in their caps, as if there was a sort of invisible +screen between us and them. They were young. The black cap had a lean +and sardonic look: one of the red-caps was little and ruddy, very young, +with a little mustache: we called him the _maialino_, the gay little +black pig, he was so plump and food-nourished and frisky. The third was +rather puffy and pale and had spectacles. They all seemed to present us +the blank side of their cheek, and to intimate that no, they were not +going to take their hats off, even if it were dinner-table and a strange +_signora_. And they made rough quips with one another, still as if we +were on the other side of the invisible screen. + +Determined however, to remove this invisible screen, I said +Good-evening, and it was very cold. They muttered Good-evening, and yes, +it was fresh. An Italian never says it is cold: it is never more than +_fresco_. But this hint that it was cold they took as a hint at their +caps, and they became very silent, till the woman came in with the +soup-bowl. Then they clamoured at her, particularly the _maialino_, what +was there to eat. She told them--beef-steaks of pork. Whereat they +pulled faces. Or bits of boiled pork. They sighed, looked gloomy, +cheered up, and said beef-steaks, then. + +And they fell on their soup. And never, from among the steam, have I +heard a more joyful trio of soup-swilkering. They sucked it in from +their spoons with long, gusto-rich sucks. The _maialino_ was the +treble--he trilled his soup into his mouth with a swift, sucking +vibration, interrupted by bits of cabbage, which made the lamp start to +dither again. Black-cap was the baritone; good, rolling spoon-sucks. And +the one in spectacles was the bass: he gave sudden deep gulps. All was +led by the long trilling of the _maialino_. Then suddenly, to vary +matters, he cocked up his spoon in one hand, chewed a huge mouthful of +bread, and swallowed it down with a smack-smack-smack! of his tongue +against his palate. As children we used to call this "clapping". + +"Mother, she's clapping!" I would yell with anger, against my sister. +The German word is schmatzen. + +So the _maialino_ clapped like a pair of cymbals, while baritone and +bass rolled on. Then in chimed the swift bright treble. + +At this rate however, the soup did not last long. Arrived the +beef-steaks of pork. And now the trio was a trio of castanet smacks and +cymbal claps. Triumphantly the _maialino_ looked around. He out-smacked +all. + +The bread of the country is rather coarse and brown, with a hard, hard +crust. A large rock of this is perched on every damp serviette. The +_maialino_ tore his rock asunder, and grumbled at the black-cap, who had +got a weird sort of three-cornered loaf-roll of pure white bread--starch +white. He was a swell with this white bread. + +Suddenly black-cap turned to me. Where had we come from, where were we +going, what for? But in laconic, sardonic tone. + +"I _like_ Sardinia," cried the q-b. + +"Why?" he asked sarcastically. And she tried to find out. + +"Yes, the Sardinians please me more than the Sicilians," said I. + +"Why?" he asked sarcastically. + +"They are more open--more honest." He seemed to turn his nose down. + +"The padrone is a Sicilian," said the _maialino_, stuffing a huge block +of bread into his mouth, and rolling his insouciant eyes of a gay, +well-fed little black pig towards the background. We weren't making much +headway. + +"You've seen Cagliari?" the black-cap said to me, like a threat. + +"Yes! oh Cagliari pleases me--Cagliari is beautiful!" cried the q-b, +who travels with a vial of melted butter ready for her parsnips. + +"Yes--Cagliari is _so-so_--Cagliari is very fair," said the black cap. +"_Cagliari e discreto._" He was evidently proud of it. + +"And is Mandas nice?" asked the q-b. + +"In what way nice?" they asked, with immense sarcasm. + +"Is there anything to see?" + +"Hens," said the _maialino_ briefly. They all bristled when one asked if +Mandas was nice. + +"What does one do here?" asked the q-b. + +"_Niente!_ At Mandas one does _nothing_. At Mandas one goes to bed when +it's dark, like a chicken. At Mandas one walks down the road like a pig +that is going nowhere. At Mandas a goat understands more than the +inhabitants understand. At Mandas one needs socialism...." + +They all cried out at once. Evidently Mandas was more than flesh and +blood could bear for another minute to these three conspirators. + +"Then you are very bored here?" say I. + +"Yes." + +And the quiet intensity of that naked yes spoke more than volumes. + +"You would like to be in Cagliari?" + +"Yes." + +Silence, intense, sardonic silence had intervened. The three looked at +one another and made a sour joke about Mandas. Then the black-cap turned +to me. + +"Can you understand Sardinian?" he said. + +"Somewhat. More than Sicilian, anyhow." + +"But Sardinian is more difficult than Sicilian. It is full of words +utterly unknown to Italian--" + +"Yes, but," say I, "it is spoken openly, in plain words, and Sicilian is +spoken all stuck together, none of the words there at all." + +He looks at me as if I were an imposter. Yet it is true. I find it quite +easy to understand Sardinian. As a matter of fact, it is more a question +of human approach than of sound. Sardinian seems open and manly and +downright. Sicilian is gluey and evasive, as if the Sicilian didn't want +to speak straight to you. As a matter of fact, he doesn't. He is an +over-cultured, sensitive, ancient soul, and he has so many sides to his +mind that he hasn't got any definite one mind at all. He's got a dozen +minds, and uneasily he's aware of it, and to commit himself to anyone of +them is merely playing a trick on himself and his interlocutor. The +Sardinian, on the other hand, still seems to have one downright mind. I +bump up against a downright, smack-out belief in Socialism, for +example. The Sicilian is much too old in our culture to swallow +Socialism whole: much too ancient and ruse not to be sophisticated about +any and every belief. He'll go off like a squib: and then he'll smoulder +acridly and sceptically even against his own fire. One sympathizes with +him in retrospect. But in daily life it is unbearable. + +"Where do you find such white bread?" say I to the black cap, because he +is proud of it. + +"It comes from my home." And then he asks about the bread of Sicily. Is +it any whiter than _this_--the Mandas rock. Yes, it is a little whiter. +At which they gloom again. For it is a very sore point, this bread. +Bread means a great deal to an Italian: it is verily his staff of life. +He practically lives on bread. And instead of going by taste, he now, +like all the world, goes by eye. He has got it into his head that bread +should be white, so that every time he fancies a darker shade in the +loaf a shadow falls on his soul. Nor is he altogether wrong. For +although, personally, I don't like white bread any more, yet I do like +my brown bread to be made of pure, unmixed flour. The peasants in +Sicily, who have kept their own wheat and make their own natural brown +bread, ah, it is amazing how fresh and sweet and _clean_ their loaf +seems, so perfumed as home-bread used all to be before the war. Whereas +the bread of the commune, the regulation supply, is hard, and rather +coarse and rough, so rough and harsh on the palate. One gets tired to +death of it. I suspect myself the maize meal mixed in. But I don't know. +And finally the bread varies immensely from town to town, from commune +to commune. The so-called just and equal distribution is all my-eye. One +place has abundance of good sweet bread, another scrapes along, always +stinted, on an allowance of harsh coarse stuff. And the poor suffer +bitterly, really, from the bread-stinting, because they depend so on +this one food. They say the inequality and the injustice of distribution +comes from the Camorra--la grande Camorra--which is no more nowadays +than a profiteering combine, which the poor hate. But for myself, I +don't know. I only know that one town--Venice, for example--seems to +have an endless supply of pure bread, of sugar, of tobacco, of +salt--while Florence is in one continual ferment of irritation over the +stinting of these supplies--which are all government monopoly, doled out +accordingly. + +We said Good-night to our three railway friends, and went up to bed. We +had only been in the room a minute or two, when the brown woman tapped: +and if you please, the black-cap had sent us one of his little white +loaves. We were really touched. Such delicate little generosities have +almost disappeared from the world. + +It was a queer little bread--three-cornered, and almost as hard as ships +biscuit, made of starch flour. Not strictly bread at all. + + * * * * * + +The night was cold, the blankets flat and heavy, but one slept quite +well till dawn. At seven o'clock it was a clear, cold morning, the sun +not yet up. Standing at the bedroom window looking out, I could hardly +believe my eyes it was so like England, like Cornwall in the bleak +parts, or Derbyshire uplands. There was a little paddock-garden at the +back of the Station, rather tumble-down, with two sheep in it. There +were several forlorn-looking out-buildings, very like Cornwall. And then +the wide, forlorn country road stretched away between borders of grass +and low, drystone walls, towards a grey stone farm with a tuft of trees, +and a naked stone village in the distance. The sun came up yellow, the +bleak country glimmered bluish and reluctant. The low, green hill-slopes +were divided into fields, with low drystone walls and ditches. Here and +there a stone barn rose alone, or with a few bare, windy trees attached. +Two rough-coated winter horses pastured on the rough grass, a boy came +along the naked, wide, grass-bordered high-road with a couple of milk +cans, drifting in from nowhere: and it was all so like Cornwall, or a +part of Ireland, that the old nostalgia for the Celtic regions began to +spring up in me. Ah, those old, drystone walls dividing the fields--pale +and granite-blenched! Ah, the dark, sombre grass, the naked sky! the +forlorn horses in the wintry morning! Strange is a Celtic landscape, far +more moving, disturbing than the lovely glamor of Italy and Greece. +Before the curtains of history lifted, one feels the world was like +this--this Celtic bareness and sombreness and _air_. But perhaps it is +not Celtic at all: Iberian. Nothing is more unsatisfactory than our +conception of what is Celtic and what is not Celtic. I believe there +never were any Celts, as a race.--As for the Iberians--! + +[Illustration: TONARA] + +Wonderful to go out on a frozen road, to see the grass in shadow bluish +with hoar-frost, to see the grass in the yellow winter-sunrise beams +melting and going cold-twinkly. Wonderful the bluish, cold air, and +things standing up in cold distance. After two southern winters, with +roses blooming all the time, this bleakness and this touch of frost in +the ringing morning goes to my soul like an intoxication. I am so glad, +on this lonely naked road, I don't know what to do with myself. I walk +down in the shallow grassy ditches under the loose stone walls, I walk +on the little ridge of grass, the little bank on which the wall is +built, I cross the road across the frozen cow-droppings: and it is all +so familiar to my _feet_, my very feet in contact, that I am wild as if +I had made a discovery. And I realize that I hate lime-stone, to live on +lime-stone or marble or any of those limey rocks. I hate them. They are +dead rocks, they have no life--thrills for the feet. Even sandstone is +much better. But granite! Granite is my favorite. It is so live under +the feet, it has a deep sparkle of its own. I like its roundnesses--and +I hate the jaggy dryness of lime-stone, that burns in the sun, and +withers. + + * * * * * + +After coming to a deep well in a grassy plot in a wide space of the +road, I go back, across the sunny naked upland country, towards the pink +station and its out-buildings. An engine is steaming its white clouds in +the new light. Away to the left there is even a row of small houses, +like a row of railway-mens' dwellings. Strange and familiar sight. And +the station precincts are disorderly and rather dilapidated. I think of +our Sicilian host. + +The brown woman gives us coffee, and very strong, rich goats' milk, and +bread. After which the q-b and I set off once more along the road to the +village. She too is thrilled. She too breathes deep. She too feels +_space_ around her, and freedom to move the limbs: such as one does not +feel in Italy and Sicily, where all is so classic and fixed. + +The village itself is just a long, winding, darkish street, in shadow, +of houses and shops and a smithy. It might almost be Cornwall: not +quite. Something, I don't know what, suggests the stark burning glare of +summer. And then, of course, there is none of the cosiness which +climbing roses and lilac trees and cottage shops and haystacks would +give to an English scene. This is harder, barer, starker, more dreary. +An ancient man in the black-and-white costume comes out of a hovel of a +cottage. The butcher carries a huge side of meat. The women peer at +us--but more furtive and reticent than the howling stares of Italy. + +So we go on, down the rough-cobbled street through the whole length of +the village. And emerging on the other side, past the last cottage, we +find ourselves again facing the open country, on the gentle down-slope +of the rolling hill. The landscape continues the same: low, rolling +upland hills, dim under the yellow sun of the January morning: stone +fences, fields, grey-arable land: a man slowly, slowly ploughing with a +pony and a dark-red cow: the road trailing empty across the distance: +and then, the one violently unfamiliar note, the enclosed cemetery lying +outside on the gentle hill-side, closed in all round, very compact, +with high walls: and on the inside face of the enclosure wall the marble +slabs, like shut drawers of the sepulchres, shining white, the wall +being like a chest of drawers, or pigeon holes to hold the dead. Tufts +of dark and plumy cypresses rise among the flat graves of the enclosure. +In the south, cemeteries are walled off and isolated very tight. The +dead, as it were, are kept fast in pound. There is no spreading of +graves over the face of the country. They are penned in a tight fold, +with cypresses to fatten on the bones. This is the one thoroughly +strange note in the landscape. But all-pervading there is a strangeness, +that strange feeling as if the _depths_ were barren, which comes in the +south and the east, sun-stricken. Sun-stricken, and the heart eaten out +by the dryness. + +"I like it! I like it!" cries the q-b. + +"But could you live here?" She would like to say yes, but daren't. + +We stray back. The q-b wants to buy one of those saddle-bag +arrangements. I say what for? She says to keep things in. Ach! but +peeping in the shops, we see one and go in and examine it. It is quite a +sound one, properly made: but plain, quite plain. On the white +cross-stripes there are no lovely colored flowers of rose and green and +magenta: the three favorite Sardinian colors: nor are there any of the +fantastic and griffin-like beasts. So it won't do. How much does it +cost? Forty-five francs. + +There is nothing to do in Mandas. So we will take the morning train and +go to the terminus, to Sorgono. Thus, we shall cross the lower slopes of +the great central knot of Sardinia, the mountain knot called +Gennargentu. And Sorgono we feel will be lovely. + +Back at the station we make tea on the spirit lamp, fill the thermos, +pack the knapsack and the kitchenino, and come out into the sun of the +platform. The q-b goes to thank the black-cap for the white bread, +whilst I settle the bill and ask for food for the journey. The brown +woman fishes out from a huge black pot in the background sundry hunks of +coarse boiled pork, and gives me two of these, hot, with bread and salt. +This is the luncheon. I pay the bill: which amounts to twenty-four +francs, for everything. (One says francs or liras, irrespective, in +Italy.) At that moment arrives the train from Cagliari, and men rush in, +roaring for the soup--or rather, for the broth. "Ready, ready!" she +cries, going to the black pot. + + + + +V. + +TO SORGONO. + + +The various trains in the junction squatted side by side and had long, +long talks before at last we were off. It was wonderful to be running in +the bright morning towards the heart of Sardinia, in the little train +that seemed so familiar. We were still going third class, rather to the +disgust of the railway officials at Mandas. + +At first the country was rather open: always the long spurs of hills, +steep-sided, but not high. And from our little train we looked across +the country, across hill and dale. In the distance was a little town, on +a low slope. But for its compact, fortified look it might have been a +town on the English downs. A man in the carriage leaned out of the +window holding out a white cloth, as a signal to someone in the far off +town that he was coming. The wind blew the white cloth, the town in the +distance glimmered small and alone in its hollow. And the little train +pelted along. + +It was rather comical to see it. We were always climbing. And the line +curved in great loops. So that as one looked out of the window, time and +again one started, seeing a little train running in front of us, in a +diverging direction, making big puffs of steam. But lo, it was our own +little engine pelting off around a loop away ahead. We were quite a long +train, but all trucks in front, only our two passenger coaches hitched +on behind. And for this reason our own engine was always running fussily +into sight, like some dog scampering in front and swerving about us, +while we followed at the tail end of the thin string of trucks. + +I was surprised how well the small engine took the continuous steep +slopes, how bravely it emerged on the sky-line. It is a queer railway. I +would like to know who made it. It pelts up hill and down dale and round +sudden bends in the most unconcerned fashion, not as proper big railways +do, grunting inside deep cuttings and stinking their way through +tunnels, but running up the hill like a panting, small dog, and having a +look round, and starting off in another direction, whisking us behind +unconcernedly. This is much more fun than the tunnel-and-cutting system. + +They told me that Sardinia mines her own coal: and quite enough for her +own needs: but very soft, not fit for steam-purposes. I saw heaps of it: +small, dull, dirty-looking stuff. Truck-loads of it too. And +truck-loads of grain. + +At every station we were left ignominiously planted, while the little +engines--they had gay gold names on their black little bodies--strolled +about along the side-lines, and snuffed at the various trucks. There we +sat, at every station, while some truck was discarded and some other +sorted out like a branded sheep, from the sidings and hitched on to us. +It took a long time, this did. + + * * * * * + +All the stations so far had had wire netting over the windows. This +means malaria-mosquitoes. The malaria climbs very high in Sardinia. The +shallow upland valleys, moorland with their intense summer sun and the +riverless, boggy behaviour of the water breed the pest inevitably. But +not very terribly, as far as one can make out: August and September +being the danger months. The natives don't like to admit there is any +malaria: a tiny bit, they say, a tiny bit. As soon as you come to the +_trees_ there is no more. So they say. For many miles the landscape is +moorland and down-like, with no trees. But wait for the trees. Ah, the +woods and forests of Gennargentu: the woods and forests higher up: no +malaria there! + +The little engine whisks up and up, around its loopy curves as if it +were going to bite its own tail: we being the tail: then suddenly dives +over the sky-line out of sight. And the landscape changes. The famous +woods begin to appear. At first it is only hazel-thickets, miles of +hazel-thickets, all wild, with a few black cattle trying to peep at us +out of the green myrtle and arbutus scrub which forms the undergrowth; +and a couple of rare, wild peasants peering at the train. They wear the +black sheepskin tunic, with the wool outside, and the long stocking +caps. Like cattle they too peer out from between deep bushes. The myrtle +scrub here rises man-high, and cattle and men are smothered in it. The +big hazels rise bare above. It must be difficult getting about in these +parts. + +Sometimes, in the distance one sees a black-and-white peasant riding +lonely across a more open place, a tiny vivid figure. I like so much the +proud instinct which makes a living creature distinguish itself from its +background. I hate the rabbity khaki protection-colouration. A +black-and-white peasant on his pony, only a dot in the distance beyond +the foliage, still flashes and dominates the landscape. Ha-ha! proud +mankind! There you ride! But alas, most of the men are still +khaki-muffled, rabbit-indistinguishable, ignominious. The Italians look +curiously rabbity in the grey-green uniform: just as our sand-colored +khaki men look doggy. They seem to scuffle rather abased, ignominious +on the earth. Give us back the scarlet and gold, and devil take the +hindmost. + + * * * * * + +The landscape really begins to change. The hillsides tilt sharper and +sharper. A man is ploughing with two small red cattle on a craggy, +tree-hanging slope as sharp as a roof-side. He stoops at the small +wooden plough, and jerks the ploughlines. The oxen lift their noses to +heaven, with a strange and beseeching snake-like movement, and taking +tiny little steps with their frail feet, move slantingly across the +slope-face, between rocks and tree-roots. Little, frail, jerky steps the +bullocks take, and again they put their horns back and lift their +muzzles snakily to heaven, as the man pulls the line. And he skids his +wooden plough round another scoop of earth. It is marvellous how they +hang upon that steep, craggy slope. An English labourer's eyes would +bolt out of his head at the sight. + +There is a stream: actually a long tress of a water-fall pouring into a +little gorge, and a stream-bed that opens a little, and shows a +marvellous cluster of naked poplars away below. They are like ghosts. +They have a ghostly, almost phosphorescent luminousness in the shadow of +the valley, by the stream of water. If not phosphorescent, then +incandescent: a grey, goldish-pale incandescence of naked limbs and +myriad cold-glowing twigs, gleaming strangely. If I were a painter I +would paint them: for they seem to have living, sentient flesh. And the +shadow envelopes them. + +Another naked tree I would paint is the gleaming mauve-silver fig, which +burns its cold incandescence, tangled, like some sensitive creature +emerged from the rock. A fig tree come forth in its nudity gleaming over +the dark winter-earth is a sight to behold. Like some white, tangled sea +anemone. Ah, if it could but answer! or if we had tree-speech! + + * * * * * + +Yes, the steep valley sides become almost gorges, and there are trees. +Not forests such as I had imagined, but scattered, grey, smallish oaks, +and some lithe chestnuts. Chestnuts with their long whips, and oaks with +their stubby boughs, scattered on steep hillsides where rocks crop out. +The train perilously winding round, half way up. Then suddenly bolting +over a bridge and into a completely unexpected station. What is more, +men crowd in--the station is connected with the main railway by a post +motor-omnibus. + +An unexpected irruption of men--they may be miners or navvies or +land-workers. They all have huge sacks: some lovely saddle-bags with +rose-coloured flowers across the darkness. One old man is in full +black-and-white costume, but very dirty and coming to pieces. The others +wear the tight madder-brown breeches and sleeved waistcoats. Some have +the sheepskin tunic, and all wear the long stocking cap. And how they +smell! of sheep-wool and of men and goat. A rank scent fills the +carriage. + +They talk and are very lively. And they have mediaeval faces, _ruse_, +never really abandoning their defences for a moment, as a badger or a +pole-cat never abandons its defences. There is none of the brotherliness +and civilised simplicity. Each man knows he must guard himself and his +own: each man knows the devil is behind the next bush. They have never +known the post-Renaissance Jesus. Which is rather an eye-opener. + +Not that they are suspicious or uneasy. On the contrary, noisy, +assertive, vigorous presences. But with none of that implicit belief +that everybody will be and ought to be good to them, which is the mark +of our era. They don't expect people to be good to them: they don't want +it. They remind me of half-wild dogs that will love and obey, but which +won't be handled. They won't have their heads touched. And they won't be +fondled. One can almost hear the half-savage growl. + +The long stocking caps they wear as a sort of crest, as a lizard wears +his crest at mating time. They are always moving them, settling them on +their heads. One fat fellow, young, with sly brown eyes and a young +beard round his face folds his stocking-foot in three, so that it rises +over his brow martial and handsome. The old boy brings his stocking-foot +over the left ear. A handsome fellow with a jaw of massive teeth pushes +his cap back and lets it hang a long way down his back. Then he shifts +it forward over his nose, and makes it have two sticking-out points, +like fox-ears, above his temples. It is marvellous how much expression +these caps can take on. They say that only those born to them can wear +them. They seem to be just long bags, nearly a yard long, of black +stockinette stuff. + +The conductor comes to issue them their tickets. And they all take out +rolls of paper money. Even a little mothy rat of a man who sits opposite +me has quite a pad of ten-franc notes. Nobody seems short of a hundred +francs nowadays: nobody. + +They shout and expostulate with the conductor. Full of coarse life they +are: but so coarse! The handsome fellow has his sleeved waistcoat open, +and his shirt-breast has come unbuttoned. Not looking, it seems as if he +wears a black undervest. Then suddenly, one sees it is his own hair. He +is quite black inside his shirt, like a black goat. + +But there is a gulf between oneself and them. They have no inkling of +our crucifixion, our universal consciousness. Each of them is pivoted +and limited to himself, as the wild animals are. They look out, and they +see other objects, objects to ridicule or mistrust or to sniff curiously +at. But "thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself" has never entered +their souls at all, not even the thin end of it. They might love their +neighbour, with a hot, dark, unquestioning love. But the love would +probably leave off abruptly. The fascination of what is beyond them has +not seized on them. Their neighbour is a mere external. Their life is +centripetal, pivoted inside itself, and does not run out towards others +and mankind. One feels for the first time the real old mediaeval life, +which is enclosed in itself and has no interest in the world outside. + +And so they lie about on the seats, play a game, shout, and sleep, +and settle their long stocking-caps: and spit. It is wonderful in +them that at this time of day they still wear the long stocking-caps +as part of their inevitable selves. It is a sign of obstinate and +powerful tenacity. They are not going to be broken in upon by +world-consciousness. They are not going into the world's common clothes. +Coarse, vigorous, determined, they will stick to their own coarse dark +stupidity and let the big world find its own way to its own enlightened +hell. Their hell is their own hell, they prefer it unenlightened. + +And one cannot help wondering whether Sardinia will resist right +through. Will the last waves of enlightenment and world-unity break over +them and wash away the stocking-caps? Or is the tide of enlightenment +and world-unity already receding fast enough? + +Certainly a reaction is setting in, away from the old universality, +back, away from cosmopolitanism and internationalism. Russia, with her +Third International, is at the same time reacting most violently away +from all other contact, back, recoiling on herself, into a fierce, +unapproachable Russianism. Which motion will conquer? The workman's +International, or the centripetal movement into national isolation? Are +we going to merge into one grey proletarian homogeneity?--or are we +going to swing back into more-or-less isolated, separate, defiant +communities? + +Probably both. The workman's International movement will finally break +the flow towards cosmopolitanism and world-assimilation, and suddenly in +a crash the world will fly back into intense separations. The moment has +come when America, that extremist in world-assimilation and +world-oneness, is reacting into violent egocentricity, a truly +Amerindian egocentricity. As sure as fate we are on the brink of +American empire. + +For myself, I am glad. I am glad that the era of love and oneness is +over: hateful homogeneous world-oneness. I am glad that Russia flies +back into savage Russianism, Scythism, savagely self-pivoting. I am glad +that America is doing the same. I shall be glad when men hate their +common, world-alike clothes, when they tear them up and clothe +themselves fiercely for distinction, savage distinction, savage +distinction against the rest of the creeping world: when America kicks +the billy-cock and the collar-and-tie into limbo, and takes to her own +national costume: when men fiercely react against looking all alike and +being all alike, and betake themselves into vivid clan or +nation-distinctions. + +The era of love and oneness is over. The era of world-alike should be at +an end. The other tide has set in. Men will set their bonnets at one +another now, and fight themselves into separation and sharp distinction. +The day of peace and oneness is over, the day of the great fight into +multifariousness is at hand. Hasten the day, and save us from +proletarian homogeneity and khaki all-alikeness. + +I love my indomitable coarse men from mountain Sardinia, for their +stocking-caps and their splendid, animal-bright stupidity. If only the +last wave of all-alikeness won't wash those superb crests, those caps, +away. + + * * * * * + +We are struggling now among the Gennargentu spurs. There is no single +peak--no Etna of Sardinia. The train, like the plough, balances on the +steep, steep sides of the hill-spurs, and winds around and around. Above +and below the steep slopes are all bosky. These are the woods of +Gennargentu. But they aren't woods in my sense of the word. They are +thin sprinkles of oaks and chestnuts and cork-trees over steep +hill-slopes. And cork-trees! I see curious slim oaky-looking trees that +are stripped quite naked below the boughs, standing brown-ruddy, +curiously distinct among the bluey grey pallor of the others. They +remind me, again and again, of glowing, coffee-brown, naked aborigines +of the South Seas. They have the naked suavity, skin-bare, and an +intense coffee-red colour of unclothed savages. And these are the +stripped cork-trees. Some are much stripped, some little. Some have the +whole trunk and part of the lower limbs ruddy naked, some only a small +part of the trunk. + + * * * * * + +It is well on in the afternoon. A peasant in black and white, and his +young, handsome woman in rose-red costume, with gorgeous apron bordered +deep with grass-green, and a little, dark-purple waistcoat over her +white, full bodice, are sitting behind me talking. The workmen peasants +are subsiding into sleep. It is well on in the afternoon, we have long +ago eaten the meat. Now we finish the white loaf, the gift, and the tea. +Suddenly looking out of the window, we see Gennargentu's mass behind us, +a thick snow-deep knot-summit, beautiful beyond the long, steep spurs +among which we are engaged. We lose the white mountain mass for half an +hour: when suddenly it emerges unexpectedly almost in front, the great, +snow-heaved shoulder. + +How different it is from Etna, that lonely, self-conscious wonder of +Sicily! This is much more human and knowable, with a deep breast and +massive limbs, a powerful mountain-body. It is like the peasants. + + * * * * * + +The stations are far between--an hour from one to another. Ah, how weary +one gets of these journeys, they last so long. We look across a +valley--a stone's throw. But alas, the little train has no wings, and +can't jump. So back turns the line, back and back towards Gennargentu, a +long rocky way, till it comes at length to the poor valley-head. This it +skirts fussily, and sets off to pelt down on its traces again, gaily. +And a man who was looking at us doing our round-about has climbed down +and crossed the valley in five minutes. + +The peasants nearly all wear costumes now, even the women in the fields: +the little fields in the half-populated valleys. These Gennargentu +valleys are all half-populated, more than the moors further south. + +It is past three o'clock, and cold where there is no sun. At last only +one more station before the terminus. And here the peasants wake up, +sling the bulging sacks over their shoulders, and get down. We see +Tonara away above. We see our old grimy black-and-white peasant greeted +by his two women who have come to meet him with the pony--daughters +handsome in vivid rose and green costume. Peasants, men in black and +white, men in madder-brown, with the close breeches on their compact +thighs, women in rose-and-white, ponies with saddle-bags, all begin to +trail up the hill-road in silhouette, very handsome, towards the +far-off, perched, sun-bright village of Tonara, a big village, shining +like a New Jerusalem. + + * * * * * + +The train as usual leaves us standing, and shuffles with trucks--water +sounds in the valley: there are stacks of cork on the station, and coal. +An idiot girl in a great full skirt entirely made of coloured patches +mops and mows. Her little waistcoat thing is also incredibly old, and +shows faint signs of having once been a lovely purple and black brocade. +The valley and steep slopes are open about us. An old shepherd has a +lovely flock of delicate merino sheep. + +And at last we move. In one hour we shall be there. As we travel among +the tree slopes, many brown cork-trees, we come upon a flock of sheep. +Two peasants in our carriage looking out, give the most weird, +unnatural, high-pitched shrieks, entirely unproduceable by any ordinary +being. The sheep know, however, and scatter. And after ten minutes the +shrieks start again, for three young cattle. Whether the peasants do it +for love, I don't know. But it is the wildest and weirdest inhuman +shepherd noise I have ever heard. + + * * * * * + +It is Saturday afternoon and four o'clock. The country is wild and +uninhabited, the train almost empty, yet there is the leaving-off-work +feeling in the atmosphere. Oh twisty, wooded, steep slopes, oh glimpses +of Gennargentu, oh nigger-stripped cork-trees, oh smell of peasants, oh +wooden, wearisome railway carriage, we are so sick of you! Nearly seven +hours of this journey already: and a distance of sixty miles. + +But we are almost there--look, look, Sorgono, nestling beautifully among +the wooded slopes in front. Oh magic little town. Ah, you terminus and +ganglion of the inland roads, we hope in you for a pleasant inn and +happy company. Perhaps we will stay a day or two at Sorgono. + +The train gives a last sigh, and draws to a last standstill in the tiny +terminus station. An old fellow fluttering with rags as a hen in the +wind flutters, asked me if I wanted the _Albergo_, the inn. I said yes, +and let him take my knapsack. Pretty Sorgono! As we went down the brief +muddy lane between hedges, to the village high-road, we seemed almost to +have come to some little town in the English west-country, or in Hardy's +country. There were glades of stripling oaks, and big slopes with oak +trees, and on the right a saw-mill buzzing, and on the left the town, +white and close, nestling round a baroque church-tower. And the little +lane was muddy. + +Three minutes brought us to the high-road, and a great, pink-washed +building blank on the road facing the station lane, and labelled in huge +letters: RISTORANTE RISVEGLIO: the letter N being printed backwards. +_Risveglio_ if you please: which means waking up or rousing, like the +word _reveille_. Into the doorway of the Risveglio bolted the flutterer. +"Half a minute," said I. "Where is the Albergo d'Italia?" I was relying +on Baedeker. + +"Non c'e piu," replied my rag-feather. "There isn't it any more." This +answer, being very frequent nowadays, is always most disconcerting. + +"Well then, what other hotel?" + +"There is no other." + +Risveglio or nothing. In we go. We pass into a big, dreary bar, where +are innumerable bottles behind a tin counter. Flutter-jack yells: and at +length appears mine host, a youngish fellow of the Esquimo type, but +rather bigger, in a dreary black suit and a cutaway waistcoat suggesting +a dinner-waistcoat, and innumerable wine-stains on his shirt front. I +instantly hated him for the filthy appearance he made. He wore a +battered hat and his face was long unwashed. + +Was there a bedroom? + +Yes. + +And he led the way down the passage, just as dirty as the road outside, +up the hollow, wooden stairs also just as clean as the passage, along a +hollow, drum-rearing dirty corridor, and into a bedroom. Well, it +contained a large bed, thin and flat with a grey-white counterpane, like +a large, poor, marble-slabbed tomb in the room's sordid emptiness; one +dilapidated chair on which stood the miserablest weed of a candle I +have ever seen: a broken wash-saucer in a wire ring: and for the rest, +an expanse of wooden floor as dirty-grey-black as it could be, and an +expanse of wall charted with the bloody deaths of mosquitoes. The window +was about two feet above the level of a sort of stable-yard outside, +with a fowl-house just by the sash. There, at the window flew lousy +feathers and dirty straw, the ground was thick with chicken-droppings. +An ass and two oxen comfortably chewed hay in an open shed just across, +and plump in the middle of the yard lay a bristly black pig taking the +last of the sun. Smells of course were varied. + +The knapsack and the kitchenino were dropped on the repulsive floor, +which I hated to touch with my boots even. I turned back the sheets and +looked at other people's stains. + +"There is nothing else?" + +"Niente," said he of the lank, low forehead and beastly shirt-breast. +And he sullenly departed. I gave the flutterer his tip and he too ducked +and fled. Then the queen-bee and I took a few mere sniffs. + +"Dirty, disgusting swine!" said I, and I was in a rage. + +I could have forgiven him anything, I think, except his horrible +shirt-breast, his personal shamelessness. + +We strolled round--saw various other bedrooms, some worse, one really +better. But this showed signs of being occupied. All the doors were +open: the place was quite deserted, and open to the road. The one thing +that seemed definite was honesty. It must be a very honest place, for +every footed beast, man or animal, could walk in at random and nobody to +take the slightest regard. + +So we went downstairs. The only other apartment was the open public bar, +which seemed like part of the road. A muleteer, leaving his mules at the +corner of the Risveglio, was drinking at the counter. + + * * * * * + +This famous inn was at the end of the village. We strolled along the +road between the houses, down-hill. A dreary hole! a cold, hopeless, +lifeless, Saturday afternoon-weary village, rather sordid, with nothing +to say for itself. No real shops at all. A weary-looking church, and a +clutch of disconsolate houses. We walked right through the village. In +the middle was a sort of open space where stood a great, grey +motor-omnibus. And a bus-driver looking rather weary. + +Where did the bus go? + +It went to join the main railway. + +When? + +At half-past seven in the morning. + +Only then? + +Only then. + +"Thank God we can get out, anyhow," said I. + +We passed on, and emerged beyond the village, still on the descending +great high-road that was mended with loose stones pitched on it. This +wasn't good enough. Besides, we were out of the sun, and the place being +at a considerable elevation, it was very cold. So we turned back, to +climb quickly uphill into the sun. + + * * * * * + +We went up a little side-turning past a bunch of poor houses towards a +steep little lane between banks. And before we knew where we were, we +were in the thick of the public lavatory. In these villages, as I knew, +there are no sanitary arrangements of any sort whatever. Every villager +and villageress just betook himself at need to one of the side-roads. It +is the immemorial Italian custom. Why bother about privacy? The most +socially-constituted people on earth, they even like to relieve +themselves in company. + +We found ourselves in the full thick of one of these meeting-places. To +get out at any price! So we scrambled up the steep earthen banks to a +stubble field above. And by this time I was in a greater rage. + + * * * * * + +Evening was falling, the sun declining. Below us clustered the +Sodom-apple of this vile village. Around were fair, tree-clad hills and +dales, already bluish with the frost-shadows. The air bit cold and +strong. In a very little time the sun would be down. We were at an +elevation of about 2,500 feet above the sea. + +No denying it was beautiful, with the oak-slopes and the wistfulness and +the far-off feeling of loneliness and evening. But I was in too great a +temper to admit it. We clambered frenziedly to get warm. And the sun +immediately went right down, and the ice-heavy blue shadow fell over us +all. The village began to send forth blue wood-smoke, and it seemed more +than ever like the twilit West Country. + +But thank you--we had to get back. And run the gauntlet of that +stinking, stinking lane? Never. Towering with fury--quite unreasonable, +but there you are--I marched the q-b down a declivity through a wood, +over a ploughed field, along a cart-track, and so to the great high-road +above the village and above the inn. + +It was cold, and evening was falling into dusk. Down the high-road came +wild half-ragged men on ponies, in all degrees of costume and +not-costume: came four wide-eyed cows stepping down-hill round the +corner, and three delicate, beautiful merino sheep which stared at us +with their prominent, gold-curious eyes: came an ancient, ancient man +with a stick: came a stout-chested peasant carrying a long wood-pole: +came a straggle of alert and triumphant goats, long-horned, long-haired, +jingling their bells. Everybody greeted us hesitatingly. And everything +came to a halt at the Risveglio corner, while the men had a nip. + +I attacked the spotty-breast again. + +Could I have milk? + +No. Perhaps in an hour there would be milk. Perhaps not. + +Was there anything to eat? + +No--at half past seven there would be something to eat. + +Was there a fire? + +No--the man hadn't made the fire. + +Nothing to do but to go to that foul bedroom or walk the high-road. We +turned up the high-road again. Animals stood about the road in the +frost-heavy air, with heads sunk passively, waiting for the men to +finish their drinks in the beastly bar--we walked slowly up the hill. In +a field on the right a flock of merino sheep moved mistily, uneasily, +climbing at the gaps in the broken road bank, and sounding their +innumerable small fine bells with a frosty ripple of sound. A figure +which in the dusk I had really thought was something inanimate broke +into movement in the field. It was an old shepherd, very old, in very +ragged dirty black-and-white, who had been standing like a stone there +in the open field-end for heaven knows how long, utterly motionless, +leaning on his stick. Now he broke into a dream-motion and hobbled after +the wistful, feminine, inquisitive sheep. The red was fading from the +far-off west. At the corner, climbing slowly and wearily, we almost ran +into a grey and lonely bull, who came stepping down-hill in his measured +fashion like some god. He swerved his head and went round us. + +We reached a place which we couldn't make out: then saw it was a +cork-shed. There were stacks and stacks of cork-bark in the dusk, like +crumpled hides. + +"Now I'm going back," said the q-b flatly, and she swung round. The last +red was smouldering beyond the lost, thin-wooded hills of this interior. +A fleece of blue, half-luminous smoke floated over the obscure village. +The high-way wound down-hill at our feet, pale and blue. + +And the q-b was angry with me for my fury. + +"Why are you so indignant! Anyone would think your moral self had been +outraged! Why take it morally? You petrify that man at the inn by the +very way you speak to him, _such_ condemnation! Why don't you take it as +it comes? It's all life." + +But no, my rage is black, black, black. Why, heaven knows. But I think +it was because Sorgono had seemed so fascinating to me, when I imagined +it beforehand. Oh so fascinating! If I had expected nothing I should not +have been so hit. Blessed is he that expecteth nothing, for he shall not +be disappointed. + +I cursed the degenerate aborigines, the dirty-breasted host who _dared_ +to keep such an inn, the sordid villagers who had the baseness to squat +their beastly human nastiness in this upland valley. All my praise of +the long stocking-cap--you remember?--vanished from my mouth. I cursed +them all, and the q-b for an interfering female.... + + * * * * * + +In the bar a wretched candle was weeping light--uneasy, gloomy men were +drinking their Saturday-evening-home-coming dram. Cattle lay down in the +road, in the cold air as if hopeless. + +Had the milk come? + +No. + +When would it come. + +He didn't know. + +Well, what were we to do? Was there no room? Was there nowhere where we +could sit? + +Yes, there was the _stanza_ now. + +_Now!_ Taking the only weed of a candle, and leaving the drinkers in +the dark, he led us down a dark and stumbly earthen passage, over loose +stones and an odd plank, as it would seem underground, to the stanza: +the room. + +The stanza! It was pitch dark--But suddenly I saw a big fire of +oak-root, a brilliant, flamy, rich fire, and my rage in that second +disappeared. + +The host, and the candle, forsook us at the door. The stanza would have +been in complete darkness, save for that rushing bouquet of new flames +in the chimney, like fresh flowers. By this firelight we saw the room. +It was like a dungeon, absolutely empty, with an uneven, earthen floor, +quite dry, and high bare walls, gloomy, with a handbreadth of window +high up. There was no furniture at all, save a little wooden bench, a +foot high, before the fire, and several home-made-looking rush mats +rolled up and leaning against the walls. Furthermore a chair before the +fire on which hung wet table-napkins. Apart from this, it was a high, +dark, naked prison-dungeon. + +But it was quite dry, it had an open chimney, and a gorgeous new fire +rushing like a water-fall upwards among the craggy stubs of a pile of +dry oak roots. I hastily put the chair and the wet corpse-cloths to one +side. We sat on the low bench side by side in the dark, in front of this +rippling rich fire, in front of the cavern of the open chimney, and we +did not care any more about the dungeon and the darkness. Man can live +without food, but he can't live without fire. It is an Italian proverb. +We had found the fire, like new gold. And we sat in front of it, a +little way back, side by side on the low form, our feet on the uneven +earthen floor, and felt the flame-light rippling upwards over our faces, +as if we were bathing in some gorgeous stream of fieriness. I forgave +the dirty-breasted host everything and was as glad as if I had come into +a kingdom. + +So we sat alone for half an hour, smiling into the flames, bathing our +faces in the glow. From time to time I was aware of steps in the +tunnel-like passage outside, and of presences peering. But no one came. +I was aware too of the faint steaming of the beastly table-napkins, the +only other occupants of the room. + + * * * * * + +In dithers a candle, and an elderly, bearded man in gold-coloured +corduroys, and an amazing object on a long, long spear. He put the +candle on the mantel-ledge, and crouched at the side of the fire, +arranging the oak-roots. He peered strangely and fixedly in the fire. +And he held up the speared object before our faces. + +It was a kid that he had come to roast. But it was a kid opened out, +made quite flat, and speared like a flat fan on a long iron stalk. It +was a really curious sight. And it must have taken some doing. The whole +of the skinned kid was there, the head curled in against a shoulder, the +stubby cut ears, the eyes, the teeth, the few hairs of the nostrils: and +the feet curled curiously round, like an animal that puts its fore-paw +over its ducked head: and the hind-legs twisted indescribably up: and +all skewered flat-wise upon the long iron rod, so that it was a complete +flat pattern. It reminded me intensely of those distorted, slim-limbed, +dog-like animals which figure on the old Lombard ornaments, distorted +and curiously infolded upon themselves. Celtic illuminations also have +these distorted, involuted creatures. + +The old man flourished the flat kid like a bannerette, whilst he +arranged the fire. Then, in one side of the fire-place wall he poked the +point of the rod. He himself crouched on the hearth-end, in the +half-shadow at the other side of the fire-place, holding the further end +of the long iron rod. The kid was thus extended before the fire, like a +hand-screen. And he could spin it round at will. + +[Illustration: SORONGO] + +But the hole in the masonry of the chimney-piece was not satisfactory. +The point of the rod kept slipping, and the kid came down against the +fire. He muttered and muttered to himself, and tried again. Then at +length he reared up the kid-banner whilst he got large stones from a +dark corner. He arranged these stones so that the iron point rested on +them. He himself sat away on the opposite side of the fire-place, on the +shadowy hearth-end, and with queer, spell-bound black eyes and +completely immovable face, he watched the flames and the kid, and held +the handle end of the rod. + +We asked him if the kid was for the evening meal--and he said it was. It +would be good! And he said yes, and looked with chagrin at the bit of +ash on the meat, where it had slipped. It is a point of honour that it +should never touch the ash. Did they do all their meat this way? He said +they did. And wasn't it difficult to put the kid thus on the iron rod? +He said it was not easy, and he eyed the joint closely, and felt one of +the forelegs, and muttered that was not fixed properly. + +He spoke with a very soft mutter, hard to catch, and sideways, never to +us direct. But his manner was gentle, soft, muttering, reticent, +sensitive. He asked us where we came from, and where we were going: +always in his soft mutter. And what nation were we, were we French? Then +he went on to say there was a war--but he thought it was finished. There +was a war because the Austrians wanted to come into Italy again. But +the French and the English came to help Italy. A lot of Sardinians had +gone to it. But let us hope it is all finished. He thought it was--young +men of Sorgono had been killed. He hoped it was finished. + +Then he reached for the candle and peered at the kid. It was evident he +was the born roaster. He held the candle and looked for a long time at +the sizzling side of the meat, as if he would read portents. Then he +held his spit to the fire again. And it was as if time immemorial were +roasting itself another meal. I sat holding the candle. + + * * * * * + +A young woman appeared, hearing voices. Her head was swathed in a shawl, +one side of which was brought across, right over the mouth, so that only +her two eyes and her nose showed. The q-b thought she must have +toothache--but she laughed and said no. As a matter of fact that is the +way a head-dress is worn in Sardinia, even by both sexes. It is +something like the folding of the Arab's burnoose. The point seems to be +that the mouth and chin are thickly covered, also the ears and brow, +leaving only the nose and eyes exposed. They say it keeps off the +malaria. The men swathe shawls round their heads in the same way. It +seems to me they want to keep their heads warm, dark and hidden: they +feel secure inside. + +She wore the workaday costume: a full, dark-brown skirt, the full white +bodice, and a little waistcoat or corset. This little waistcoat in her +case had become no more than a shaped belt, sending up graceful, +stiffened points under the breasts, like long leaves standing up. It was +pretty--but all dirty. She too was pretty, but with an impudent, not +quite pleasant manner. She fiddled with the wet napkins, asked us +various questions, and addressed herself rather jerkily to the old man, +who answered hardly at all--Then she departed again. The women are +self-conscious in a rather smirky way, bouncy. + +When she was gone I asked the old man if she was his daughter. He said +very brusquely, in his soft mutter, No. She came from a village some +miles away. He did not belong to the inn. He was, as far as I +understood, the postman. But I may have been mistaken about the word. + +But he seemed laconic, unwilling to speak about the inn and its keepers. +There seemed to be something queer. And again he asked where we were +going. He told me there were now two motor-buses: a new one which ran +over the mountains to Nuoro. Much better go to Nuoro than to Abbasanta. +Nuoro was evidently the town towards which these villages looked, as a +sort of capital. + + * * * * * + +The kid-roasting proceeded very slowly, the meat never being very near +the fire. From time to time the roaster arranged the cavern of red-hot +roots. Then he threw on more roots. It was very hot. And he turned the +long spit, and still I held the candle. + +Other people came strolling in, to look at us. But they hovered behind +us in the dark, so I could not make out at all clearly. They strolled in +the gloom of the dungeon-like room, and watched us. One came forward--a +fat, fat young soldier in uniform. I made place for him on the +bench--but he put out his hand and disclaimed the attention. Then he +went away again. + +The old man propped up the roast, and then he too disappeared for a +time. The thin candle guttered, the fire was no longer flamy but red. +The roaster reappeared with a new, shorter spear, thinner, and a great +lump of raw hog-fat spitted on it. This he thrust into the red fire. It +sizzled and smoked and spit fat, and I wondered. He told me he wanted it +to catch fire. It refused. He groped in the hearth for the bits of twigs +with which the fire had been started. These twig-stumps he stuck in the +fat, like an orange stuck with cloves, then he held it in the fire +again. Now at last it caught, and it was a flaming torch running +downwards with a thin shower of flaming fat. And now he was satisfied. +He held the fat-torch with its yellow flares over the browning kid, +which he turned horizontal for the occasion. All over the roast fell the +flaming drops, till the meat was all shiny and browny. He put it to the +fire again, holding the diminishing fat, still burning bluish, over it +all the time in the upper air. + + * * * * * + +While this was in process a man entered with a loud _Good evening_. We +replied Good-evening--and evidently he caught a strange note. He came +and bent down and peered under my hat-brim, then under the q-b's +hat-brim, we still wore hats and overcoats, as did everybody. Then he +stood up suddenly and touched his cap and said _Scusi_--excuse me. I +said _Niente_, which one always says, and he addressed a few jovial +words to the crouching roaster: who again would hardly answer him. The +omnibus was arrived from Oristano, I made out--with few passengers. + +This man brought with him a new breezy atmosphere, which the roaster did +not like. However, I made place on the low bench, and the attention this +time was accepted. Sitting down at the extreme end, he came into the +light, and I saw a burly man in the prime of life, dressed in dark brown +velvet, with a blond little moustache and twinkling blue eyes and a +tipsy look. I thought he might be some local tradesman or farmer. He +asked a few questions, in a boisterous familiar fashion, then went out +again. He appeared with a small iron spit, a slim rod, in one hand, and +in the other hand two joints of kid and a handful of sausages. He stuck +his joints on his rod. But our roaster still held the interminable flat +kid before the now red, flameless fire. The fat-torch was burnt out, the +cinder pushed in the fire. A moment's spurt of flame, then red, intense +redness again, and our kid before it like a big, dark hand. + +"Eh," said the newcomer, whom I will call the girovago, "it's done. The +kid's done. It's done." + +The roaster slowly shook his head, but did not answer. He sat like time +and eternity at the hearth-end, his face flame-flushed, his dark eyes +still fire-abstract, still sacredly intent on the roast. + +"Na-na-na!" said the girovago. "Let another body see the fire." And with +his pieces of meat awkwardly skewered on his iron stick he tried to poke +under the authorised kid and get at the fire. In his soft mutter, the +old man bade him wait for the fire till the fire was ready for him. But +the girovago poked impudently and good humouredly, and said testily +that the authorised kid was done. + +"Yes, surely it is done," said I, for it was already a quarter to eight. + +The old roasting priest muttered, and took out his knife from his +pocket. He pressed the blade slowly, slowly deep into the meat: as far +as a knife will go in a piece of kid. He seemed to be feeling the meat +inwardly. And he said it was not done. He shook his head, and remained +there like time and eternity at the end of the rod. + +The girovago said _Sangue di Dio_, but couldn't roast his meat! And he +tried to poke his skewer near the coals. So doing his pieces fell off +into the ashes, and the invisible onlookers behind raised a shout of +laughter. However, he raked it out and wiped it with his hand and said +No matter, nothing lost. + +Then he turned to me and asked the usual whence and whither questions. +These answered, he said wasn't I German. I said No, I was English. He +looked at me many times, shrewdly, as if he wanted to make out +something. Then he asked, where were we domiciled--and I said Sicily. +And then, very pertinently, why had we come to Sardinia. I said for +pleasure, and to see the island. + +"Ah, per divertimento!" he repeated, half-musingly, not believing me in +the least. + +Various men had now come into the room, though they all remained +indistinct in the background. The girovago talked and jested abroad in +the company, and the half-visible men laughed in a rather hostile +manner. + +At last the old roaster decided the kid was done. He lifted it from the +fire and scrutinised it thoroughly, holding the candle to it, as if it +were some wonderful epistle from the flames. To be sure it looked +marvellous, and smelled so good: brown, and crisp, and hot, and savoury, +not burnt in any place whatever. It was eight o'clock. + +"It's done! It's done! Go away with it! Go," said the girovago, pushing +the old roaster with his hand. And at last the old man consented to +depart, holding the kid like a banner. + +"It looks so _good_!" cried the q-b. "And I am so hungry." + +"Ha-ha! It makes one hungry to see good meat, Signora. Now it is my +turn. Heh--Gino--" the girovago flourished his arm. And a handsome, +unwashed man with a black moustache came forward rather sheepishly. He +was dressed in soldier's clothes, neutral grey, and was a big, robust, +handsome fellow with dark eyes and Mediterranean sheepishness. "Here, +take it thou," said the girovago, pressing the long spit into his hand. +"It is thy business, cook the supper, thou art the woman.--But I'll keep +the sausages and do them." + +The so-called woman sat at the end of the hearth, where the old roaster +had sat, and with his brown, nervous hand piled the remaining coals +together. The fire was no longer flamy: and it was sinking. The +dark-browed man arranged it so that he could cook the meat. He held the +spit negligently over the red mass. A joint fell off. The men laughed. +"It's lost nothing," said the dark-browed man, as the girovago had said +before, and he skewered it on again and thrust it to the fire. But +meanwhile he was looking up from under his dark lashes at the girovago +and at us. + +The girovago talked continually. He turned to me, holding the handful of +sausages. + +"This makes the tasty bit," he said. + +"Oh yes--good salsiccia," said I. + +"You are eating the kid? You are eating at the inn?" he said. I replied +that I was. + +"No," he said. "You stay and eat with me. You eat with me. The sausage +is good, the kid will soon be done, the fire is grateful." + +I laughed, not quite understanding him. He was certainly a bit tipsy. + +"Signora," he said, turning to the q-b. She did not like him, he was +impudent, and she shut a deaf ear to him as far as she could. "Signora," +he said, "do you understand me what I say?" + +She replied that she did. + +"Signora," he said, "I sell things to the women. I sell them things." + +"What do you sell?" she asked in astonishment. + +"Saints," he said. + +"Saints!" she cried in more astonishment. + +"Yes, saints," he said with tipsy gravity. + +She turned in confusion to the company in the background. The fat +soldier came forward, he was the chief of the carabinieri. + +"Also combs and bits of soap and little mirrors," he explained +sarcastically. + +"Saints!" said the girovago once more. "And also _ragazzini_--also +youngsters--Wherever I go there is a little one comes running calling +Babbo! Babbo! Daddy! Daddy! Wherever I go--youngsters. And I'm the +babbo." + +All this was received with a kind of silent sneer from the invisible +assembly in the background. The candle was burning low, the fire was +sinking too. In vain the dark-browed man tried to build it up. The q-b +became impatient for the food. She got up wrathfully and stumbled into +the dark passage, exclaiming--"Don't we eat yet?" + +"Eh--Patience! Patience, Signora. It takes time in this house," said the +man in the background. + +The dark-browed man looked up at the girovago and said: + +"Are you going to cook the sausages with your fingers?" + +He too was trying to be assertive and jesting, but he was the kind of +person no one takes any notice of. The girovago rattled on in dialect, +poking fun at us and at our being there in this inn. I did not quite +follow. + +"Signora!" said the girovago. "Do you understand Sardinian?" + +"I understand Italian--and some Sardinian," she replied rather hotly. +"And I know that you are trying to laugh at us--to make fun of us." + +He laughed fatly and comfortably. + +"Ah Signora," he said. "We have a language that you wouldn't +understand--not one word. Nobody here would understand it but me and +him--" he pointed to the black-browed one. "Everybody would want an +interpreter--everybody." + +But he did not say interpreter--he said _intreprete_, with the accent +on the penultimate, as if it were some sort of priest. + +"A what?" said I. + +He repeated with tipsy unction, and I saw what he meant. + +"Why?" said I. "Is it a dialect? What is your dialect?" + +"My dialect," he said, "is Sassari. I come from Sassari. If I spoke my +dialect they would understand something. But if I speak this language +they would want an interpreter." + +"What language is it then?" + +He leaned up to me, laughing. + +"It is the language we use when the women are buying things and we don't +want them to know what we say: me and him--" + +"Oh," said I. "I know. We have that language in England. It is called +thieves Latin--_Latino dei furbi_." + +The men at the back suddenly laughed, glad to turn the joke against the +forward girovago. He looked down his nose at me. But seeing I was +laughing without malice, he leaned to me and said softly, secretly: + +"What is your affair then? What affair is it, yours?" + +"How? What?" I exclaimed, not understanding. + +"_Che genere di affari?_ What sort of business?" + +"How--_affari_?" said I, still not grasping. + +"What do you _sell_?" he said, flatly and rather spitefully. "What +goods?" + +"I don't sell anything," replied I, laughing to think he took us for +some sort of strolling quacks or commercial travellers. + +"Cloth--or something," he said cajolingly, slyly, as if to worm my +secret out of me. + +"But nothing at all. Nothing at all," said I. "We have come to Sardinia +to see the peasant costumes--" I thought that might sound satisfactory. + +"Ah, the costumes!" he said, evidently thinking I was a deep one. And he +turned bandying words with his dark-browed mate, who was still poking +the meat at the embers and crouching on the hearth. The room was almost +quite dark. The mate answered him back, and tried to seem witty too. But +the girovago was the commanding personality! rather too much so: too +impudent for the q-b, though rather after my own secret heart. The mate +was one of those handsome, passive, stupid men. + +"Him!" said the girovago, turning suddenly to me and pointing at the +mate. "He's my wife." + +"Your wife!" said I. + +"Yes. He's my wife, because we're always together." + +There had become a sudden dead silence in the background. In spite of it +the mate looked up under his black lashes and said, with a half smile: + +"Don't talk, or I shall give thee a good _bacio_ to-night." + +There was an instant's fatal pause, then the girovago continued: + +"Tomorrow is festa of Sant 'Antonio at Tonara. Tomorrow we are going to +Tonara. Where are you going?" + +"To Abbasanta," said I. + +"Ah Abbasanta! You should come to Tonara. At Tonara there is a brisk +trade--and there are costumes. You should come to Tonara. Come with him +and me to Tonara tomorrow, and we will do business together." + +I laughed, but did not answer. + +"Come," said he. "You will like Tonara! Ah, Tonara is a fine place. +There is an inn: you can eat well, sleep well. I tell you, because to +you ten francs don't matter. Isn't that so? Ten francs don't matter to +you. Well, then come to Tonara. What? What do you say?" + +I shook my head and laughed, but did not answer. + +To tell the truth I should have liked to go to Tonara with him and his +mate and do the brisk trade: if only I knew what trade it would be. + +"You are sleeping upstairs?" he said to me. + +I nodded. + +"This is my bed," he said, taking one of the home-made rush mats from +against the wall. I did not take him seriously at any point. + +"Do they make those in Sorgono?" I said. + +"Yes, in Sorgono--they are the beds, you see! And you roll up this end a +bit--so! and that is the pillow." + +He laid his cheek sideways. + +"Not really," said I. + +He came and sat down again next to me, and my attention wandered. The +q-b was raging for her dinner. It must be quite half-past eight. The +kid, the perfect kid would be cold and ruined. Both fire and candle were +burning low. Someone had been out for a new candle, but there was +evidently no means of replenishing the fire. The mate still crouched on +the hearth, the dull red fire-glow on his handsome face, patiently +trying to roast the kid and poking it against the embers. He had heavy, +strong limbs in his khaki clothes, but his hand that held the spit was +brown and tender and sensitive, a real Mediterranean hand. The girovago, +blond, round-faced, mature and aggressive with all his liveliness, was +more like a northerner. In the background were four or five other men, +of whom I had distinguished none but a stout soldier, probably chief +carabiniere. + + * * * * * + +Just as the q-b was working up to the rage I had at last calmed down +from, appeared the shawl-swathed girl announcing "Pronto!" + +"Pronto! Pronto!" said everybody. + +"High time, too," said the q-b, springing from the low bench before the +fire. "Where do we eat? Is there another room?" + +"There is another room, Signora," said the carabiniere. + +So we trooped out of the fire-warmed dungeon, leaving the girovago and +his mate and two other men, muleteers from the road, behind us. I could +see that it irked my girovago to be left behind. He was by far the +strongest personality in the place, and he had the keenest intelligence. +So he hated having to fall into the background, when he had been +dragging all the lime-light on to himself all the evening. To me, too, +he was something of a kindred soul that night. But there we are: fate, +in the guise of that mysterious division between a respectable life and +a scamp's life divided us. There was a gulf between me and him, between +my way and his. He was a kindred spirit--but with a hopeless difference. +There was something a bit sordid about him--and he knew it. That is why +he was always tipsy. Yet I like the lone wolf souls best--better than +the sheep. If only they didn't feel mongrel inside themselves. +Presumably a scamp is bound to be mongrel. It is a pity the untamable, +lone-wolf souls should always become pariahs, almost of choice: mere +scamps. + +Top and bottom of it is, I regretted my girovago, though I knew it was +no good thinking of him. His way was _not_ my way. Yet I regretted him, +I did. + + * * * * * + +We found ourselves in a dining room with a long white table and inverted +soup-plates, tomb-cold, lighted by an acetylene flare. Three men had +accompanied us: the carabiniere, a little dark youth with a small black +moustache, in a soldier's short, wool-lined great-coat: and a young man +who looked tired round his blue eyes, and who wore a dark-blue overcoat, +quite smart. The be-shawled damsel came in with the inevitable bowl of +minestrone, soup with cabbage and cauliflower and other things. We +helped ourselves, and the fat carabiniere started the conversation with +the usual questions--and where were we going tomorrow? + +I asked about buses. Then the responsible-looking, tired-eyed youth +told me he was the bus-driver. He had come from Oristano, on the main +line, that day. It is a distance of some forty miles. Next morning he +was going on over the mountains to Nuoro--about the same distance again. +The youth with the little black moustache and the Greek, large eyes, was +his mate, the conductor. This was their run, from Oristano to Nuoro--a +course of ninety miles or more. And every day on, on, on. No wonder he +looked nerve-tired. Yet he had that kind of dignity, the wistful +seriousness and pride of a man in machine control: the only god-like +ones today, those who pull the iron levers and are the gods in the +machine. + +They repeated what the old roaster said: much nicer for us to go to +Nuoro than to Abbasanta. So to Nuoro we decided to go, leaving at +half-past nine in the morning. + + * * * * * + +Every other night the driver and his mate spent in this benighted +Risveglio inn. It must have been their bedroom we saw, clean and tidy. I +said was the food always so late, was everything always as bad as today. +Always--if not worse, they said, making light of it, with sarcastic +humor against the Risveglio. You spent your whole life at the Risveglio +sitting, waiting, and going block-cold: unless you were content to +drink _aqua vitae_, like those in there. The driver jerked his head +towards the dungeon. + +"Who were those in there?" said I. + +The one who did all the talking was a mercante, a mercante girovago, a +wandering peddler. This was my girovago: a wandering peddler selling +saints and youngsters! The other was his mate, who helped carry the +pack. They went about together. Oh, my girovago was a known figure all +over the country.--And where would they sleep? There, in the room where +the fire was dying. + +They would unroll the mats and lie with their feet to the hearth. For +this they paid threepence, or at most fourpence. And they had the +privilege of cooking their own food. The Risveglio supplied them with +nothing but the fire, the roof, and the rush mat.--And, of course, the +drink. Oh, we need have no sympathy with the girovago and his sort. +_They_ lacked for nothing. They had everything they wanted: everything: +and money in abundance. _They_ lived for the _aqua vitae_ they drank. +That was all they wanted: their continual allowance of _aqua vitae_. And +they got it. Ah, they were not cold. If the room became cold during the +night: if they had no coverings at all: pah, they waited for morning, +and as soon as it was light they drank a large glass of _aqua vitae_. +That was their fire, their hearth and their home: drink. _Aqua vitae_, +was hearth and home to them. + +I was surprised at the contempt, tolerant and yet profound, with which +these three men in the dining-room spoke of the others in the _stanza_. +How contemptuous, almost bitter, the driver was against alcohol. It was +evident he hated it. And though we all had our bottles of dead-cold dark +wine, and though we all drank: still, the feeling of the three youths +against actual intoxication was deep and hostile, with a certain burning +_moral_ dislike that is more northern than Italian. And they curled +their lip with real dislike of the girovago: his forwardness, his +impudent aggressiveness. + + * * * * * + +As for the inn, yes, it was very bad. It had been quite good under the +previous proprietors. But now--they shrugged their shoulders. The +dirty-breast and the shawled girl were not the owners. They were merely +conductors of the hotel: here a sarcastic curl of the lip. The owner was +a man in the village--a young man. A week or two back, at Christmas +time, there had been a roomful of men sitting drinking and roistering at +this very table. When in had come the proprietor, mad-drunk, swinging a +litre bottle round his head and yelling: "Out! Out! Out, all of you! Out +every one of you! I am proprietor here. And when I want to clear my +house I clear my house. Every man obeys--who doesn't obey has his brains +knocked out with this bottle. Out, out, I say--Out, everyone!" And the +men all cleared out. "But," said the bus-driver, "I told him that when I +had paid for my bed I was going to sleep in it. I was not going to be +turned out by him or anybody. And so he came down." + + * * * * * + +There was a little silence from everybody after this story. Evidently +there was more to it, that we were not to be told. Especially the +carabiniere was silent. He was a fat, not very brave fellow, though +quite nice. + +Ah, but--said the little dark bus-conductor, with his small-featured +swarthy Greek face--you must not be angry with them. True the inn was +very bad. Very bad--but you must pity them, for they are only ignorant. +Poor things, they are _ignoranti_! Why be angry? + +The other two men nodded their heads in agreement and repeated +_ignoranti_. They are _ignoranti_. It is true. Why be angry? + +And here the modern Italian spirit came out: the endless pity for the +ignorant. It is only slackness. The pity makes the ignorant more +ignorant, and makes the Risveglio daily more impossible. If somebody +let a bottle buzz round the ears of the dirty-breast, and whipped the +shawl from the head of the pert young madam and sent her flying down the +tunnel with a flea in her ear, we might get some attention and they +might find a little self-respect. But no: pity them, poor _ignoranti_, +while they pull life down and devour it like vermin. Pity them! What +they need is not pity but prods: they and all their myriad of likes. + + * * * * * + +The be-shawled appeared with a dish of kid. Needless to say, the +_ignoranti_ had kept all the best portions for themselves. What arrived +was five pieces of cold roast, one for each of us. Mine was a sort of +large comb of ribs with a thin web of meat: perhaps an ounce. That was +all we got, after watching the whole process. There was moreover a dish +of strong boiled cauliflower, which one ate, with the coarse bread, out +of sheer hunger. After this a bilious orange. Simply one is not _fed_ +nowadays. In the good hotels and in the bad, one is given paltry +portions of unnourishing food, and one goes unfed. + + * * * * * + +The bus-driver, the only one with an earnest soul, was talking of the +Sardinians. Ah, the Sardinians! They were hopeless. Why--because they +did not know how to strike. They, too, were _ignoranti_. But this form +of ignorance he found more annoying. They simply did not know what a +strike was. If you offered them one day ten francs a stint--he was +speaking now of the miners of the Iglesias region.--No, no, no, they +would not take it, they wanted twelve francs. Go to them the next day +and offer them four francs for half a stint, and yes, yes, yes, they +would take it. And there they were: ignorant: ignorant Sardinians. They +absolutely did not know how to strike. He was quite sarcastically hot +about it. The whole tone of these three young men was the tone of +sceptical irony common to the young people of our day the world over. +Only they had--or at least the driver had--some little fervour for his +strikes and his socialism. But it was a pathetic fervour: a _pis-aller_ +fervour. + + * * * * * + +We talked about the land. The war has practically gutted Sardinia of her +cattle: so they said. And now the land is being deserted, the arable +land is going back to fallow. Why? Why, says the driver, because the +owners of the land won't spend any capital. They have got the capital +locked up, and the land is dead. They find it cheaper to let all the +arable go back to fallow, and raise a few head of cattle, rather than to +pay high wages, grow corn, and get small returns. + +Yes, and also, chimes in the carabiniere, the peasants don't want to +work the land. They hate the land. They'll do anything to get off the +land. They want regular wages, short hours, and devil take the rest. So +they will go into France as navvies, by the hundred. They flock to Rome, +they besiege the Labor bureaus, they will do the artificial Government +navvy-work at a miserable five francs a day--a railway shunter having at +least eighteen francs a day--anything, anything rather than work the +land. + +Yes, and what does the Government do! replies the bus-driver. They pull +the roads to pieces in order to find work for the unemployed, remaking +them, across the campagna. But in Sardinia, where roads and bridges are +absolutely wanting, will they do anything? No! + +There it is, however. The bus-driver, with dark shadows under his eyes, +represents the intelligent portion of the conversation. The carabiniere +is soft and will go any way, though always with some interest. The +little Greek-looking conductor just does not care. + + * * * * * + +Enters another belated traveller, and takes a seat at the end of the +table. The be-shawled brings him soup and a skinny bit of kid. He eyes +this last with contempt, and fetches out of his bag a large hunk of +roast pork, and bread, and black olives, thus proceeding to make a +proper meal. + +[Illustration: FONNI] + +We being without cigarettes, the bus-driver and his companion press them +on us: their beloved Macedonia cigarettes. The driver says they are +_squisitissimi_--most, most exquisite--so exquisite that all foreigners +want them. In truth I believe they are exported to Germany now. And they +are quite good, when they really have tobacco in them. Usually they are +hollow tubes of paper which just flare away under one's nose and are +done. + +We decide to have a round drink: they choose the precious _aqua vitae_: +the white sort I think. At last it arrives--when the little dark-eyed +one has fetched it. And it tastes rather like sweetened petroleum, with +a dash of aniseed: filthy. Most Italian liquors are now sweet and +filthy. + +At length we rise to go to bed. We shall all meet in the morning. And +this room is dead cold, with frost outside. Going out, we glance into +the famous stanza. One figure alone lies stretched on the floor in the +almost complete darkness. A few embers still glow. The other men no +doubt are in the bar. + +Ah, the filthy bedroom. The q-b ties up her head in a large, clean white +kerchief, to avoid contact with the unsavory pillow. It is a cold, hard, +flat bed, with two cold, hard, flat blankets. But we are very tired. +Just as we are going to sleep, however, weird, high-pitched singing +starts below, very uncanny--with a refrain that is a yelp-yelp-yelp! +almost like a dog in angry pain. Weird, almost gruesome this singing +goes on, first one voice and then another and then a tangle of voices. +Again we are roused by the pounding of heavy feet on the corridor +outside, which is as hollow and resonant as a drum. And then in the +infernal crew-yard outside a cock crows. Throughout the night--yea, +through all the black and frosty hours this demoniac bird screams its +demon griefs. + + * * * * * + +However, it is morning. I gingerly wash a bit of myself in the broken +basin, and dry that bit on a muslin veil which masquerades upon the +chair as a towel. The q-b contents herself with a dry wipe. And we go +downstairs in hopes of the last-night's milk. + +There is no one to be seen. It is a cold, frost-strong, clear morning. +There is no one in the bar. We stumble down the dark tunnel passage. The +stanza is as if no man had ever set foot in it: very dark, the mats +against the wall, the fire-place grey with a handful of long dead ash. +Just like a dungeon. The dining-room has the same long table and eternal +table-cloth--and our serviettes, still wet, lying where we shovelled +them aside. So back again to the bar. + +And this time a man is drinking _aqua vitae_, and the dirty-shirt is +officiating. He has no hat on: and extraordinary, he has no brow at all: +just flat, straight black hair slanting to his eyebrows, no forehead at +all. + +Is there coffee? + +No, there is no coffee. + +Why? + +Because they can't get sugar. + +Ho! laughs the peasant drinking _aqua vitae_. You make coffee with +sugar! + +Here, say I, they make it with nothing.--Is there milk? + +No. + +No milk at all? + +No. + +Why not? + +Nobody brings it. + +Yes, yes--there is milk if they like to get it, puts in the peasant. But +they want you to drink _aqua vitae_. + +I see myself drinking _aqua vitae_. My yesterday's rage towers up again +suddenly, till it quite suffocates me. There is something in this +unsavoury, black, wine-dabbled, thick, greasy young man that does for +me. + +"Why," say I, lapsing into the Italian rhetorical manner, "why do you +keep an inn? Why do you write the word Ristorante so large, when you +have nothing to offer people, and don't intend to have anything. Why do +you have the impudence to take in travellers? What does it mean, that +this is an inn? What, say, what does it mean? Say then--what does it +mean? What does it mean, your Ristorante Risveglio, written so large?" + +Getting all this out in one breath, my indignation now stifled me. Him +of the shirt said nothing at all. The peasant laughed. I demanded the +bill. It was twenty-five francs odd. I picked up every farthing of the +change. + +"Won't you leave any tip at all?" asks the q-b. + +"Tip!" say I, speechless. + +So we march upstairs and make tea to fill the thermos flask. Then, with +sack over my shoulder, I make my way out of the Risveglio. + + * * * * * + +It is Sunday morning. The frozen village street is almost empty. We +march down to the wider space where the bus stands: I hope they haven't +the impudence to call it a Piazza. + +"Is this the Nuoro bus?" I ask of a bunch of urchins. + +And even they begin to jeer. But my sudden up-starting flare quenches +them at once. One answers yes, and they edge away. I stow the sack and +the kitchenino in the first-class part. The first-class is in front: we +shall see better. + +There are men standing about, with their hands in their pockets,--those +who are not in costume. Some wear the black-and-white. All wear the +stocking caps. And all have the wide shirt-breasts, white, their +waistcoats being just like evening dress waistcoats. Imagine one of +these soft white shirt fronts well slobbered, and you have mine host of +the Risveglio. But these lounging, static, white-breasted men are +snowily clean, this being Sunday morning. They smoke their pipes on the +frosty air, and are none too friendly. + + * * * * * + +The bus starts at half-past nine. The campanile is clanging nine. Two or +three girls go down the road in their Sunday costume of purplish brown. +We go up the road, into the clear, ringing frosty air, to find the lane. + +And again, from above, how beautiful it is in the sharp morning! The +whole village lies in bluish shadow, the hills with their thin pale oak +trees are in bluish shadow still, only in the distance the frost-glowing +sun makes a wonderful, jewel-like radiance on the pleasant hills, wild +and thinly-wooded, of this interior region. Real fresh wonder-beauty +all around. And such humanity. + +Returning to the village we find a little shop and get biscuits and +cigarettes. And we find our friends the bus-men. They are shy this +morning. They are ready for us when we are ready. So in we get, +joyfully, to leave Sorgono. + +One thing I say for it, it must be an honest place. For people leave +their sacks about without a qualm. + + * * * * * + +Up we go, up the road. Only to stop, alas, at the Risveglio. The little +conductor goes down the lane towards the station. The driver goes and +has a little drink with a comrade. There is quite a crowd round the +dreary entrances of the inn. And quite a little bunch of people to +clamber up into the second class, behind us. + +We wait and wait. Then in climbs an old peasant, in full black-and-white +costume, smiling in the pleased, naive way of the old. After him climbs +a fresh-faced young man with a suit-case. + +"Na!" said the young man. "Now you are in the automobile." + +And the old man gazes round with the wondering, vacant, naive smile. + +"One is all right here, eh?" the young citizen persists, patronizing. + +But the old man is too excited to answer. He gazes hither and thither. +Then he suddenly remembers he had a parcel, and looks for it in fear. +The bright-faced young man picks it from the floor and hands it him. Ah, +it is all right. + +I see the little conductor in his dashing, sheep-lined, short military +overcoat striding briskly down the little lane with the post-bag. The +driver climbs to his seat in front of me. He has a muffler round his +neck and his hat pulled down to his ears. He pips at the horn, and our +old peasant cranes forward to look how he does it. + +And so, with a jerk and a spurt, we start uphill. + +"Eh--what's that?" said the peasant, frightened. + +"We're starting," explained the bright-faced young man. + +"Starting! Didn't we start before?" + +The bright face laughs pleasedly. + +"No," he said. "Did you think we had been going ever since you got in?" + +"Yes," says the old man, simply, "since the door was shut." + +The young citizen looks at us for our joyful approval. + + + + +VI. + +TO NUORO. + + +These automobiles in Italy are splendid. They take the steep, looping +roads so easily, they seem to run so naturally. And this one was +comfortable, too. + +The roads of Italy always impress me. They run undaunted over the most +precipitous regions, and with curious ease. In England almost any such +road, among the mountains at least, would be labelled three times +dangerous and would be famous throughout the land as an impossible +climb. Here it is nothing. Up and down they go, swinging about with +complete sang-froid. There seems to have been no effort in their +construction. They are so good, naturally, that one hardly notices what +splendid gestures they represent. Of course, the surface is now often +intolerably bad. And they are most of them roads which, with ten years' +neglect, will become ruins. For they are cut through overhanging rock +and scooped out of the sides of hills. But I think it is marvellous how +the Italians have penetrated all their inaccessible regions, of which +they have so many, with great high-roads: and how along these high-roads +the omnibuses now keep up a perfect communication. The precipitous and +craggily-involved land is threaded through and through with roads. There +seems to be a passion for high-roads and for constant communication. In +this the Italians have a real Roman instinct, _now_. For the roads are +new. + +The railways too go piercing through rock for miles and miles, and +nobody thinks anything of it. The coast railway of Calabria, down to +Reggio, would make us stand on our heads if we had it in England. Here +it is a matter of course. In the same way I always have a profound +admiration for their driving--whether of a great omnibus or of a +motor-car. It all seems so easy, as if the man were part of the car. +There is none of that beastly grinding, uneasy feeling one has in the +north. A car behaves like a smooth, live thing, sensibly. + +All the peasants have a passion for a high-road. They want their land +opening out, opening out. They seem to hate the ancient Italian +remoteness. They all want to be able to get out at a moment's notice, to +get away--quick, quick. A village which is two miles off the high-road, +even if it is perched like a hawk's nest on a peak, still chafes and +chafes for the great road to come to it, chafes and chafes for the +daily motor-bus connection with the railway. There is no placidity, no +rest in the heart of the land. There is a fever of restless irritation +all the time. + +And yet the permanent way of almost every railway is falling into bad +disrepair, the roads are shocking. And nothing seems to be done. Is our +marvellous, mechanical era going to have so short a bloom? Is the +marvellous openness, the opened-out wonder of the land going to collapse +quite soon, and the remote places lapse back into inaccessibility again? +Who knows! I rather hope so. + + * * * * * + +The automobile took us rushing and winding up the hill, sometimes +through cold, solid-seeming shadow, sometimes across a patch of sun. +There was thin, bright ice in the ruts, and deep grey hoar-frost on the +grass. I cannot tell how the sight of the grass and bushes heavy with +frost, and wild--in their own primitive wildness charmed me. The slopes +of the steep wild hills came down shaggy and bushy, with a few berries +lingering, and the long grass-stalks sere with the frost. Again the dark +valley sank below like a ravine, but shaggy, bosky, unbroken. It came +upon me how I loved the sight of the blue-shadowed, tawny-tangled winter +with its frosty standstill. The young oaks keep their brown leaves. And +doing so, surely they are best with a thin edge of rime. + +One begins to realize how old the real Italy is, how man-gripped, and +how withered. England is far more wild and savage and lonely, in her +country parts. Here since endless centuries man has tamed the impossible +mountain side into terraces, he has quarried the rock, he has fed his +sheep among the thin woods, he has cut his boughs and burnt his +charcoal, he has been half domesticated even among the wildest +fastnesses. This is what is so attractive about the remote places, the +Abruzzi, for example. Life is so primitive, so pagan, so strangely +heathen and half-savage. And yet it is human life. And the wildest +country is half humanized, half brought under. It is all conscious. +Wherever one is in Italy, either one is conscious of the present, or of +the mediaeval influences, or of the far, mysterious gods of the early +Mediterranean. Wherever one is, the place has its conscious genus. Man +has lived there and brought forth his consciousness there and in some +way brought that place to consciousness, given it its expression, and, +really, finished it. The expression may be Proserpine, or Pan, or even +the strange "shrouded gods" of the Etruscans or the Sikels, none the +less it is an expression. The land has been humanised, through and +through: and we in our own tissued consciousness bear the results of +this humanisation. So that for us to go to Italy and to _penetrate_ into +Italy is like a most fascinating act of self-discovery--back, back down +the old ways of time. Strange and wonderful chords awake in us, and +vibrate again after many hundreds of years of complete forgetfulness. + +And then--and then--there is a final feeling of sterility. It is all +worked out. It is all known: _connu, connu!_ + +This Sunday morning, seeing the frost among the tangled, still savage +bushes of Sardinia, my soul thrilled again. This was not all known. This +was not all worked out. Life was not only a process of rediscovering +backwards. It is that, also: and it is that intensely. Italy has given +me back I know not what of myself, but a very, very great deal. She has +found for me so much that was lost: like a restored Osiris. But this +morning in the omnibus I realize that, apart from the great rediscovery +backwards, which one _must_ make before one can be whole at all, there +is a move forwards. There are unknown, unworked lands where the salt has +not lost its savour. But one must have perfected oneself in the great +past first. + + * * * * * + +If one travels one eats. We immediately began to munch biscuits, and the +old peasant in his white, baggy breeches and black cuirass, his old +face smiling wonderingly under his old stocking cap, although he was +only going to Tonara, some seven or eight miles, began to peel himself a +hard-boiled egg, which he got out of his parcel. With calm wastefulness +he peeled away the biggest part of the white of the egg with the +shell--because it came away so. The citizen of Nuoro, for such the +bright-faced young man was, said to him--"But see how you waste +it."--"Ha!" said the old peasant, with a reckless indifferent wave of +the hand. What did he care how much he wasted, since he was _en voyage_ +and riding for the first time in his life in an automobile. + +The citizen of Nuoro told us he had some sort of business in Sorgono, so +he came back and forth constantly. The peasant did some work or other +for him--or brought him something down from Tonara. He was a pleasant, +bright-eyed young man, and he made nothing of eight hours in a +motor-bus. + +He told us there was still game among these hills: wild boars which were +hunted in big hunts, and many hares. It was a curious and beautiful +sight, he said, to see a hare at night fascinated by the flare of the +lamps of the automobile, racing ahead with its ears back, always keeping +in front, inside the beam, and flying like mad, on and on ahead, till +at some hill it gathered speed and melted into the dark. + + * * * * * + +We descended into a deep, narrow valley to the road-junction and the +canteen-house, then up again, up and up sharp to Tonara, our village we +had seen in the sun yesterday. But we were approaching it from the back. +As we swerved into the sunlight, the road took a long curve on to the +open ridge between two valleys. And there in front we saw a glitter of +scarlet and white. It was in slow motion. It was a far-off procession, +scarlet figures of women, and a tall image moving away from us, slowly, +in the Sunday morning. It was passing along the level sunlit ridge above +a deep, hollow valley. A close procession of women glittering in +scarlet, white and black, moving slowly in the distance beneath the +grey-yellow buildings of the village on the crest, towards an isolated +old church: and all along this narrow upland saddle as on a bridge of +sunshine itself. + +Were we not going to see any more? The bus turned again and rushed along +the now level road and then veered. And there beyond, a little below, we +saw the procession _coming_. The bus faded to a standstill, and we +climbed out. Above us, old and mellowed among the smooth rocks and the +bits of flat grass was the church, tanging its bell. Just in front, +above, were old, half-broken houses of stone. The road came gently +winding up to us, from what was evidently two villages ledged one above +the other upon the steep summit of the south slope. Far below was the +south valley, with a white puff of engine steam. + +And slowly chanting in the near distance, curving slowly up to us on the +white road between the grass came the procession. The high morning was +still. We stood all on this ridge above the world, with the deeps of +silence below on the right. And in a strange, brief, staccato monody +chanted the men, and in quick, light rustle of women's voices came the +responses. Again the men's voices! The white was mostly men, not women. +The priest in his robes, his boys near him, was leading the chanting. +Immediately behind him came a small cluster of bare-headed, tall, +sunburnt men, all in golden-velveteen corduroy, mountain-peasants, +bowing beneath a great life-size seated image of Saint Anthony of Padua. +After these a number of men in the costume, but with the white linen +breeches hanging wide and loose almost to the ankles, instead of being +tucked into the black gaiters. So they seemed very white beneath the +back kilt frill. The black frieze body-vest was cut low, like an evening +suit, and the stocking caps were variously perched. The men chanted in +low, hollow, melodic tones. Then came the rustling chime of the women. +And the procession crept slowly, aimlessly forward in time with the +chant. The great image rode rigid, and rather foolish. + +After the men was a little gap--and then the brilliant wedge of the +women. They were packed two by two, close on each other's heels, +chanting inadvertently when their turn came, and all in brilliant, +beautiful costume. In front were the little girl-children, two by two, +immediately following the tall men in peasant black-and-white. Children, +demure and conventional, in vermilion, white and green--little +girl-children with long skirts of scarlet cloth down to their feet, +green-banded near the bottom: with white aprons bordered with vivid +green and mingled colour: having little scarlet, purple-bound, open +boleros over the full white shirts: and black head-cloths folded across +their little chins, just leaving the lips clear, the face framed in +black. Wonderful little girl-children, perfect and demure in the +stiffish, brilliant costume, with black head-dress! Stiff as Velasquez +princesses! The bigger girls followed, and then the mature women, a +close procession. The long vermilion skirts with their green bands at +the bottom flashed a solid moving mass of colour, softly swinging, and +the white aprons with their band of brilliant mingled green seemed to +gleam. At the throat the full-bosomed white shirts were fastened with +big studs of gold filigree, two linked filigree globes: and the great +white sleeves billowed from the scarlet, purplish-and-green-edged +boleros. The faces came nearer to us, framed all round in the dark +cloths. All the lips still sang responses, but all the eyes watched us. +So the softly-swaying coloured body of the procession came up to us. The +poppy-scarlet smooth cloth rocked in fusion, the bands and bars of +emerald green seemed to burn across the red and the showy white, the +dark eyes peered and stared at us from under the black snood, gazed back +at us with raging curiosity, while the lips moved automatically in +chant. The bus had run into the inner side of the road, and the +procession had to press round it, towards the sky-line, the great valley +lying below. + +The priest stared, hideous St. Anthony cockled a bit as he passed the +butt end of the big grey automobile, the peasant men in gold-coloured +corduroy, old, washed soft, were sweating under the load and still +singing with opened lips, the loose white breeches of the men waggled as +they walked on with their hands behind their backs, turning again, to +look at us. The big, hard hands, folded behind black kilt-frill! The +women, too, shuffled slowly past, rocking the scarlet and the bars of +green, and all twisting as they sang, to look at us still more. And so +the procession edged past the bus, and was trailing upwards, curved +solid against the sky-line towards the old church. From behind, the +geranium scarlet was intense, one saw the careful, curiously cut backs +of the shapen boleros, poppy-red, edged with mauve-purple and green, and +the white of the shirt just showing at the waist. The full sleeves +billowed out, the black head-cloths hung down to a point. The pleated +skirts swing slowly, the broad band of green accentuating the motion. +Indeed that is what it must be for, this thick, rich band of jewel +green, to throw the wonderful horizontal motion back and forth, back and +forth, of the suave vermilion, and give that static, Demeta splendor to +a peasant motion, so magnificent in colour, geranium and malachite. + +All the costumes were not exactly alike. Some had more green, some had +less. In some the sleeveless boleros were of a darker red, and some had +poorer aprons, without such gorgeous bands at the bottom. And some were +evidently old: probably thirty years old: still perfect and in keeping, +reserved for Sunday and high holidays. A few were darker, ruddier than +the true vermilion. This varying of the tone intensified the beauty of +the shuffling woman-host. + + * * * * * + +When they had filed into the grey, forlorn little church on the +ridge-top just above us, the bus started silently to run on to the +rest-point below, whilst we climbed back up the little rock-track to the +church. When we came to the side-door we found the church quite full. +Level with us as we stood in the open side doorway, we saw kneeling on +the bare stoneflags the little girl-children, and behind them all the +women clustered kneeling upon their aprons, with hands negligently +folded, filling the church to the further doorway, where the sun shone: +the bigger west-end doorway. In the shadow of the whitewashed, bare +church all these kneeling women with their colour and their black +head-cloths looked like some thick bed of flowers, geranium, black +hooded above. They all knelt on the naked, solid stone of the pavement. + +There was a space in front of the geranium little girl-children, then +the men in corduroys, gold-soft, with dark round heads, kneeling +awkwardly in reverence; and then the queer, black cuirasses and full +white sleeves of grey-headed peasant men, many bearded. Then just in +front of them the priest in his white vestment, standing exposed, and +just baldly beginning an address. At the side of the altar was seated +large and important the modern, simpering, black-gowned Anthony of +Padua, nursing a boy-child. He looked a sort of male Madonna. + +"Now," the priest was saying, "blessed Saint Anthony shows you in what +way you can be Christians. It is not enough that you are not Turks. Some +think they are Christians because they are not Turks. It is true you are +none of you Turks. But you have still to learn how to be good +Christians. And this you can learn from our blessed Saint Anthony. Saint +Anthony, etc., etc...." + +The contrast between Turks and Christians is still forceful in the +Mediterranean, where the Mohammedans have left such a mark. But how the +word _cristiani_, _cristiani_, spoken with a peculiar priestly unction, +gets on my nerves. The voice is barren in its homily. And the women are +all intensely watching the q-b and me in the doorway, their folded hands +are very negligently held together. + +"Come away!" say I. "Come away, and let them listen." + + * * * * * + +We left the church crowded with its kneeling host, and dropped down past +the broken houses towards the omnibus, which stood on a sort of level +out-look place, a levelled terrace with a few trees, standing silent +over the valley. It should be picketed with soldiers having arquebuses. +And I should have welcomed a few thorough-paced infidels, as a leaven +to this dreary Christianity of ours. + +But it was a wonderful place. Usually, the life-level is reckoned as +sea-level. But here, in the heart of Sardinia, the life-level is high as +the golden-lit plateau, and the sea-level is somewhere far away, below, +in the gloom, it does not signify. The life-level is high up, high and +sun-sweetened and among rocks. + +We stood and looked below, at the puff of steam, far down the wooded +valley where we had come yesterday. There was an old, low house on this +eagle-perching piazza. I would like to live there. The real village--or +rather two villages, like an ear-ring and its pendant--lay still beyond, +in front, ledging near the summit of the long, long, steep wooded slope, +that never ended till it ran flush to the depths away below there in +shadow. + +And yesterday, up this slope the old peasant had come with his two +brilliant daughters and the pack-pony. + +And somewhere in those ledging, pearly villages in front must be my +girovago and his "wife". I wish I could see their stall and drink aqua +vitae with them. + +"How beautiful the procession!" says the q-b to the driver. + +"Ah yes--one of the most beautiful costumes of Sardinia, this of +Tonara," he replied wistfully. + + * * * * * + +The bus sets off again--minus the old peasant. We retrace our road. A +woman is leading a bay pony past the church, striding with long strides, +so that her maroon skirt swings like a fan, and hauling the halter rope. +Apparently the geranium red costume is Sunday only, the week-day is this +maroon, or puce, or madder-brown. + +Quickly and easily the bus slips down the hill into the valley. Wild, +narrow valleys, with trees, and brown-legged cork trees. Across the +other side a black and white peasant is working alone on a tiny terrace +of the hill-side, a small, solitary figure, for all the world like a +magpie in the distance. These people like being alone--solitary--one +sees a single creature so often isolated among the wilds. This is +different from Sicily and Italy, where the people simply cannot be +alone. They _must_ be in twos and threes. + +But it is Sunday morning, and the worker is exceptional. Along the road +we pass various pedestrians, men in their black sheepskins, boys in +their soldiers' remains. They are trudging from one village to another, +across the wild valleys. And there is a sense of Sunday morning freedom, +of roving, as in an English countryside. Only the one old peasant works +alone: and a goatherd watching his long-haired, white goats. + +Beautiful the goats are: and so swift. They fly like white shadows along +the road from us, then dart down-hill. I see one standing on a bough of +an oak-tree, right in the tree, an enormous white tree-creature +complacently munching up aloft, then rearing on her hind legs, so +lengthy, and putting her slim paws far away on an upper, forward branch. + + * * * * * + +Whenever we come to a village we stop and get down, and our little +conductor disappears into the post-office for the post-bag. This last is +usually a limp affair, containing about three letters. The people crowd +round--and many of them in very ragged costume. They look poor, and not +attractive: perhaps a bit degenerate. It would seem as if the Italian +instinct to get into rapid touch with the world were the healthy +instinct after all. For in these isolated villages, which have been +since time began far from any life-centre, there is an almost sordid +look on the faces of the people. We must remember that the motor-bus is +a great innovation. It has been running for five weeks only. I wonder +for how many months it will continue. + +For I am sure it cannot pay. Our first-class tickets cost, I believe, +about twenty-seven francs each. The second class costs about +three-quarters the first. Some parts of the journey we were very few +passengers. The distance covered is so great, the population so thin, +that even granted the passion for getting out of their own villages, +which possesses all people now, still the bus cannot earn much more than +an average of two hundred to three hundred francs a day. Which, with two +men's wages, and petrol at its enormous price, and the cost of +wear-and-tear, cannot possibly pay. + +I asked the driver. He did not tell me what his wages were: I did not +ask him. But he said the company paid for the keep and lodging for +himself and mate at the stopping-places. This being Sunday, fewer people +were travelling: a statement hard to believe. Once he had carried fifty +people all the way from Tonara to Nuoro. Once! But it was in vain he +protested. Ah well, he said, the bus carried the post, and the +government paid a subsidy of so many thousands of lire a year: a goodly +number. Apparently then the government was the loser, as usual. And +there are hundreds, if not thousands of these omnibuses running the +lonely districts of Italy and Sicily--Sardinia had a network of systems. +They are splendid--and they are perhaps an absolute necessity for a +nervous restless population which simply cannot keep still, and which +finds some relief in being whirled about even on the _autovie_, as the +bus-system is called. + +The autovie are run by private companies, only subsidised by the +government. + + * * * * * + +On we rush, through the morning--and at length see a large village, high +on the summit beyond, stony on the high upland. But it has a magical +look, as these tiny summit-cities have from the distance. They recall to +me always my childish visions of Jerusalem, high against the air, and +seeming to sparkle, and built in sharp cubes. + +It is curious what a difference there is between the high, fresh, proud +villages and the valley villages. Those that crown the world have a +bright, flashing air, as Tonara had. Those that lie down below, infolded +in the shadow, have a gloomy, sordid feeling and a repellent population, +like Sorgono and other places at which we had halted. The judgment may +be all wrong: but this was the impression I got. + +We were now at the highest point of the journey. The men we saw on the +road were in their sheepskins, and some were even walking with their +faces shawl-muffled. Glancing back, we saw up the valley clefts the snow +of Gennargentu once more, a white mantle on broad shoulders, the very +core of Sardinia. The bus slid to a standstill in a high valley, beside +a stream where the road from Fonni joined ours. There was waiting a +youth with a bicycle. I would like to go to Fonni. They say it is the +highest village in Sardinia. + + * * * * * + +In front, on the broad summit, reared the towers of Gavoi. This was the +half-way halt, where the buses had their _coincidenza_, and where we +would stay for an hour and eat. We wound up and up the looping road, and +at last entered the village. Women came to the doors to look. They were +wearing the dark madder-brown costume. Men were hastening, smoking their +pipes, towards our stopping place. + +We saw the other bus--a little crowd of people--and we drew up at last. +We were tired and hungry. We were at the door of the inn, and we entered +quickly. And in an instant, what a difference! At the clean little bar, +men were drinking cheerfully. A side door led into the common room. And +how charming it was. In a very wide chimney, white and stone-clean, with +a lovely shallow curve above, was burning a fire of long, clean-split +faggots, laid horizontally on the dogs. A clean, clear bright fire, with +odd little chairs in front, very low, for us to sit on. The funny, low +little chairs seem a specialty of this region. + +The floor of this room was paved with round dark pebbles, beautifully +clean. On the walls hung brilliant copper fans, glittering against the +whitewash. And under the long, horizontal window that looked on the +street was a stone slab with sockets for little charcoal fires. The +curve of the chimney arch was wide and shallow, the curve above the +window was still wider, and of a similar delicate shallowness, the white +roof rose delicately vaulted. With the glitter of copper, the expanse of +dark, rose-coloured, pebbled floor, the space, the few low, +clean-gleaming faggots, it was really beautiful. We sat and warmed +ourselves, welcomed by a plump hostess and a pleasant daughter, both in +madder-brown dress and full white shirt. People strayed in and out, +through the various doors. The houses are built without any plan at all, +the rooms just happening, here or there. A bitch came from an inner +darkness and stood looking at the fire, then looked up at me, smiling in +her bitch-like, complacent fashion. + + * * * * * + +But we were dying with hunger. What was there to eat?--and was it nearly +ready? There was _cinghiale_, the pleasant, hard-cheeked girl told us, +and it was nearly ready. _Cinghiale_ being wild boar, we sniffed the +air. The girl kept tramping rather fecklessly back and forth, with a +plate or a serviette: and at last it was served. We went through the +dark inner place, which was apparently the windowless bit left over, +inside, when the hap-hazard rooms were made round about, and from thence +into a large, bare, darkish pebbled room with a white table and inverted +soup-plates. It was deathly cold. The window looked north over the +wintry landscape of the highlands, fields, stone walls, and rocks. Ah, +the cold, motionless air of the room. + +But we were quite a party: the second bus-driver and his mate, a bearded +traveller on the second bus, with his daughter, ourselves, the +bright-faced citizen from Nuoro, and our driver. Our little dark-eyed +conductor did not come. It dawned on me later he could not afford to pay +for this meal, which was not included in his wage. + +The Nuoro citizen conferred with our driver--who looked tired round the +eyes--and made the girl produce a tin of sardines. These were opened at +table with a large pocket-knife belonging to the second conductor. He +was a reckless, odd, hot-foot fellow whom I liked very much. But I was +terrified at the way he carved the sardine-box with his jack-knife. +However, we could eat and drink. + +Then came the _brodo_, the broth, in a great bowl. This was boiling hot, +and very, very strong. It was perfectly plain, strong meat-stock, +without vegetables. But how good and invigorating it was, and what an +abundance! We drank it down, and ate the good, cold bread. + +Then came the boar itself. Alas, it was a bowl of hunks of dark, rather +coarse boiled meat, from which the broth had been made. It was quite +dry, without fat. I should have been very puzzled to know what meat it +was, if I had not been told. Sad that the wild boar should have received +so little culinary attention. However, we ate the hunks of hot, dry meat +with bread, and were glad to get them. They were filling, at least. And +there was a bowl of rather bitter green olives for a condiment. + +The Nuoro citizen now produced a huge bottle of wine, which he said was +_finissimo_, and refused to let us go on with the dark wine on the +table, of which every guest was served with a bottle. So we drank up, +and were replenished with the redder, lighter, finer Sorgono wine. It +was very good. + +The second bus-conductor also did not eat the inn meal. He produced a +vast piece of bread, good, home-made bread, and at least half of a roast +lamb, and a large paper of olives. This lamb he insisted on sending +round the table, waving his knife and fork with dramatic gestures at +every guest, insisting that every guest should take a hunk. So one by +one we all helped ourselves to the extraordinarily good cold roast lamb, +and to the olives. Then the bus-conductor fell to as well. There was a +mass of meat still left to him. + +It is extraordinary how generous and, from the inside, well-bred these +men were. To be sure the second conductor waved his knife and fork and +made bitter faces if one of us took only a little bit of the lamb. He +wanted us to take more. But the _essential_ courtesy in all of them was +quite perfect, so manly and utterly simple. Just the same with the q-b. +They treated her with a sensitive, manly simplicity, which one could not +but be thankful for. They made none of the odious politenesses which are +so detestable in well-brought-up people. They made no advances and did +none of the hateful homage of the adulating male. They were quiet, and +kind, and sensitive to the natural flow of life, and quite without airs. +I liked them extremely. Men who can be quietly kind and simple to a +woman, without wanting to show off or to make an impression, they are +men still. They were neither humble nor conceited. They did not show +off. And oh God, what a blessed relief, to be with people who don't +bother to show off. We sat at that table quietly and naturally as if we +were by ourselves, and talked or listened to their talk, just as it +happened. When we did not want to talk, they took no notice of us. And +that I call good manners. Middle-class, showing off people would have +found them uncouth. I found them almost the only really well-bred people +I have met. They did not show off in any way at all, not even a show of +simplicity. They knew that in the beginning and in the end a man stands +alone, his soul is alone in itself, and all attributes are nothing--and +this curious final knowledge preserved them in simplicity. + +When we had had coffee and were going out, I found our own conductor in +a little chair by the fire. He was looking a bit pathetic. I had enough +sense to give him a coffee, which brightened him. But it was not till +afterwards, putting things together, that I realized he had wanted to be +with us all at table, but that his conductor's wages probably did not +allow him to spend the money. My bill for the dinner was about fifteen +francs, for the two of us. + + * * * * * + +In the bus again, we were quite crowded. A peasant girl in Nuoro costume +sat facing me, and a dark-bearded, middle-aged man in a brown velveteen +suit was next me and glowering at her. He was evidently her husband. I +did not like him: one of the jealous, carping sort. She, in her way, was +handsome: but a bit of a devil as well, in all probability. There were +two village women become fine, in town dress and black silk scarves over +their heads, fancying themselves. Then there was a wild scuffle, and +three bouncing village lasses were pushed in, laughing and wild with +excitement. There were wild farewells, and the bus rolled out of Gavoi +between the desolate mountain fields and the rocks, on a sort of +table-land. We rolled on for a mile or so: then stopped, and the excited +lasses got down. I gathered they had been given a little ride for a +Sunday treat. Delighted they were. And they set off, with other +bare-headed women in costume, along a bare path between flat, +out-cropping rocks and cold fields. + + * * * * * + +The girl facing me was a study. She was not more than twenty years old I +should say: or was she? Did the delicate and fine complication of lines +against her eyes mean thirty-five? But anyhow she was the wife of the +velveteen man. He was thick-set and had white hairs in his coarse black +beard, and little, irritable brown eyes under his irritable brows. He +watched her all the time. Perhaps, she was after all a young, new +girl-wife. She sat with that expressionless look of one who is watched +and who appears not to know it. She had her back to the engine. + +[Illustration: GAVOI] + +She wore her black head-cloth from her brow and her hair was taken tight +back from her rather hard, broad, well-shaped forehead. Her dark +eyebrows were very finely drawn above her large, dark-grey, pellucid +eyes, but they were drawn with a peculiar obstinate and irritating lift. +Her nose was straight and small, her mouth well-shut. And her big, +rather hostile eyes had a withheld look in them, obstinate. Yet, being +newly wed and probably newly-awakened, her eyes looked sometimes at me +with a provoking look, curious as to what I was in the husband line, +challenging rather defiantly with her new secrets, obstinate in +opposition to the male authority, and yet intrigued by the very fact +that one was man. The velveteen husband--his velveteens too had gone +soft and gold-faded, yet somehow they made him look ugly, common--he +watched her with his irritable, yellow-brown eyes, and seemed to fume in +his stiff beard. + +She wore the costume: the full-gathered shirt fastened at the throat +with the two gold filigree globes, a little dark, braided, stiff bolero +just fastened at the waist, leaving a pretty pattern of white breast, +and a dark maroon skirt. As the bus rushed along she turned somewhat +pale, with the obstinate pinched look of a woman who is in opposition to +her man. At length she flung him a few words which I did not catch--and +her forehead seemed to go harder, as she drooped her lashes occasionally +over her wide, alert, obstinate, rather treacherous eyes. She must have +been a difficult piece of goods to deal with. And she sat with her knees +touching mine, rocking against mine as the bus swayed. + + * * * * * + +We came to a village on the road: the landscape had now become wider, +much more open. At the inn door the bus stopped, and the velveteen +husband and the girl got down. It was cold--but in a minute I got down +too. The bus conductor came to me and asked anxiously if the q-b were +ill. The q-b said no, why? Because there was a signora whom the motion +of the bus made ill. This was the girl. + +There was a crowd and a great row at this inn. In the second dark room, +which was bare of furniture, a man sat in a corner playing an accordion. +Men in the close breeches were dancing together. Then they fell to +wrestling wildly, crashing about among the others, with shouts and +yells. Men in the black-and-white, but untidy, with the wide white +drawers left hanging out over the black gaiters, surged here and there. +All were rowdy with drink. This again was rather a squalid inn but +roaring with violent, crude male life. + +The Nuoro citizen said that here was very good wine, and we must try it. +I did not want it, but he insisted. So we drank little glasses of merely +moderate red wine. The sky had gone all grey with the afternoon +curd-clouds. It was very cold and raw. Wine is no joy, cold, dead wine, +in such an atmosphere. + +The Nuoro citizen insisted on paying. He would let me pay, he said, when +he came to England. In him, and in our bus men, the famous Sardinian +hospitality and generosity still lingers. + + * * * * * + +When the bus ran on again the q-b told the peasant girl who again had +the pinched look, to change places with me and sit with her face to the +engine. This the young woman did, with that rather hard assurance common +to these women. But at the next stop she got down, and made the +conductor come with us into the compartment, whilst she sat in front +between the driver and the citizen of Nuoro. That was what she wanted +all the time. Now she was all right. She had her back to the velveteen +husband, she sat close between two strange young men, who were condoling +with her. And velveteens eyed her back, and his little eyes went littler +and more pin-pointed, and his nose seemed to curl with irritation. + +The costumes had changed again. There was again the scarlet, but no +green. The green had given place to mauve and rose. The women in one +cold, stony, rather humbled broken place were most brilliant. They had +the geranium skirts, but their sleeveless boleros were made to curl out +strangely from the waist, and they were edged with a puckered rose-pink, +a broad edge, with lines of mauve and lavender. As they went up between +the houses that were dark and grisly under the blank, cold sky, it is +amazing how these women of vermilion and rose-pink seemed to melt into +an almost impossible blare of colour. What a risky blend of colours! Yet +how superb it could look, that dangerous hard assurance of these women +as they strode along so blaring. I would not like to tackle one of them. + + * * * * * + +Wider and colder the landscape grew. As we topped a hill at the end of a +village, we saw a long string of wagons, each with a pair of oxen, and +laden with large sacks, curving upwards in the cold, pallid Sunday +afternoon. Seeing us, the procession came to a standstill at the curve +of the road, and the pale oxen, the pale low wagons, the pale full +sacks, all in the blenched light, each one headed by a tall man in +shirt-sleeves, trailing a static procession on the hill-side, seemed +like a vision: like a Dore drawing. The bus slid past, the man holding +the wagon-pole, while some oxen stood like rock, some swayed their +horns. The q-b asked the velveteener what they were carrying. For a long +time he took no notice of the question. Then he volunteered, in a snappy +voice, that it was the government grain being distributed to the +communes for bread. On Sunday afternoon too. + +Oh this government corn! What a problem those sacks represent! + + * * * * * + +The country became wider as we dropped lower. But it was bleak and +treeless once more. Stones cropped up in the wide, hollow dales. Men on +ponies passed forlorn across the distances. Men with bundles waited at +the cross-roads to pick up the bus. We were drawing near to Nuoro. It +was past three in the afternoon, cold with a blenched light. The +landscape seemed bare and stony, wide, different from any before. + +We came to the valley where the branch-line runs to Nuoro. I saw little +pink railway-cabins at once, lonely along the valley bed. Turning sharp +to the right, we ran in silence over the moor-land-seeming slopes, and +saw the town beyond, clustered beyond, a little below, at the end of the +long declivity, with sudden mountains rising around it. There it lay, as +if at the end of the world, mountains rising sombre behind. + +So, we stop at the Dazio, the town's customs hut, and velveteens has to +pay for some meat and cheese he is bringing in. After which we slip into +the cold high-street of Nuoro. I am thinking that this is the home of +Grazia Deledda, the novelist, and I see a barber's shop. De Ledda. And +thank heaven we are at the end of the journey. It is past four o'clock. + +The bus has stopped quite close to the door of the inn: Star of Italy, +was it? In we go at the open door. Nobody about, free access to anywhere +and everywhere, as usual: testifying again to Sardinian honesty. We peer +through a doorway to the left--through a rough little room: ah, there in +a dark, biggish room beyond is a white-haired old woman with a long, +ivory-coloured face standing at a large table ironing. One sees only the +large whiteness of the table, and the long pallid face and the querulous +pale-blue eye of the tall old woman as she looks up questioning from the +gloom of the inner place. + +"Is there a room, Signora?" + +She looks at me with a pale, cold blue eye, and shouts into the dark for +somebody. Then she advances into the passage and looks us up and down, +the q-b and me. + +"Are you husband and wife?" she demands, challenge. + +"Yes, how shouldn't we be," say I. + +A tiny maid, of about thirteen, but sturdy and brisk-looking, has +appeared in answer to the shout. + +"Take them to number seven," says the old dame, and she turns back to +her gloom, and seizes the flat iron grimly. + +We follow up two flights of cold stone stairs, disheartening narrow +staircase with a cold iron rail, and corridors opening off gloomily and +rather disorderly. These houses give the effect, inside, of never having +been properly finished, as if, long, long ago, the inmates had crowded +in, pig-sty fashion, without waiting for anything to be brought into +order, and there it had been left, dreary and chaotic. + +Thumbelina, the little maid, threw open the door of number seven with +_eclat_. And we both exclaimed: "How fine!" It seemed to us palatial. +Two good, thick white beds, a table, a chest of drawers, two mats on the +tiled floor, and gorgeous oleographs on the wall--and two good +wash-bowls side by side--and all perfectly clean and nice. What were we +coming to! We felt we ought to be impressed. + + * * * * * + +We pulled open the latticed window doors, and looked down on the street: +the only street. And it was a river of noisy life. A band was playing, +rather terribly, round the corner at the end, and up and down the +street jigged endless numbers of maskers in their Carnival costume, with +girls and young women strolling arm-in-arm to participate. And how +frisky they all were, how bubbly and unself-conscious! + +The maskers were nearly all women--the street was full of women: so we +thought at first. Then we saw, looking closer, that most of the women +were young men, dressed up. All the maskers were young men, and most of +these young men, _of course_, were masquerading as women. As a rule they +did not wear face-masks, only little dominoes of black cloth or green +cloth or white cloth coming down to the mouth. Which is much better. For +the old modelled half-masks with the lace frill, the awful proboscis +sticking forward white and ghastly like the beaks of corpse-birds--such +as the old Venice masks--these I think are simply horrifying. And the +more modern "faces" are usually only repulsive. While the simple little +pink half-masks with the end of black or green or white cloth, these +just form a human disguise. + +It was quite a game, sorting out the real women from the false. Some +were easy. They had stuffed their bosoms, and stuffed their bustles, and +put on hats and very various robes, and they minced along with little +jigging steps, like little dolls that dangle from elastic, and they put +their heads on one side and dripped their hands, and danced up to flurry +the actual young ladies, and sometimes they received a good clout on the +head, when they broke into wild and violent gestures, whereat the +_actual_ young ladies scuffled wildly. + +They were very lively and naive.--But some were more difficult. Every +conceivable sort of "woman" was there, broad shouldered and with rather +large feet. The most usual was the semi-peasant, with a very full bosom +and very full skirt and a very downright bearing. But one was a widow in +weeds, drooping on the arm of a robust daughter. And one was an ancient +crone in a crochet bed-cover. And one was in an old skirt and blouse and +apron, with a broom, wildly sweeping the street from end to end. He was +an animated rascal. He swept with very sarcastic assiduity in front of +two town-misses in fur coats, who minced very importantly along. He +swept their way very humbly, facing them and going backwards, sweeping +and bowing, whilst they advanced with their noses in the air. He made +his great bow, and they minced past, daughters of dog-fish, pesce-carne, +no doubt. Then he skipped with a bold, gambolling flurry behind them, +and with a perfectly mad frenzy began to sweep after them, as if to +sweep their tracks away. He swept so madly and so blindly with his besom +that he swept on to their heels and their ankles. They shrieked and +glowered round, but the blind sweeper saw them not. He swept and swept +and pricked their thin silk ankles. And they, scarlet with indignation +and rage, gave hot skips like cats on hot bricks, and fled discomfited +forwards. He bowed once more after them, and started mildly and +innocently to sweep the street. A pair of lovers of fifty years ago, she +in a half crinoline and poke bonnet and veil, hanging on his arm came +very coyly past, oh so simpering, and it took me a long time to be sure +that the "girl" was a youth. An old woman in a long nightdress prowled +up and down, holding out her candle and peering in the street as if for +burglars. She would approach the _real_ young women and put her candle +in their faces and peer so hard, as if she suspected them of something. +And they blushed and turned their faces away and protested confusedly. +This old woman searched so fearfully in the face of one strapping lass +in the pink and scarlet costume, who looked for all the world like a +bunch of red and rose-pink geraniums, with a bit of white,--a _real_ +peasant lass--that the latter in a panic began to beat him with her +fist, furiously, quite aroused. And he made off, running comically in +his long white nightdress. + +There were some really beautiful dresses of rich old brocade, and some +gleaming old shawls, a shimmer of lavender and silver, or of dark, rich +shot colours with deep borders of white silver and primrose gold, very +lovely. I believe two of them were actual women--but the q-b says no. +There was a Victorian gown of thick green silk, with a creamy blotched +cross-over shawl. About her we both were doubtful. There were two +wistful, drooping-lily sisters, all in white, with big feet. And there +was a very successful tall miss in a narrow hobble-skirt of black satin +and a toque with ospreys. The way she minced and wagged her posterior +and went on her toes and peered over her shoulder and kept her elbows in +was an admirable caricature. Especially the curious sagging heaving +movement of "bustle" region, a movement very characteristic of modern +feminism, was hit off with a bit of male exaggeration which rejoiced me. +At first she even took me in. + +We stood outside our window, and leaned on the little balcony rail +looking down at this flow of life. Directly opposite was the chemist's +house: facing our window the best bedroom of the chemist, with a huge +white matrimonial bed and muslin curtains. In the balcony sat the +chemist's daughters, very elegant in high-heeled shoes and black hair +done in the fluffy fashion with a big sweep sideways. Oh very elegant! +They eyed us a little and we eyed them. But without interest. The river +of life was down below. + + * * * * * + +It was very cold and the day was declining. We too were cold. We decided +to go into the street and look for the cafe. In a moment we were out of +doors, walking as inconspicuously as possible near the wall. Of course +there was no pavement. These maskers were very gentle and whimsical, no +touch of brutality at all. Now we were level with them, how odd and +funny they were. One youth wore a thin white blouse and a pair of his +sister's wide, calico knickers with needlework frills near the ankle, +and white stockings. He walked artlessly, and looked almost pretty. Only +the q-b winced with pain: not because of the knickers, but because of +that awful length, coming well below the knee. Another young man was +wound into a sheet, and heavens knows if he could ever get out of it. +Another was involved in a complicated entanglement of white crochet +antimacassars, very troublesome to contemplate. I did not like him at +all, like a fish in a net. But he strode robustly about. + +We came to the end of the street, where there is a wide, desolate sort +of gap. Here the little band stood braying away, there was a thick crowd +of people, and on a slanting place just above, a little circle where +youths and men, maskers and one or two girls were dancing, so crowded +together and such a small ring that they looked like a jiggly set of +upright rollers all turning rickettily against one another. They were +doing a sort of intense jigging waltz. Why do they look so intense? +Perhaps because they were so tight all together, like too many fish in a +globe slipping through one another. + +There was a cafe in this sort of piazza--not a piazza at all, a formless +gap. But young men were drinking little drinks, and I knew it would be +hopeless to ask for anything but cold drinks or black coffee: which we +did not want. So we continued forwards, up the slope of the village +street. These towns soon come to an end. Already we were wandering into +the open. On a ledge above, a peasant family was making a huge bonfire, +a tower of orange-coloured, rippling flame. Little, impish boys were +throwing on more rubbish. Everybody else was in town. Why were these +folk at the town-end making this fire alone? + +We came to the end of the houses and looked over the road-wall at the +hollow, deep, interesting valley below. Away on the other side rose a +blue mountain, a steep but stumpy cone. High land reared up, dusky and +dark-blue, all around. Somewhere far off the sun was setting with a bit +of crimson. It was a wild, unusual landscape, of unusual shape. The +hills seemed so untouched, dark-blue, virgin-wild, the hollow cradle of +the valley was cultivated like a tapestry away below. And there seemed +so little outlying life: nothing. No castles even. In Italy and Sicily +castles perching everywhere. In Sardinia none--the remote, ungrappled +hills rising darkly, standing outside of life. + + * * * * * + +As we went back it was growing dark, and the little band was about to +leave off its brass noise. But the crowd still surged, the maskers still +jigged and frisked unweariedly. Oh the good old energy of the bygone +days, before men became so self-conscious. Here it was still on the hop. + +We found no cafe that looked any good. Coming to the inn, we asked if +there was a fire anywhere. There wasn't. We went up to our room. The +chemist-daughters had lighted up opposite, one saw their bedroom as if +it were one's own. In the dusk of the street the maskers were still +jigging, all the youths still joyfully being women, but a little more +roughly now. Away over the house-tops the purple-red of a dying sunset. +And it was very cold. + +There was nothing for it but just to lie in bed. The q-b made a little +tea on the spirit-lamp, and we sat in bed and sipped it. Then we covered +ourselves up and lay still, to get warm. Outside the noise of the +street came unabated. It grew quite dark, the lights reflected into the +room. There was the sound of an accordion across the hoarseness of the +many voices and movements in the street: and then a solid, strong +singing of men's voices, singing a soldier song. + +"Quando torniamo in casa nostra--" + +We got up to look. Under the small electric lights the narrow, cobbled +street was still running with a river of people, but fewer maskers. Two +maskers beating loudly at a heavy closed door. They beat and beat. At +last the door opens a crack. They rush to try to get in--but in vain. It +had shut the moment it saw them, they are foiled, on they go down the +street. The town is full of men, many peasants come in from the outlying +parts, the black and white costume now showing in the streets. + +We retire to bed again out of the cold. Comes a knock, and Thumbelina +bursts in, in the darkness. + +"Siamo qua!" says the q-b. + +Thumbelina dashes at the window-doors and shuts them and shuts the +casement. Then she dashes to my bedhead and turns on the light, looking +down at me as if I were a rabbit in the grass. Then she flings a can of +water against the wash-bowls--cold water, icy, alas. After which, small +and explosive, she explodes her way out of the room again, and leaves +us in the glaring light, having replied that it is now a little after +six o'clock, and dinner is half past seven. + +So we lie in bed, warm and in peace, but hungry, waiting for half past +seven. + + * * * * * + +When the q-b can stand it no more she flounces up, though the clock from +the Campanile has struck seven only a few minutes before. Dashing +downstairs to reconnoitre, she is back in a breath to say that people +are eating their heads off in the long dining room. In the next breath +we are downstairs too. + +The room was brightly lighted, and at many white tables sat diners, all +men. It was quite city-like. Everyone was in convivial mood. The q-b +spied men opposite having chicken and salad--and she had hopes. But they +were brief. When the soup came, the girl announced that there was only +bistecca: which meant a bit of fried cow. So it did: a quite, quite +small bit of fried beef, a few potatoes and a bit of cauliflower. +Really, it was not enough for a child of twelve. But that was the end of +it. A few mandarini--tangerine oranges--rolled on a plate for dessert. +And there's the long and short of these infernal dinners. Was there any +cheese? No, there was no cheese. So we merely masticated bread. + +There came in three peasants in the black and white costume, and sat at +the middle table. They kept on their stocking caps. And queer they +looked, coming in with slow, deliberate tread of these elderly men, and +sitting rather remote, with a gap of solitude around them. The peculiar +ancient loneliness of the Sardinian hills clings to them, and something +stiff, static, pre-world. + + * * * * * + +All the men at our end of the room were citizens--employees of some +sort--and they were all acquaintances. A large dog, very large indeed, +with a great muzzle, padded slowly from table to table, and looked at us +with big wistful topaz eyes. When the meal was almost over our +bus-driver and conductor came in--looking faint with hunger and cold and +fatigue. They were quartered at this house. They had eaten nothing since +the boar-broth at Gavoi. + +In a very short time they were through their portions: and was there +nothing else? Nothing! But they were half starved. They ordered two eggs +each, in padella. I ordered coffee--and asked them to come and take it +with us, and a brandy. So they came when their eggs were finished. + +A diversion was now created at the other side of the room. The red wine, +which is good in Sardinia, had been drunk freely. Directly facing us +sat a rather stout man with pleasant blue eyes and a nicely shaped head: +dressed like any other town man on a Sunday. The dog had waddled up to +him and sat down statuesque in front of him. And the fat man, being +mellow, began to play with the big, gentle, brindled animal. He took a +piece of bread and held it before the dog's nose--and the dog tried to +take it. But the man, like a boy now he was ripe with wine, put the +mastiff back with a restraining finger, and told him not to snatch. Then +he proceeded with a little conversation with the animal. The dog again +tried to snatch, gently, and again the man started, saved the bread, and +startled the dog, which backed and gave a sharp, sad yelp, as if to say: +"Why do you tease me!" + +"Now," said the man, "you are not to snatch. Come here. Come here. Vieni +qua!" And he held up the piece of bread. The animal came near. "Now," +said the man, "I put this bread on your nose, and you don't move, +un--Ha!!" + +The dog had tried to snatch the bread, the man had shouted and jerked it +away, the animal had recoiled and given another expostulating yelp. + +The game continued. All the room was watching, smiling. The dog did not +understand at all. It came forward again, troubled. The man held the +bread near its nose, and held up a warning finger. The beast dropped +its head mournfully, cocking up its eye at the bread with varied +feelings. + +"Now--!" said the man, "not until I say three--_Uno--due--_" the dog +could bear it no longer, the man in jerking let go the bread and yelled +at the top of his voice--"_e tre!_" The dog gulped the piece of bread +with a resigned pleasure, and the man pretended it had all happened +properly on the word "three." + +So he started again. "Vieni qua! Vieni qua!" The dog, which had backed +away with the bread, came hesitating, cringing forward, dropping its +hind-quarters in doubt, as dogs do, advancing towards the new nugget of +bread. The man preached it a little sermon. + +"You sit there and look at this bread. I sit here and look at you, and I +hold this bread. And you stop still, and I stop still, while I count +three. Now then--uno--" the dog couldn't bear these numerals, with their +awful slowness. He snatched desperately. The man yelled and lost the +bread, the dog, gulping, turned to creep away. + +Then it began again. + +"Come here! Come here! Didn't I tell thee I would count three? Gia! I +said I would count three. Not one, but three. And to count three you +need three numbers. Ha! Steady! Three numbers. Uno--due E TRE!" The +last syllables were yelled so that the room rang again. The dog gave a +mournful howl of excitement, missed the bread, groped for it, and fled. + +The man was red with excitement, his eyes shining. He addressed the +company at large. "I had a dog," he said, "ah, a dog! And I would put a +piece of bread on his nose, and say a verse. And he looked at me so!" +The man put his face sideways. "And he looked at me _so_!" He gazed up +under his brows. "And he talked to me so--o: Zieu! Zieu!--But he never +moved. No, he never moved. If he sat with that bread on his nose for +half an hour, and if tears ran down his face, he never moved--not till I +said _three_! Then--ah!" The man tossed up his face, snapped the air +with his mouth, and gulped an imaginary crust. "AH, that dog was +trained...." The man of forty shook his head. + +"Vieni qua! Come here! Tweet! Come here!" + +He patted his fat knee, and the dog crept forward. The man held another +piece of bread. + +"Now," he said to the dog, "listen! Listen. I am going to tell you +something. + + Il soldato va alla guerra-- + +No--no, Not yet. When I say _three_! + + Il soldato va alla guerra + Mangia male, dorme in terra-- + +Listen. Be still. Quiet now. UNO--DUE--E--TRE!" + +It came out in one simultaneous yell from the man, the dog in sheer +bewilderment opened his jaws and let the bread go down his throat, and +wagged his tail in agitated misery. + +"Ah," said the man, "you are learning. Come! Come here! Come! Now then! +Now you know. So! So! Look at me so!" + +The stout, good-looking man of forty bent forward. His face was flushed, +the veins in his neck stood out. He talked to the dog, and imitated the +dog. And very well indeed he reproduced something of the big, gentle, +wistful subservience of the animal. The dog was his totem--the +affectionate, self-mistrustful, warm-hearted hound. + +So he started the rigmarole again. We put it into English. + +"Listen now. Listen! Let me tell it you-- + + So the soldier goes to the war! + His food is rotten, he sleeps on the floor-- + +"Now! Now! No, you are not keeping quiet. Now! Now! + + Il soldate va alla guerra + Mangia male, dorme in terra--" + +The verses, known to every Italian, were sung out in a sing-song +fashion. The audience listened as one man--or as one child--the rhyme +chiming in every heart. They waited with excitement for the +One--Two--and Three! The last two words were always ripped out with a +tearing yell. I shall never forget the force of those syllables--E TRE! +But the dog made a poor show--He only gobbled the bread and was uneasy. + +This game lasted us a full hour: a full hour by the clock sat the whole +room in intense silence, watching the man and the dog. + + * * * * * + +Our friends told us the man was the bus-inspector--their inspector. But +they liked him. "Un brav' uomo! Un bravo uomo! Eh si!" Perhaps they were +a little uneasy, seeing him in his cups and hearing him yell so nakedly: +AND THREE! + +We talked rather sadly, wistfully. Young people, especially nice ones +like the driver, are too sad and serious these days. The little +conductor made big brown eyes at us, wistful too, and sad we were going. + +For in the morning they were driving back again to Sorgono, over the old +road, and we were going on, to Terranova, the port. But we promised to +come back in the summer, when it was warmer. Then we should all meet +again. + +"Perhaps you will find us on the same course still. Who knows!" said the +driver sadly. + + + + +VII. + +TO TERRANOVA AND THE STEAMER. + + +The morning was very clear and blue. We were up betimes. The old dame of +the inn very friendly this morning. We were going already! Oh, but we +hadn't stayed long in Nuoro. Didn't we like it? + +Yes, we like it. We would come back in the summer when it was warmer. + +Ah yes, she said, artists came in the summer. Yes, she agreed, Nuoro was +a nice place--_simpatico, molto simpatico_. And really it is. And really +she was an awfully nice, capable, human old woman: and I had thought her +a beldame when I saw her ironing. + +She gave us good coffee and milk and bread, and we went out into the +town. There was the real Monday morning atmosphere of an old, +same-as-ever provincial town: the vacant feeling of work resumed after +Sunday, rather reluctantly; nobody buying anything, nobody quite at +grips with anything. The doors of the old-fashioned shops stood open: in +Nuoro they have hardly reached the stage of window-displays. One must +go inside, into the dark caves, to see what the goods are. Near the +doorways of the drapers' shops stood rolls of that fine scarlet cloth, +for the women's costumes. In a large tailor's window four women sat +sewing, tailoring, and looking out of the window with eyes still +Sunday-emancipate and mischievous. Detached men, some in the black and +white, stood at the street corners, as if obstinately avoiding the +current of work. Having had a day off, the salt taste of liberty still +lingering on their lips, they were not going to be dragged so easily +back into harness. I always sympathise with these rather sulky, forlorn +males who insist on making another day of it. It shows a spark of +spirit, still holding out against our over-harnessed world. + +There is nothing to see in Nuoro: which, to tell the truth, is always a +relief. Sights are an irritating bore. Thank heaven there isn't a bit of +Perugino or anything Pisan in the place: that I know of. Happy is the +town that has nothing to show. What a lot of stunts and affectations it +saves! Life is then life, not museum-stuffing. One could saunter along +the rather inert, narrow, Monday-morning street, and see the women +having a bit of a gossip, and see an old crone with a basket of bread on +her head, and see the unwilling ones hanging back from work, and the +whole current of industry disinclined to flow. Life is life and things +are things. I am sick of gaping _things_, even Peruginos. I have had my +thrills from Carpaccio and Botticelli. But now I've had enough. But I +can always look at an old, grey-bearded peasant in his earthy white +drawers and his black waist-frill, wearing no coat or over-garment, but +just crooking along beside his little ox-wagon. I am sick of "things," +even Perugino. + + * * * * * + +The sight of the woman with the basket of bread reminded us that we +wanted some food. So we searched for bread. None, if you please. It was +Monday morning, eaten out. There would be bread at the forno, the oven. +Where was the oven? Up the road and down a passage. I thought we should +smell it. But no. We wandered back. Our friends had told us to take +tickets early, for perhaps the bus would be crowded. So we bought +yesterday's pastry and little cakes, and slices of native sausage. And +still no bread. I went and asked our old hostess. + +"There is no fresh bread. It hasn't come in yet," she said. + +"Never mind, give me stale." + +So she went and rummaged in a drawer. + +"Oh dear, Oh dear, the women have eaten it all! But perhaps over +there--" she pointed down the street--"they can give you some." + +They couldn't. + +I paid the bill--about twenty-eight francs, I think--and went out to +look for the bus. There it was. In a dark little hole they gave me the +long ticket-strips, first-class to Terranova. They cost some seventy +francs the two. The q-b was still vainly, aimlessly looking along the +street for bread. + +"Ready when you are," said our new driver rather snappily. He was a +pale, cross-looking young man with brown eyes and fair "ginger" hair. So +in we clambered, waved farewell to our old friends, whose bus was ready +to roll away in the opposite direction. As we bumped past the "piazza" I +saw Velveteens standing there, isolate, and still, apparently, scowling +with unabated irritation. + +I am sure he has money: why the first class, yesterday, otherwise. And +I'm sure _she_ married him because he is a townsman with property. + + * * * * * + +Out we rolled, on our last Sardinian drive. The morning was of a +bell-like beauty, blue and very lovely. Below on the right stretched the +concave valley, tapestried with cultivation. Up into the morning light +rose the high, humanless hills, with wild, treeless moor-slopes. + +But there was no glass in the left window of the _coupe_, and the wind +came howling in, cold enough. I stretched myself on the front seat, the +q-b screwed herself into a corner, and we watched the land flash by. How +well this new man drove! the long-nosed, freckled one with his gloomy +brown eyes. How cleverly he changed gear, so that the automobile mewed +and purred comfortably, like a live thing enjoying itself. And how dead +he was to the rest of the world, wrapped in his gloom like a young +bus-driving Hamlet. His answers to his mate were monosyllabic--or just +no answers at all. He was one of those responsible, capable, morose +souls, who do their work with silent perfection and look as if they were +driving along the brink of doom, say a word to them and they'll go over +the edge. But gentle _au fond_, of course. Fiction used to be fond of +them: a sort of ginger-haired, young, mechanic Mr. Rochester who has +even lost the Jane illusion. + +Perhaps it was not fair to watch him so closely from behind. + +His mate was a bit of a bounder, with one of those rakish military caps +whose soft tops cock sideways or backwards. He was in Italian khaki, +riding-breeches and puttees. He smoked his cigarette bounderishly: but +at the same time, with peculiar gentleness, he handed one to the ginger +Hamlet. Hamlet accepted it, and his mate held him a light as the bus +swung on. They were like man and wife. The mate was the alert and +wide-eyed Jane Eyre whom the ginger Mr. Rochester was not going to spoil +in a hurry. + + * * * * * + +The landscape was different from yesterday's. As we dropped down the +shallow, winding road from Nuoro, quite quickly the moors seemed to +spread on either side, treeless, bushy, rocky, desert. How hot they must +be in summer! One knows from Grazia Deledda's books. + +A pony with a low trap was prancing unhappily in the road-side. We +slowed down and slid harmlessly past. Then again, on we whizzed down the +looped road, which turned back on itself as sharply as a snake that has +been wounded. Hamlet darted the bus at the curves; then softly padded +round like an angel: then off again for the next parabola. + +We came out into wide, rather desolate, moorland valley spaces, with low +rocks away to the left, and steep slopes, rocky-bushy, on the right. +Sometimes groups of black-and-white men were working in the forlorn +distances. A woman in the madder costume led a panniered ass along the +wastes. The sun shone magnificently, already it was hotter here. The +landscape had quite changed. These slopes looked east and south to the +sea, they were sun-wild and sea-wild. + +The first stop was where a wild, rough lane came down the hill to our +road. At the corner stood a lonely house--and in the road-side the most +battered, life-weary old carriage I have ever seen. The jaunty mate +sorted out the post--the boy with the tattered-battered brown carriage +and brown pony signed the book as we all stood in the roadway. There was +a little wait for a man who was fetching up another parcel. The post-bag +and parcels from the tattered carriage were received and stowed and +signed for. We walked up and down in the sun to get warm. The landscape +was wild and open round about. + +Pip! goes Mr. Rochester, peremptorily, at the horn. Amazing how +obediently we scuffle in. Away goes the bus, rushing towards the sea. +Already one felt that peculiar glare in the half-way heavens, that +intensification of the light in the lower sky, which is caused by the +sea to sunward. + +Away in front three girls in brown costume are walking along the side of +the white high-road, going with panniers towards a village up a slight +incline. They hear us, turn round, and instantly go off their heads, +exactly like chickens in the road. They fly towards us, crossing the +road, and swifter than any rabbits they scuttle, one after another, into +a deep side-track, like a deep ditch at right angles to the road. There, +as we roll past, they are all crouched, peering out at us fearfully, +like creatures from their hole. The bus mate salutes them with a shout, +and we roll on towards the village on the low summit. + + * * * * * + +It is a small, stony, hen-scratched place of poor people. We roll on to +a standstill. There is a group of poor people. The women wear the +dark-brown costume, and again the bolero has changed shape. It is a +rather fantastic low corset, curiously shapen; and originally, +apparently, made of wonderful elaborate brocade. But look at it now. + +There is an altercation because a man wants to get into the bus with two +little black pigs, each of which is wrapped in a little sack, with its +face and ears appearing like a flower from a wrapped bouquet. He is told +that he must pay the fare for each pig as if it were a Christian. +_Cristo del mondo!_ A pig, a little pig, and paid for as if it were a +Christian. He dangles the pig-bouquets, one from each hand, and the +little pigs open their black mouths and squeal with self-conscious +appreciation of the excitement they are causing. _Dio benedetto!_ it is +a chorus. But the bus mate is inexorable. Every animal, even if it were +a mouse, must be paid for and have a ticket as if it were a Christian. +The pig-master recoils stupified with indignation, a pig-bouquet under +each arm. "How much do you charge for the fleas you carry?" asks a +sarcastic youth. + +A woman sitting sewing a soldier's tunic into a little jacket for her +urchin, and thus beating the sword into a ploughshare, stitches +unconcernedly in the sun. Round-cheeked but rather slatternly damsels +giggle. The pig-master, speechless with fury, slings the pig-bouquets, +like two bottles one on either side the saddle of the ass whose halter +is held by a grinning but also malevolent girl: malevolent against +pig-prices, that is. The pigs, looking abroad from their new situation, +squeal the eternal pig-protest against an insufferable humanity. + +"Andiamo! Andiamo!" says ginger Mr. Rochester in his quiet but intense +voice. The bus-mate scrambles up and we charge once more into the strong +light to seaward. + + * * * * * + +In we roll, into Orosei, a dilapidated, sun-smitten, god-forsaken little +town not far from the sea. We descend in piazza. There is a great, false +baroque facade to a church, up a wavering vast mass of steps: and at +the side a wonderful jumble of roundnesses with a jumble of round +tiled roofs, peaked in the centre. It must have been some sort of +convent. But it is eminently what they call a "painter's bit"--that +pallid, big baroque face, at the top of the slow incline, and the very +curious dark building at the side of it, with its several dark-tiled +round roofs, like pointed hats, at varying altitudes. The whole space +has a strange Spanish look, neglected, arid, yet with a bigness and a +dilapidated dignity and a stoniness which carry one back to the Middle +Ages, when life was violent and Orosei was no doubt a port and a +considerable place. Probably it had bishops. + +[Illustration: NUORO ] + +The sun came hot into the wide piazza; with its pallid heavy facade up +on the stony incline on one side, and arches and a dark great courtyard +and outer stair-ways of some unknown building away on the other, the +road entering down-hill from the inland, and dropping out below to the +sea-marshes, and with the impression that once some single power had had +the place in grip, had given this centre an architectural unity and +splendour, now lost and forgotten, Orosei was truly fascinating. + +But the inhabitants were churlish. We went into a sort of bar-place, +very primitive, and asked for bread. + +"Bread alone?" said the churl. + +"If you please." + +"There isn't any," he answered. + +"Oh--where can we get some then?" + +"You can't get any." + +"Really!" + +And we couldn't. People stood about glum, not friendly. + +There was a second great automobile, ready to set off for Tortoli, far +to the south, on the east coast. Mandas is the railway junction both for +Sorgono and Tortoli. The two buses stood near and communed. We prowled +about the dead, almost extinct town--or call it village. Then Mr. +Rochester began to pip his horn peremptorily, so we scuffled in. + +The post was stowed away. A native in black broad-cloth came running and +sweating, carrying an ox-blood suit-case, and said we must wait for his +brother-in-law, who was a dozen yards away. Ginger Mr. Rochester sat on +his driver's throne and glared in the direction whence the +brother-in-law must come. His brow knitted irritably, his long, sharp +nose did not promise much patience. He made the horn roar like a +sea-cow. But no brother-in-law. + +"I'm going to wait no longer," said he. + +"Oh, a minute, a minute! That won't do us any harm," expostulated his +mate. No answer from the long faced, long-nosed ginger Hamlet. He sat +statuesque, but with black eyes looking daggers down the still void +road. + +"_Eh va bene_", he murmured through closed lips, and leaned forward +grimly for the starting handle. + +"Patience--patience--patience a moment--why--" cried the mate. + +"Per l'amor' di Dio!" cried the black broad-cloth man, simply sizzling +and dancing in anguish on the road, round the suit-case, which stood in +the dust. "Don't go! God's love, don't start. He's got to catch the +boat. He's got to be in Rome tomorrow. He won't be a second. He's here, +he's here, he's here!" + +This startled the fate-fixed, sharp-nosed driver. He released the handle +and looked round, with dark and glowering eyes. No one in sight. The few +glum natives stood round unmoved. Thunder came into the gloomy dark eyes +of the Rochester. Absolutely nobody in sight. Click! went his face into +a look of almost seraphic peace, as he pulled off the brakes. We were on +an incline, and insidiously, oh most subtly the great bus started to +lean forwards and steal into motion. + +"Oh _ma che!_--what a will you've got!" cried the mate, clambering in +to the side of the now seraphic-looking Rochester. + +"Love of God--God!" yelled the broad-cloth, seeing the bus melt forwards +and gather momentum. He put his hands up as if to arrest it, and yelled +in a wild howl: "O Beppin'! Bepp_in_--O!" + +But in vain. Already we had left the little groups of onlookers behind. +We were rolling downwards out of the piazza. Broad-cloth had seized the +bag and was running beside us in agony. Out of the piazza we rolled, +Rochester had not put on the engines and we were just simply rolling +down the gentle incline by the will of God. Into the dark outlet-street +we melted, towards the still invisible sea. + +Suddenly a yell--"OO--ahh!!" + +"E qua! E qua! E qua! E qua!" gasped broad-cloth four times. "He's +here!" And then: "Beppin'--she's going, she's going!" + +Beppin' appeared, a middle-aged man also in black broad-cloth, with a +very scrubby chin and a bundle, running _towards_ us on fat legs. He was +perspiring, but his face was expressionless and innocent-looking. With a +sardonic flicker of a grin, half of spite, half of relief, Rochester put +on the brakes again, and we stopped in the street. A woman tottered up +panting and holding her breast. Now for farewells. + +"Andiamo!" said Rochester curtly, looking over his shoulder and making +his fine nose curl with malice. And instantly he took off the brakes +again. The fat woman shoved Beppin' in, gasping farewells, the +brother-in-law handed in the ox-blood-red suit-case, tottering behind, +and the bus surged savagely out of Orosei. + + * * * * * + +Almost in a moment we had left the town on its slope, and there below us +was a river winding through marshy flats to the sea, to where small +white surf broke on a flat, isolated beach, a quarter of a mile away. +The river ran rapidly between stones and then between belts of high sere +reeds, high as a man. These tall reeds advanced almost into the slow, +horizontal sea, from which stood up a white glare of light, massive +light over the low Mediterranean. + +Quickly we came down to the river-level, and rolled over a bridge. +Before us, between us and the sea rose another hill, almost like a wall +with a flat top, running horizontal, perfectly flat, parallel with the +sea-edge, a sort of narrow long plateau. For a moment we were in the +wide scoop of the river-bed. Orosei stood on the bluff behind us. + +Away to the right the flat river-marshes with the thick dead reeds met +the flat and shining sea, river and sea were one water, the waves +rippled tiny and soft-foot into the stream. To the left there was great +loveliness. The bed of the river curved upwards and inland, and there +was cultivation: but particularly, there were noble almond trees in full +blossom. How beautiful they were, their pure, silvery pink gleaming so +nobly, like a transfiguration, tall and perfect in that strange cradled +river-bed parallel with the sea. Almond trees were in flower beneath +grey Orosei, almond trees came near the road, and we could see the hot +eyes of the individual blossoms, almond trees stood on the upward slope +before us. And they had flowered in such noble beauty there, in that +trough where the sun fell magnificent and the sea-glare whitened all the +air as with a sort of God-presence, they gleamed in their incandescent +sky-rosiness. One could hardly see their iron trunks, in this weird +valley. + +But already we had crossed, and were charging up the great road that was +cut straight, slant-wise along the side of the sea-hill, like a stairway +outside the side of the house. So the bus turned southward to run up +this stairway slant, to get to the top of the sea's long table-land. So, +we emerged: and there was the Mediterranean rippling against the black +rocks not so very far away below on our right. For, once on the long +table-land the road turned due north, a long white dead-straight road +running between strips of moorland, wild and bushy. The sea was in the +near distance, blue, blue, and beating with light. It seemed more light +than watery. And on the left was the wide trough of the valley, where +almond trees like clouds in a wind seemed to poise sky-rosy upon the +pale, sun-pale land, and beyond which Orosei clustered its lost grey +houses on the bluff. Oh wonderful Orosei with your almonds and your +reedy river, throbbing, throbbing with light and the sea's nearness, and +all so lost, in a world long gone by, lingering as legends linger on. It +is hard to believe that it is real. It seems so long since life left it +and memory transfigured it into pure glamour, lost away like a lost +pearl on the east Sardinian coast. Yet there it is, with a few grumpy +inhabitants who won't even give you a crust of bread. And probably there +is malaria--almost sure. And it would be hell to have to live there for +a month. Yet for a moment, that January morning, how wonderful, oh, the +timeless glamour of those Middle Ages when men were lordly and violent +and shadowed with death. + + "Timor mortis conturbat me." + +The road ran along by the sea, above the sea, swinging gently up and +down, and running on to a sea-encroaching hilly promontory in the +distance. There were no high lands. The valley was left behind, and +moors surrounded us, wild, desolate, uninhabited and uninhabitable moors +sweeping up gently on the left, and finishing where the land dropped low +and clifflike to the sea on the right. No life was now in sight: even no +ship upon the pale blue sea. The great globe of the sky was unblemished +and royal in its blueness and its ringing cerulean light. Over the moors +a great hawk hovered. Rocks cropped out. It was a savage, dark-bushed, +sky-exposed land, forsaken to the sea and the sun. + + * * * * * + +We were alone in the _coupe_. The bus-mate had made one or two sets at +us, but he rather confused us. He was young--about twenty-two or three. +He was quite good-looking, with his rakish military cap and his +well-knitted figure in military clothes. But he had dark eyes that +seemed to ask too much, and his manner of approach was abrupt, +persistent, and disconcerting. Already he had asked us where we were +going, where we lived, whence we came, of what nationality we were, and +was I a painter. Already he knew so much. Further we rather fought shy +of him. We ate those pale Nuoro pastries--they were just flaky pastry, +good, but with nothing inside but a breath of air. And we gnawed slices +of very highly-flavoured Nuoro sausage. And we drank the tea. And we +were very hungry, for it was past noon, and we had eaten as good as +nothing. The sun was magnificent in heaven, we rushed at a great, +purring speed along that moorland road just above the sea. + +And then the bus-mate climbed in to share the coupe with us. He put his +dark, beseeching and yet persistent eyes on us, sat plumb in front of +us, his knees squared, and began to shout awkward questions in a strong +curious voice. Of course it was very difficult to hear, for the great +rushing bus made much noise. We had to try to yell in our Italian--and +he was as awkward as we were. + +However, although it said "Smoking Forbidden" he offered us both +cigarettes, and insisted we should smoke with him. Easiest to submit. He +tried to point us out features in the landscape: but there were none to +point, except that, where the hill ran to sea out of the moor, and +formed a cape, he said there was a house away under the cliffs where +coastguards lived. Nothing else. + +Then, however, he launched. He asked once more was I English and +was the q-b German. We said it was so. And then he started the +old story. Nations popped up and down again like Punch and Judy. +Italy--l'Italia--she had no quarrel with La Germania--never had +had--no--no, good friends the two nations. But once the war was started, +Italy had to come in. For why. Germany would beat France, occupy her +lands, march down and invade Italy. Best then join the war whilst the +enemy was only invading somebody else's territory. + +They are perfectly naive about it. That's what I like. He went on to say +that he was a soldier: he had served eight years in the Italian cavalry. +Yes, he was a cavalryman, and had been all through the war. But he had +not therefore any quarrel with Germany. No--war was war, and it was +over. So let it be over. + +But France--_ma la Francia!_ Here he sat forward on his seat, with his +face near ours, and his pleading-dog's eyes suddenly took a look of +quite irrational blazing rage. France! There wasn't a man in Italy who +wasn't dying to get at the throat of France. France! Let there be war, +and every Italian would leap to arms, even the old. Even the old--_anche +i vecchi_. Yes, there must be war--with France. It was coming: it was +bound to come. Every Italian was waiting for it. Waiting to fly at the +French throat. For why? Why? He had served two years on the French +front, and he knew why. Ah, the French! For arrogance, for insolence, +Dio!--they were not to be borne. The French--they thought themselves +lords of the world--_signori del mondo!_ Lords of the world, and masters +of the world. Yes. They thought themselves no less--and what are they? +Monkeys! Monkeys! Not better than monkeys. But let there be war, and +Italy would show them. Italy would give them _signori del mondo_! Italy +was pining for war--all, all, pining for war. With no one, with no one +but France. Ah, with no one--Italy loved everybody else--but France! +France! + +We let him shout it all out, till he was at the end of it. The passion +and energy of him was amazing. He was like one possessed. I could only +wonder. And wonder again. For it is curious what fearful passions these +pleading, wistful souls fall into when they feel they have been +insulted. It was evident he felt he had been insulted, and he went just +beside himself. But dear chap, he shouldn't speak so loudly for all +Italy--even the old. The bulk of Italian men are only too anxious to +beat their bayonets into cigarette-holders, and smoke the cigarette of +eternal and everlasting peace, to coincide at all with our friend. Yet +there he was--raging at me in the bus as we dashed along the coast. + +And then, after a space of silence, he became sad again, wistful, and +looked at us once more with those pleading brown eyes, beseeching, +beseeching--he knew not what: and I'm sure I didn't know. Perhaps what +he really wants is to be back on a horse in a cavalry regiment: even at +war. + +But no, it comes out, what he thinks he wants. + +When are we going to London? And are there many motor-cars in +England?--many, many? In America too? Do they want men in America? I say +no, they have unemployment out there: they are going to stop immigration +in April: or at least cut it down. Why? he asks sharply. Because they +have their own unemployment problem. And the q-b quotes how many +millions of Europeans want to emigrate to the United States. His eye +becomes gloomy. Are all nations of Europe going to be forbidden? he +asks. Yes--and already the Italian Government will give no more +passports for America--to emigrants. No passports? then you can't go? +You can't go, say I. + +By this time his hot-souled eagerness and his hot, beseeching eyes have +touched the q-b. She asks him what he wants. And from his gloomy face it +comes out in a rap. "_Andare fuori dell'Italia._" To go out of Italy. To +go out--away--to go away--to go away. It has become a craving, a +neurasthenia with them. + +Where is his home? His home is at a village a few miles ahead--here on +this coast. We are coming to it soon. There is his home. And a few miles +inland from the village he also has a property: he also has land. But he +doesn't want to work it. He doesn't want it. In fact he won't bother +with it. He hates the land, he detests looking after vines. He can't +even bring himself to try any more. + +What does he want then? + +He wants to leave Italy, to go abroad--as a chauffeur. Again the long +beseeching look, as of a distraught, pleading animal. He would prefer to +be the chauffeur of a gentleman. But he would drive a bus, he would do +anything--in England. + +Now he has launched it. Yes, I say, but in England also we have more men +than jobs. Still he looks at me with his beseeching eyes--so desperate +too--and so young--and so full of energy--and so longing to _devote_ +himself--to devote himself: or else to go off in an unreasonable +paroxysm against the French. To my horror I feel he is believing in my +goodness of heart. And as for motor-cars, it is all I can do to own a +pair of boots, so how am I to set about employing a _chauffeur_? + + * * * * * + +We have all gone quiet again. So at last he climbs back and takes his +seat with the driver once more. The road is still straight, swinging on +through the moorland strip by the sea. And he leans to the silent, +nerve-tense Mr. Rochester, pleading again. And at length Mr. Rochester +edges aside, and lets him take the driving wheel. And so now we are all +in the hands of our friend the bus-mate. He drives--not very well. It is +evident he is learning. The bus can't quite keep in the grooves of this +wild bare road. And he shuts off when we slip down a hill--and there is +a great muddle on the upslope when he tries to change gear. But Mr. +Rochester sits squeezed and silently attentive in his corner. He puts +out his hand and swings the levers. There is no fear that he will let +anything go wrong. I would trust him to drive me down the bottomless pit +and up the other side. But still the beseeching mate holds the steering +wheel. And on we rush, rather uncertainly and hesitatingly now. And thus +we come to the bottom of a hill where the road gives a sudden curve. My +heart rises an inch in my breast. I know he can't do it. And he can't, +oh Lord--but the quiet hand of the freckled Rochester takes the wheel, +we swerve on. And the bus-mate gives up, and the nerve-silent driver +resumes control. + + * * * * * + +But the bus-mate now feels at home with us. He clambers back into the +coupe, and when it is too painfully noisy to talk, he simply sits and +looks at us with brown, pleading eyes. Miles and miles and miles goes +this coast road, and never a village. Once or twice a sort of lonely +watch-house and soldiers lying about by the road. But never a halt. +Everywhere moorland and desert, uninhabited. + +And we are faint with fatigue and hunger and this relentless travelling. +When, oh when shall we come to Siniscola, where we are due to eat our +midday meal? Oh yes, says the mate. There is an inn at Siniscola where +we can eat what we like. Siniscola--Siniscola! We feel we must get down, +we must eat, it is past one o'clock and the glaring light and the +rushing loneliness are still about us. + + * * * * * + +But it is behind the hill in front. We see the hill? Yes. Behind it is +Siniscola. And down there on the beach are the Bagni di Siniscola, where +many forestieri, strangers, come in the summer. Therefore we set high +hopes on Siniscola. From the town to the sea, two miles, the bathers +ride on asses. Sweet place. And it is coming near--really near. There +are stone-fenced fields--even stretches of moor fenced off. There are +vegetables in a little field with a stone wall--there is a strange white +track through the moor to a forsaken sea-coast. We are near. + +Over the brow of the low hill--and there it is, a grey huddle of a +village with two towers. There it is, we are there. Over the cobbles we +bump, and pull up at the side of the street. This is Siniscola, and here +we eat. + +We drop out of the weary bus. The mate asks a man to show us the +inn--the man says he won't, muttering. So a boy is deputed--and he +consents. This is the welcome. + +And I can't say much for Siniscola. It is just a narrow, crude, stony +place, hot in the sun, cold in the shade. In a minute or two we were at +the inn, where a fat, young man was just dismounting from his brown pony +and fastening it to a ring beside the door. + +The inn did not look promising--the usual cold room opening gloomily on +the gloomy street. The usual long table, with this time a foully +blotched table-cloth. And two young peasant madams in charge, in the +brown costume, rather sordid, and with folded white cloths on their +heads. The younger was in attendance. She was a full-bosomed young +hussy, and would be very queenly and cocky. She held her nose in the +air, and seemed ready to jibe at any order. It takes one some time to +get used to this cocky, assertive behaviour of the young damsels, the +who'll-tread-on-the-tail-of-my-skirt bearing of the hussies. But it is +partly a sort of crude defensiveness and shyness, partly it is barbaric +_mefiance_ or mistrust, and partly, without doubt, it is a tradition +with Sardinian women that they must hold their own and be ready to hit +first. This young sludge-queen was all hit. She flounced her posterior +round the table, planking down the lumps of bread on the foul cloth with +an air of take-it-as-a-condescension-that-I-wait-on-you, a subdued grin +lurking somewhere on her face. It is not meant to be offensive: yet it +is so. Truly, it is just uncouthness. But when one is tired and +hungry.... + +We were not the only feeders. There was the man off the pony, and a sort +of workman or porter or dazio official with him--and a smart young man: +and later our Hamlet driver. Bit by bit the young damsel planked down +bread, plates, spoons, glasses, bottles of black wine, whilst we sat at +the dirty table in uncouth constraint and looked at the hideous portrait +of His reigning Majesty of Italy. And at length came the inevitable +soup. And with it the sucking chorus. The little _maialino_ at Mandas +had been a good one. But the smart young man in the country beat him. As +water clutters and slavers down a choky gutter, so did his soup travel +upwards into his mouth with one long sucking stream of noise, +intensified as the bits of cabbage, etc., found their way through the +orifice. + +They did all the talking--the young men. They addressed the sludge-queen +curtly and disrespectfully, as if to say: "What's she up to?" Her airs +were finely thrown away. Still she showed off. What else was there to +eat? There was the meat that had been boiled for the soup. We knew what +that meant. I had as lief eat the foot of an old worsted stocking. +Nothing else, you sludge queen? No, what do you want anything else +for?--Beefsteak--what's the good of asking for beefsteak or any other +steak on a Monday. Go to the butcher's and see for yourself. + +The Hamlet, the pony rider, and the porter had the faded and tired +chunks of boiled meat. The smart young man ordered eggs in padella--two +eggs fried with a little butter. We asked for the same. The smart young +man got his first--and of course they were warm and liquid. So he fell +upon them with a fork, and once he had got hold of one end of the eggs +he just sucked them up in a prolonged and violent suck, like a long, +thin, ropy drink being sucked upwards from the little pan. It was a +genuine exhibition. Then he fell upon the bread with loud chews. + +What else was there? A miserable little common orange. So much for the +dinner. Was there cheese? No. But the sludge-queen--they are quite +good-natured really--held a conversation in dialect with the young men, +which I did not try to follow. Our pensive driver translated that there +_was_ cheese, but it wasn't good, so they wouldn't offer it us. And the +pony man interpolated that they didn't like to offer us anything that +was not of the best. He said it in all sincerity--after such a meal. +This roused my curiosity, so I asked for the cheese whether or not. And +it wasn't so bad after all. + +This meal cost fifteen francs, for the pair of us. + + * * * * * + +We made our way back to the bus, through the uncouth men who stood +about. To tell the truth, strangers are not popular nowadays--not +anywhere. Everybody has a grudge against them at first sight. This +grudge may or may not wear off on acquaintance. + +The afternoon had become hot--hot as an English June. And we had various +other passengers--for one a dark-eyed, long-nosed priest who showed his +teeth when he talked. There was not much room in the coupe, so the goods +were stowed upon the little rack. + +With the strength of the sun, and the six or seven people in it, the +coupe became stifling. The q-b opened her window. But the priest, one of +the loudtalking sort, said that a draught was harmful, very harmful, so +he put it up again. He was one of the gregarious sort, a loud talker, +nervy really, very familiar with all the passengers. And everything did +one harm--_fa male, fa male_. A draught _fa male, fa molto male_. _Non e +vero?_ this to all the men from Siniscola. And they all said Yes--yes. + +The bus-mate clambered into the _coupe_, to take the tickets of the +second-class passengers in the rotondo, through the little wicket. There +was great squeezing and shouting and reckoning change. And then we +stopped at a halt, and he dashed down with the post and the priest got +down for a drink with the other men. The Hamlet driver sat stiff in his +seat. He pipped the horn. He pipped again, with decision. Men came +clambering in. But it looked as if the offensive priest would be left +behind. The bus started venomously, the priest came running, his gown +flapping, wiping his lips. + +He dropped into his seat with a cackling laugh, showing his long teeth. +And he said that it was as well to take a drink, to fortify the stomach. +To travel with the stomach uneasy did one harm: _fa male, fa male--non +e vero?_ Chorus of "yes." + +The bus-mate resumed his taking the tickets through the little wicket, +thrusting his rear amongst us. As he stood like this, down fell his +sheepskin-lined military overcoat on the q-b's head. He was filled with +grief. He folded it and placed it on the seat, as a sort of cushion for +her, oh so gently! And how he would love to devote himself to a master +and mistress. + +He sat beside me, facing the q-b, and offered us an acid drop. We took +the acid drop. He smiled with zealous yearning at the q-b, and resumed +his conversations. Then he offered us cigarettes--insisted on our taking +cigarettes. + +The priest with the long teeth looked sideways at the q-b, seeing her +smoking. Then he fished out a long cigar, bit it, and spat. He was +offered a cigarette.--But no, cigarettes were harmful: _fanno male_. The +paper was bad for the health: oh, very bad. A pipe or a cigar. So he lit +his long cigar and spat large spits on the floor, continually. + +Beside me sat a big, bright-eyed, rather good-looking but foolish man. +Hearing me speak to the q-b, he said in confidence to the priest: "Here +are two Germans--eh? Look at them. The woman smoking. These are a couple +of those that were interned here. Sardinia can do without them now." + +Germans in Italy at the outbreak of the war were interned in Sardinia, +and as far as one hears, they were left very free and happy, and treated +very well, the Sardinians having been generous as all proud people are. +But now our bright-eyed fool made a great titter through the bus: quite +unaware that we understood. He said nothing offensive: but that sort of +tittering exultation of common people who think they have you at a +disadvantage annoyed me. However, I kept still to hear what they would +say. But it was only trivialities about the Germans having nearly all +gone now, their being free to travel, their coming back to Sardinia +because they liked it better than Germany. Oh yes--they all wanted to +come back. They all wanted to come back to Sardinia. Oh yes, they knew +where they were well off. They knew their own advantage. Sardinia was +this, that, and the other of advantageousness, and the Sardi were decent +people. It is just as well to put in a word on one's own behalf +occasionally. As for La Germania--she was down, down: bassa. What did +one pay for bread in Germany? Five francs a kilo, my boy. + + * * * * * + +The bus stopped again, and they trooped out into the hot sun. The priest +scuffled round the corner this time. Not to go round the corner was no +doubt harmful. We waited. A frown came between the bus Hamlet's brows. +He looked nerve-worn and tired. It was about three o'clock. We had to +wait for a man from a village, with the post. And he did not appear. + +"I am going! I won't wait," said the driver. + +"Wait--wait a minute," said the mate, pouring oil. And he went round to +look. But suddenly the bus started, with a vicious lurch. The mate came +flying and hung on to the footboard. He had really almost been left. The +driver glanced round sardonically to see if he were there. The bus flew +on. The mate shook his head in deprecation. + +"He's a bit _nervoso_, the driver," said the q-b. "A bit out of temper!" + +"Ah, poor chap!" said the good-looking young mate, leaning forward and +making such beseeching eyes of hot tolerance. "One has to be sorry for +him. Persons like him, they suffer so much from themselves, how should +one be angry with them! _Poverino._ We must have sympathy." + +Never was such a language of sympathy as the Italian. _Poverino! +Poverino!_ They are never happy unless they are sympathising pityingly +with somebody. And I rather felt that I was thrown in with the +_poverini_ who had to be pitied for being _nervosi_. Which did not +improve my temper. + +However, the bus-mate suddenly sat on the opposite seat between the +priest and the q-b. He turned over his official note book, and began to +write on the back cover very carefully, in the flourishing Italian hand. +Then he tore off what he had written, and with a very bright and zealous +look he handed me the paper saying: "You will find me a post in +England, when you go in the summer? You will find me a place in London +as a chauffeur--!" + +"If I can," said I. "But it is not easy." + +He nodded his head at me with the most complete bright confidence, quite +sure now that he had settled his case perfectly. + +On the paper he had written his name and his address, and if anyone +would like him as chauffeur they have only to say so. On the back of the +scrap of paper the inevitable goodwill: _Auguri infiniti e buon +Viaggio_. Infinite good wishes and a good journey. + +I folded the paper and put it in my waistcoat pocket, feeling a trifle +disconcerted by my new responsibility. He was such a dear fellow and +such bright trustful eyes. + + * * * * * + +This much achieved, there was a moment of silence. And the bus-mate +turned to take a ticket of a fat, comfortable man who had got in at the +last stop. There was a bit of flying conversation. + +"Where are they from?" asked the good-looking stupid man next to me, +inclining his head in our direction. + +"Londra," said our friend, with stern satisfaction: and they have said +so often to one another that London is the greatest city in the world, +that now the very word Londra conveys it all. You should have seen the +blank little-boy look come over the face of the big handsome fellow on +hearing that we were citizens of the greatest city in the world. + +"And they understand Italian?" he asked, rather nipped. + +"Sicuro!" said our friend scornfully. "How shouldn't they?" + +"Ah!" My large neighbour left his mouth open for a few moments. And then +another sort of smile came on to his face. He began to peep at us +sideways from his brown eyes, brightly, and was henceforth itching to +get into conversation with the citizens of the world's mistress-city. +His look of semi-impudence was quite gone, replaced by a look of +ingratiating admiration. + +Now I ask you, is this to be borne? Here I sit, and he talks +half-impudently and patronisingly about me. And here I sit, and he is +glegging at me as if he saw signs of an aureole under my grey hat. All +in ten minutes. And just because, instead of _la Germania_ I turn out to +be _l'Inghilterra_. I might as well be a place on a map, or a piece of +goods with a trade-mark. So little perception of the actual me! so much +going by labels! I now could have kicked him harder. I would have liked +to say I was ten times German, to see the fool change his smirk again. + + * * * * * + +The priest now chimed up, that he had been to America. He had been to +America and hence he dreaded not the crossing from Terranuova di +Sardegna to Civita Vecchia. For he had crossed the great Atlantic. + +Apparently, however, the natives had all heard this song of the raven +before, so he spat largely on the floor. Whereupon the new fat neighbour +asked him was it true that the Catholic Church was now becoming the one +Church in the United States? And the priest said there was no doubt +about it. + + * * * * * + +The hot afternoon wore on. The coast was rather more inhabited, but we +saw practically no villages. The view was rather desolate. From time to +time we stopped at a sordid-looking canteen house. From time to time we +passed natives riding on their ponies, and sometimes there was an +equestrian exhibition as the rough, strong little beasts reared and +travelled rapidly backwards, away from the horrors of our great +automobile. But the male riders sat heavy and unshakeable, with +Sardinian male force. Everybody in the bus laughed, and we passed, +looking back to see the pony still corkscrewing, but in vain, in the +middle of the lonely, grass-bordered high-road. + + * * * * * + +The bus-mate climbed in and out, coming in to sit near us. He was like a +dove which has at last found an olive bough to nest in. And we were the +olive bough in this world of waste waters. Alas, I felt a broken reed. +But he sat so serenely near us, now, like a dog that has found a master. + +The afternoon was declining, the bus pelted on at a great rate. Ahead we +saw the big lump of the island of Tavolara, a magnificient mass of rock +which fascinated me by its splendid, weighty form. It looks like a +headland, for it apparently touches the land. There it rests at the +sea's edge, in this lost afternoon world. Strange how this coast-country +does not belong to our present-day world. As we rushed along we saw +steamers, two steamers, steering south, and one sailing ship coming from +Italy. And instantly, the steamers seemed like our own familiar world. +But still this coast-country was forsaken, forgotten, not included. It +just is not included. + + * * * * * + +How tired one gets of these long, long rides! It seemed we should never +come up to Tavolara. But we did. We came right near to it, and saw the +beach with the waves rippling undisturbed, saw the narrow waters +between the rock-lump and the beach. For now the road was down at +sea-level. And we were not very far from Terranova. Yet all seemed still +forsaken, outside of the world's life. + +The sun was going down, very red and strong, away inland. In the bus all +were silent, subsiding into the pale travel-sleep. We charged along the +flat road, down on a plain now. And dusk was gathering heavily over the +land. + +We saw the high-road curve flat upon the plain. It was the harbour head. +We saw a magic, land-locked harbour, with masts and dark land encircling +a glowing basin. We even saw a steamer lying at the end of a long, thin +bank of land, in the shallow, shining, wide harbour, as if wrecked +there. And this was our steamer. But no, it looked in the powerful glow +of the sunset like some lonely steamer laid up in some land-locked bay +away at Spitzbergen, towards the North Pole: a solemn, mysterious, +blue-landed bay, lost, lost to mankind. + + * * * * * + +Our bus-mate came and told us we were to sit in the bus till the +post-work was done, then we should be driven to the hotel where we could +eat, and then he would accompany us on the town omnibus to the boat. We +need not be on board till eight o'clock: and now it was something after +five. So we sat still while the bus rushed and the road curved and the +view of the weird, land-locked harbour changed, though the bare masts of +ships in a bunch still pricked the upper glow, and the steamer lay away +out, as if wrecked on a sand-bank, and dark, mysterious land with bunchy +hills circled round, dark blue and wintry in a golden after-light, while +the great, shallow-seeming bay of water shone like a mirror. + +In we charged, past a railway, along the flat darkening road into a flat +God-lost town of dark houses, on the marshy bay-head. It felt more like +a settlement than a town. But it was Terranova-Pausanias. And after +bumping and rattling down a sombre uncouth, barren-seeming street, we +came up with a jerk at a doorway--which was the post-office. Urchins, +mudlarks, were screaming for the luggage. Everybody got out and set off +towards the sea, the urchins carrying luggage. We sat still. + + * * * * * + +Till I couldn't bear it. I did not want to stay in the automobile +another moment, and I did not, I did not want to be accompanied by our +new-found friend to the steamer. So I burst out, and the q-b followed. +She too was relieved to escape the new attachment, though she had a +great _tendre_ for him. But in the end one runs away from one's +_tendres_ much harder and more precipitately than from one's _durs_. + +The mudlarking urchins fell upon us. Had we any more luggage--were we +going to the steamer? I asked how one went to the steamer--did one walk? +I thought perhaps it would be necessary to row out. You go on foot, or +in a carriage, or in an aeroplane, said an impudent brat. How far? Ten +minutes. Could one go on board at once? Yes, certainly. + +So, in spite of the q-b's protests, I handed the sack to a wicked +urchin, to be led. She wanted us to go alone--but I did not know the +way, and am wary of stumbling into entanglements in these parts. + +I told the bus-Hamlet, who was abstract with nerve fatigue, please to +tell his comrade that I would not forget the commission: and I tapped my +waistcoat pocket, where the paper lay over my heart. He briefly +promised--and we escaped. We escaped any further friendship. + + * * * * * + +I bade the mud-lark lead me to the telegraph office: which of course was +quite remote from the post-office. Shouldering the sack, and clamouring +for the kitchenino which the q-b stuck to, he marched forward. By his +height he was ten years old: by his face with its evil mud-lark pallor +and good-looks, he was forty. He wore a cut-down soldier's tunic which +came nearly to his knees, was barefoot, and sprightly with that alert +mudlarking quickness which has its advantages. + +So we went down a passage and climbed a stair and came to an office +where one would expect to register births and deaths. But the urchin +said it was the telegraph-office. No sign of life. Peering through the +wicket I saw a fat individual seated writing in the distance. Feeble +lights relieved the big, barren, official spaces--I wonder the fat +official wasn't afraid to be up here alone. + +He made no move. I banged the shutter and demanded a telegraph blank. +His shoulders went up to his ears, and he plainly intimated his +intention to let us wait. But I said loudly to the urchin: "Is _that_ +the telegraph official?" and the urchin said: "Si signore"--so the fat +individual had to come. + + * * * * * + +After which considerable delay, we set off again. The bus, thank heaven, +had gone, the savage dark street was empty of friends. We turned away to +the harbour front. It was dark now. I saw a railway near at hand--a +bunch of dark masts--the steamer showing a few lights, far down at the +tip of a long spit of land, remote in mid-harbour. And so off we went, +the barefoot urchin twinkling a few yards ahead, on the road that +followed the spit of land. The spit was wide enough to carry this road, +and the railway. On the right was a silent house apparently built on +piles in the harbour. Away far down in front leaned our glimmering +steamer, and a little train was shunting trucks among the low sheds +beside it. Night had fallen, and the great stars flashed. Orion was in +the air, and his dog-star after him. We followed on down the dark bar +between the silent, lustrous water. The harbour was smooth as glass, and +gleaming like a mirror. Hills came round encircling it entirely--dark +land ridging up and lying away out, even to seaward. One was not sure +which was exactly seaward. The dark encircling of the land seemed +stealthy, the hills had a remoteness, guarding the waters in the +silence. Perhaps the great mass away beyond was Tavolara again. It +seemed like some lumpish berg guarding an arctic, locked-up bay where +ships lay dead. + +[Illustration: TERRANOVA] + +On and on we followed the urchin, till the town was left behind, until +it also twinkled a few meagre lights out of its low, confused blackness +at the bay-head, across the waters. We lad left the ship-masts and the +settlement. The urchin padded on, only turning now and again and +extending a thin, eager hand toward the kitchenino. Especially when some +men were advancing down the railway he wanted it: the q-b's carrying +it was a slur on his prowess. So the kitchenino was relinquished, and +the lark strode on satisfied. + + * * * * * + +Till at last we came to the low sheds that squatted between the steamer +and the railway-end. The lark led me into one, where a red-cap was +writing. The cap let me wait some minutes before informing me that this +was the goods office--the ticket office was further on. The lark flew at +him and said "Then you've changed it, have you?" And he led me on to +another shed, which was just going to shut up. Here they finally had the +condescension to give me two tickets--a hundred and fifty francs the +two. So we followed the lark who strode like Scipio Africanus up the +gangway with the sack. + + * * * * * + +It was quite a small ship. The steward put me in number one cabin--the +q-b in number seven. Each cabin had four berths. Consequently man and +woman must separate rigorously on this ship. Here was a blow for the +q-b, who knows what Italian female fellow-passengers can be. However, +there we were. All the cabins were down below, and all, for some +mysterious reason, inside--no portholes outside. It was hot and close +down below already. I pitched the sack on my berth, and there stood the +lark on the red carpet at the door. + +I gave him three francs. He looked at it as if it were my death-warrant. +He peered at the paper in the light of the lamp. Then he extended his +arm with a gesture of superb insolence, flinging me back my gold without +a word. + +"How!" said I. "Three francs are quite enough." + +"Three francs--two kilometers--and three pieces of luggage! No signore. +No! Five francs. Cinque franchi!" And averting his pallid, old +mudlarking face, and flinging his hand out at me, he stood the image of +indignant repudiation. And truly, he was no taller than my upper +waistcoat pocket. The brat! The brat! He was such an actor, and so +impudent, that I wavered between wonder and amusement and a great +inclination to kick him up the steps. I decided not to waste my energy +being angry. + +"What a beastly little boy! What a horrid little boy! What a _horrid_ +little boy! Really--a little thief. A little swindler!" I mused aloud. + +"Swindler!" he quavered after me. And he was beaten. "Swindler" doubled +him up: that and the quiet mildness of my tone of invocation. Now he +would have gone with his three francs. And now, in final contempt, I +gave him the other two. + +He disappeared like a streak of lightning up the gangway, terrified lest +the steward should come and catch him at his tricks. For later on I saw +the steward send other larks flying for demanding more than one-fifty. +The brat. + + * * * * * + +The question was now the cabin: for the q-b simply refused to entertain +the idea of sharing a cabin with three Italian women, who would all be +sick simply for the fuss of it, though the sea was smooth as glass. We +hunted up the steward. He said all the first-class cabins had four +berths--the second had three, but much smaller. How that was possible I +don't know. However, if no one came, he would give us a cabin to +ourselves. + +The ship was clean and civilised, though very poky. And there we were. + + * * * * * + +We went on deck. Would we eat on board, asked another person. No, we +wouldn't. We went out to a fourth little shed, which was a refreshment +stall, and bought bread and sardines and chocolate and apples. Then we +went on the upper deck to make our meal. In a sheltered place I lit the +spirit lamp, and put on water to boil. The water we had taken from the +cabin. Then we sat down alone in the darkness, on a seat which had its +back against the deck cabins, now appropriated by the staff. A thin, +cold wind was travelling. We wrapped the one plaid round us both and +snugged together, waiting for the tea to boil. I could just see the +point of the spirit-flame licking up, from where we sat. + + * * * * * + +The stars were marvellous in the soundless sky, so big, that one could +see them hanging orb-like and alone in their own space, yet all the +myriads. Particularly bright the evening-star. And he hung flashing in +the lower night with a power that made me hold my breath. Grand and +powerful he sent out his flashes, so sparkling that he seemed more +intense than any sun or moon. And from the dark, uprising land he sent +his way of light to us across the water, a marvellous star-road. So all +above us the stars soared and pulsed, over that silent, night-dark, +land-locked harbour. + + * * * * * + +After a long time the water boiled, and we drank our hot tea and ate our +sardines and bread and bits of remaining Nuoro sausage, sitting there +alone in the intense starry darkness of that upper deck. I said alone: +but no, two ghoulish ship's cats came howling at us for the bits. And +even when everything was eaten, and the sardine-tin thrown in the sea, +still they circled and prowled and howled. + +We sat on, resting under the magnificent deep heavens, wrapped together +in the old shepherd's shawl for which I have blessed so often a Scottish +friend, half sheltered from the cold night wind, and recovering somewhat +from the sixty miles bus-ride we had done that day. + +As yet there was nobody on the ship--we were the very first, at least in +the first class. Above, all was silent and deserted. Below, all was +lit-up and deserted. But it was a little ship, with accommodation for +some thirty first-class and forty second-class passengers. + +In the low deck forward stood two rows of cattle--eighteen cattle. They +stood tied up side by side, and quite motionless, as if stupefied. Only +two had lain down. The rest stood motionless, with tails dropped and +heads dropped, as if drugged or gone insensible. These cattle on the +ship fascinated the q-b. She insisted on going down to them, and +examining them minutely. But there they were--stiff almost as Noah's Ark +cows. What she could not understand was that they neither cried nor +struggled. Motionless--terribly motionless. In her idea cattle are wild +and indomitable creatures. She will not realise the horrid strength of +passivity and inertia which is almost the preponderant force in +domesticated creatures, men and beast alike. There are fowls too in +various coops--flappy and agitated these. + + * * * * * + +At last, at about half past seven the train from the island arrived, and +the people surged out in a mass. We stood hanging over the end of the +upper deck, looking down. On they poured, in a thick mass, up the +gangway, with all conceivable sorts of luggage: bundles, embroidered +carry-alls, bags, saddle-bags--the q-b lamenting she had not bought +one--a sudden surging mass of people and goods. There are soldiers +too--but these are lined upon the bit of a quay, to wait. + +Our interest is to see whether there will be any more first-class +passengers. Coming up the wide board which serves as gangway each +individual hands a ticket to the man at the top, and is shooed away to +his own region--usually second class. There are three sorts of +tickets--green first-class, white second, and pink third. The +second-class passengers go aft, the third class go forward, along the +passage past our cabins, into the steerage. And so we watch and watch +the excited people come on board and divide. Nearly all are +second-class--and a great many are women. We have seen a few first-class +men. But as yet no women. And every hat with ospreys gives the q-b a +qualm. + +For a long time we are safe. The women flood to the second-class. One +who is third, begs and beseeches to go with her friends in the second. I +am glad to say without success. And then, alas, an elderly man with a +daughter, first-class. They are very respectable and pleasant looking. +But the q-b wails: "I'm sure she will be sick." + + * * * * * + +Towards the end come three convicts, chained together. They wear the +brownish striped homespun, and do not look evil. They seem to be +laughing together, not at all in distress. The two young soldiers who +guard them, and who have guns, look nervous. So the convicts go forward +to the steerage, past our cabins. + + * * * * * + +At last the soldiers are straightened up, and turned on board. There +almost at once they start making a tent: drawing a huge tarpaulin over a +cross rope in the mid-deck below us, between the first and second class +regions. The great tarpaulin is pulled down well on either side and +fastened down, and it makes a big dark tent. The soldiers creep in and +place their bundles. + +And now it is the soldiers who fascinate the q-b. She hangs over the bar +above, and peers in. The soldiers arrange themselves in two rows. They +will sleep with their heads on their bundles on either side of the tent, +the two rows of feet coming together inwards. But first they must eat, +for it is eight o'clock and more. + +Out come their suppers: a whole roast fowl, hunks of kid, legs of lamb, +huge breads. The fowl is dismembered with a jack-knife in a twinkling, +and shared. Everything among the soldiers is shared. There they sit in +their pent-house with its open ends, crowded together and happy, chewing +with all their might and clapping one another on the shoulder lovingly, +and taking swigs at the wine bottles. We envy them their good food. + + * * * * * + +At last all are on board--the omnibus has driven up from town and gone +back. A last young lout dashes up in a carriage and scuffles aboard. The +crew begins to run about. The quay-porters have trotted on board with +the last bales and packages--all is stowed safely. The steamer hoots and +hoots. Two men and a girl kiss their friends all round and get off the +ship. The night re-echoes the steamer's hoots. The sheds have gone all +dark. Far off the town twinkles very sparsely. All is night-deserted. +And so the gangway is hauled up, and the rope hawsers quickly wound in. +We are drifting away from the quay side. The few watchers wave their +white handkerchiefs, standing diminutive and forlorn on the dark little +quay, in the heart of the dark, deserted harbour. One woman cries and +waves and weeps. A man makes exaggerated flag-wagging signals with his +white handky, and feels important. We drift--and the engines begin to +beat. We are moving in the land-locked harbour. + + * * * * * + +Everybody watches. The commander and the crew shout orders. And so, very +slowly, and without any fuss at all, like a man wheeling a barrow out of +a yard gate, we throb very slowly out of the harbour, past one point, +then past another, away from the encircling hills, away from the great +lump of Tavolara which is to southward, away from the outreaching land +to the north, and over the edge of the open sea. + + * * * * * + +And now to try for a cabin to ourselves. I approach the steward. Yes, he +says, he has it in mind. But there are eighty second-class passengers, +in an accommodation space for forty. The transit-controller is now +considering it. Most probably he will transfer some second-class women +to the vacant first-class cabins. If he does not do so, then the steward +will accommodate us. + +I know what this means--this equivocation. We decide not to bother any +more. So we make a tour of the ship--to look at the soldiers, who have +finished eating, sitting yarning to one another, while some are already +stretched out in the shadow, for sleep. Then to look at the cattle, +which stand rooted to the deck--which is now all messy. To look at the +unhappy fowls in their coops. And a peep at the third-class--rather +horrifying. + +And so to bed. Already the other three berths in my cabin are occupied, +the lights are switched off. As I enter I hear one young man tenderly +enquiring of the berth below: "Dost thou feel ill?" "Er--not much--not +much!" says the other faintly. + +Yet the sea is like glass, so smooth. + +I am quickly rolled in my lower berth, where I feel the trembling of the +machine-impelled ship, and hear the creaking of the berth above me as +its occupant rolls over: I listen to the sighs of the others, the wash +of dark water. And so, uneasily, rather hot and very airless, uneasy +with the machine-throbbing and the sighing of my companions, and with a +cock that crows shrilly from one of the coops, imagining the ship's +lights to be dawn, the night goes by. One sleeps--but a bad sleep. If +only there were cold air, not this lower-berth, inside cabin +airlessness. + + + + +VIII. + +BACK. + + +The sea being steady as a level road, nobody succeeded in being +violently sick. My young men rose at dawn--I was not long in following. +It was a gray morning on deck, a gray sea, a gray sky, and a gray, +spider-cloth, unimportant coast of Italy not far away. The q-b joined +me: and quite delighted with her fellow-passenger: such a nice girl, she +said! who, when she let down her ordinary-looking brown hair, it reached +rippling right to her feet! Voila! You never know your luck. + +The cock that had crowed all night crowed again, hoarsely, with a sore +throat. The miserable cattle looked more wearily miserable, but still +were motionless, as sponges that grow at the bottom of the sea. The +convicts were out for air: grinning. Someone told us they were +war-deserters. Considering the light in which these people look on war, +desertion seemed to me the only heroism. But the q-b, brought up in a +military air, gazed upon them as upon men miraculously alive within the +shadow of death. According to her code they had been shot when +re-captured. The soldiers had unslung the tarpaulin, their home for the +night had melted with the darkness, they were mere fragments of gray +transit smoking cigarettes and staring overboard. + +We drew near to Civita Vecchia: the old, mediaeval looking port, with +its castle, and a round fortress-barracks at the entrance. Soldiers +aboard shouted and waved to soldiers on the ramparts. We backed +insignificantly into the rather scrubby, insignificant harbour. And in +five minutes we were out, and walking along the wide, desolate boulevard +to the station. The cab-men looked hard at us: but no doubt owing to the +knapsack, took us for poor Germans. + + * * * * * + +Coffee and milk--and then, only about three-quarters of an hour late, +the train from the north. It is the night express from Turin. There was +plenty of room--so in we got, followed by half a dozen Sardinians. We +found a large, heavy Torinese in the carriage, his eyes dead with +fatigue. It seemed quite a new world on the mainland: and at once one +breathed again the curious suspense that is in the air. Once more I read +the Corriere della Sera from end to end. Once more we knew ourselves in +the real active world, where the air seems like a lively wine +dissolving the pearl of the old order. I hope, dear reader, you like the +metaphor. Yet I cannot forbear repeating how strongly one is sensible of +the solvent property of the atmosphere, suddenly arriving on the +mainland again. And in an hour one changes one's psyche. The human being +is a most curious creature. He thinks he has got one soul, and he has +got dozens. I felt my sound Sardinian soul melting off me, I felt myself +evaporating into the real Italian uncertainty and momentaneity. So I +perused the Corriere whilst the metamorphosis took place. I like Italian +newspapers because they say what they mean, and not merely what is most +convenient to say. We call it naivete--I call it manliness. Italian +newspapers read as if they were written by men, and not by calculating +eunuchs. + + * * * * * + +The train ran very heavily along the Maremma. It began to rain. Then we +stopped at a station where we should not stop--somewhere in the Maremma +country, the invisible sea not far off, the low country cultivated and +yet forlorn. Oh how the Turin man sighed, and wearily shifted his feet +as the train stood meaningless. There it sat--in the rain. Oh express! + +At last on again, till we were winding through the curious long troughs +of the Roman Campagna. There the shepherds minded the sheep: the +slender-footed merino sheep. In Sardinia the merinos were very white and +glistening, so that one thought of the Scriptural "white as wool." And +the black sheep among the flock were very black. But these Campagna were +no longer white, but dingy. And though the wildness of the Campagna is a +real wildness still, it is a historic wildness, familiar in its way as a +fireside is familiar. + +So we approach the hopeless sprawling of modern Rome--over the yellow +Tiber, past the famous pyramid tomb, skirting the walls of the city, +till at last we plunge in, into the well-known station, out of all the +chaos. + +We are late. It is a quarter to twelve. And I have to go out and change +money, and I hope to find my two friends.--The q-b and I dash down the +platform--no friends at the barrier. The station moderately empty. We +bolt across to the departure platforms. The Naples train stands ready. +In we pitch our bags, ask a naval man not to let anyone steal them, then +I fly out into town while the q-b buys food and wine at the buffet. + +It no longer rains, and Rome feels as ever--rather holiday-like and not +inclined to care about anything. I get a hundred and three lira for each +pound note: pocket my money at two minutes past twelve, and bolt back, +out of the Piazza delle Terme. Aha, there are the two missing ones, just +descending vaguely from a carriage, the one gazing inquiringly through +his monocle across the tram-lines, the other very tall and alert and +elegant, looking as if he expected us to appear out of the air for his +convenience. + +Which is exactly what happens. We fly into each other's arms. "Oh there +you _are_! Where's the q-b? Why are you here? We've been to the arrival +platform--no _sign_ of you. Of course I only got your wire half an hour +ago. We _flew_ here. Well, how nice to see you.--Oh, let the man +wait.--What, going on at once to Naples? But must you? Oh, but how +flighty you are! Birds of passage _veramente_! Then let us find the q-b, +quick!--And they won't let us on the platform. No, they're not issuing +platform tickets today.--Oh, merely the guests returning from that +Savoy-Bavarian wedding in the north, a few royal Duchesses about. Oh +well, we must try and wangle him." + +At the barrier a woman trying in vain to be let on to the station. But +what a Roman matron can't do, an elegant young Englishman can. So our +two heroes wangle their way in, and fall into the arms of the q-b by the +Naples train. Well, now, tell us all about it! So we rush into a +four-branched candlestick of conversation. In my ear murmurs he of the +monocle about the Sahara--he is back from the Sahara a week ago: the +winter sun in the Sahara! He with the smears of paint on his elegant +trousers is giving the q-b a sketchy outline of his now _grande +passion_. Click goes the exchange, and him of the monocle is detailing +to the q-b his trip to Japan, on which he will start in six weeks' time, +while him of the paint-smears is expatiating on the thrills of the +etching needle, and concocting a plan for a month in Sardinia in May, +with me doing the scribbles and he the pictures. What sort of pictures? +Out flies the name of Goya.--And well now, a general rush into oneness, +and won't they come down to Sicily to us for the almond blossom: in +about ten days' time. Yes they will--wire when the almond blossom is +just stepping on the stage and making its grand bow, and they will come +next day. Somebody has smitten the wheel of a coach two ringing smacks +with a hammer. This is a sign to get in. The q-b is terrified the train +will slip through her fingers. "I'm frightened, I must get in."--"Very +well then! You're sure you have everything you want? Everything? A +fiasco of vino? Oh _two_! All the better! Well then--ten days' time. All +right--quite sure--how nice to have seen you, if only a +_glimpse_.--Yes, yes, poor q-b! Yes, you're quite safe. Good-bye! +Good-bye!" + +The door is shut--we are seated--the train moves out of the station. And +quickly on this route Rome disappears. We are out on the wintry +Campagna, where crops are going. Away on the left we see the Tivoli +hills, and think of the summer that is gone, the heat, the fountains of +the Villa D'Este. The train rolls heavily over the Campagna, towards the +Alban Mounts, homewards. + + * * * * * + +So we fall on our food, and devour the excellent little beef-steaks and +rolls and boiled eggs, apples and oranges and dates, and drink the good +red wine, and wildly discuss plans and the latest news, and are +altogether thrilled about things. So thrilled that we are well away +among the romantic mountains of the south-centre before we realise that +there are other passengers besides ourselves in the carriage. Half the +journey is over. Why, there is the monastery on its high hill! In a wild +moment I suggest we shall get down and spend a night up there at +Montecassino, and see the other friend, the monk who knows so much about +the world, being out of it. But the q-b shudders, thinking of the awful +winter coldness of that massive stone monastery, which has no spark of +heating apparatus. And therefore the plan subsides, and at Cassino +station I only get down to procure coffee and sweet cakes. They always +have good things to eat at Cassino station: in summer, big fresh ices +and fruits and iced water, in winter toothsome sweet cakes which make an +awfully good finish to a meal. + + * * * * * + +I count Cassino half way to Naples. After Cassino the excitement of +being in the north begins quite to evaporate. The southern heaviness +descends upon us. Also the sky begins to darken: and the rain falls. I +think of the night before us, on the sea again. And I am vaguely +troubled lest we may not get a berth. However, we may spend the night in +Naples: or even sit on in this train, which goes forward, all through +the long long night, to the Straits of Messina. We must decide as we +near Naples. + +Half dozing, one becomes aware of the people about one. We are +travelling second class. Opposite is a little, hold-your-own +school-mistressy young person in pince-nez. Next her a hollow-cheeked +white soldier with ribbons on his breast. Then a fat man in a corner. +Then a naval officer of low rank. The naval officer is coming from +Fiume, and is dead with sleep and perhaps mortification. D'Annunzio has +just given up. Two compartments away we hear soldiers singing, martial +still though bruised with fatigue, the D'Annunzio-bragging songs of +Fiume. They are soldiers of the D'Annunzio legion. And one of them, I +hear the sick soldier saying, is very hot and republican still. Private +soldiers are not allowed, with their reduced tickets, to travel on the +express trains. But these legionaries are not penniless: they have paid +the excess and come along. For the moment they are sent to their homes. +And with heads dropping with fatigue, we hear them still defiantly +singing down the carriage for D'Annunzio. + +A regular officer went along--a captain of the Italian, not the Fiume +army. He heard the chants and entered the carriage. The legionaries were +quiet, but they lounged and ignored the entry of the officer. "On your +feet!" he yelled, Italian fashion. The vehemence did it. Reluctantly as +may be, they stood up in the compartment. "Salute!" And though it was +bitter, up went their hands in the salute, whilst he stood and watched +them. And then, very superb, he sauntered away again. They sat down +glowering. Of course they were beaten. Didn't they know it. The men in +our carriage smiled curiously: in slow and futile mockery of both +parties. + +The rain was falling outside, the windows were steamed quite dense, so +that we were shut in from the world. Throughout the length of the +train, which was not very full, could be felt the exhausted weariness +and the dispirited dejection of the poor D'Annunzio legionaries. In the +afternoon silence of the mist-enclosed, half-empty train the snatches of +song broke out again, and faded in sheer dispirited fatigue. We ran on +blindly and heavily. But one young fellow was not to be abashed. He was +well-built, and his thick black hair was brushed up, like a great fluffy +crest upon his head. He came slowly and unabated down the corridor, and +on every big, mist-opaque pane he scrawled with his finger W D'ANNUNZIO +GABRIELE--W D'ANNUNZIO GABRIELE. + +The sick soldier laughed thinly, saying to the schoolmistress: "Oh yes, +they are fine chaps. But it was folly. D'Annunzio is a world poet--a +world wonder--but Fiume was a mistake you know. And these chaps have got +to learn a lesson. They got beyond themselves. Oh, they aren't short of +money. D'Annunzio had wagon-loads of money there in Fiume, and he wasn't +altogether mean with it." The schoolmistress, who was one of the sharp +ones, gave a little disquisition to show _why_ it was a mistake, and +wherein she knew better than the world's poet and wonder. + +It always makes me sick to hear people chewing over newspaper pulp. + +The sick soldier was not a legionary. He had been wounded through the +lung. But it was healed, he said. He lifted the flap of his breast +pocket, and there hung a little silver medal. It was his wound-medal. He +wore it concealed: and over the place of the wound. He and the +schoolmistress looked at one another significantly. + +Then they talked pensions: and soon were on the old topic. The +schoolmistress had her figures pat, as a schoolmistress should. Why, the +ticket-collector, the man who punches one's tickets on the train, now +had twelve thousand Lira a year: twelve thousand Lira. Monstrous! Whilst +a fully-qualified _professore_, a schoolmaster who had been through all +his training and had all his degrees, was given five thousand. Five +thousand for a fully qualified _professore_, and twelve thousand for a +ticket puncher. The soldier agreed, and quoted other figures. But the +railway was the outstanding grievance. Every boy who left school now, +said the schoolmistress, wanted to go on the railway. Oh but--said the +soldier--the train-men--! + + * * * * * + +The naval officer, who collapsed into the most uncanny positions, blind +with sleep, got down at Capua to get into a little train that would +carry him back to his own station, where our train had not stopped. At +Caserta the sick soldier got out. Down the great avenue of trees the +rain was falling. A young man entered. Remained also the schoolmistress +and the stout man. Knowing we had been listening, the schoolmistress +spoke to us about the soldier. Then--she had said she was catching the +night boat for Palermo--I asked her if she thought the ship would be +very full. Oh yes, very full, she said. Why, hers was one of the last +cabin numbers, and she had got her ticket early that morning. The fat +man now joined in. He too was crossing to Palermo. The ship was sure to +be quite full by now. Were we depending on booking berths at the port of +Naples? We were. Whereupon he and the schoolmistress shook their heads +and said it was more than doubtful--nay, it was as good as impossible. +For the boat was the renowned _Citta di Trieste_, that floating palace, +and such was the fame of her gorgeousness that everybody wanted to +travel by her. + +"First and second class alike?" I asked. + +"Oh yes, also first class," replied the school-marm rather spitefully. +So I knew she had a white ticket--second. + +I cursed the _Citta di Trieste_ and her gorgeousness, and looked down my +nose. We had now two alternatives: to spend the night in Naples, or to +sit on all through the night and next morning, and arrive home, with +heaven's aid, in the early afternoon. Though these long-distance trains +think nothing of six hours late. But we were tired already. What we +should be like after another twenty-four hours' sitting, heaven knows. +And yet to struggle for a bed in a Naples hotel this night, in the rain, +all the hotels being at present crammed with foreigners, that was no +rosy prospect. Oh dear! + +However, I was not going to take their discouragement so easily. One has +been had that way before. They love to make the case look desperate. + +Were we English? asked the schoolmistress. We were. Ah, a fine thing to +be English in Italy now. _Why?_--rather tart from me. Because of the +_cambio_, the exchange. You English, with your money exchange, you come +here and buy everything for nothing, you take the best of everything, +and with your money you pay nothing for it. Whereas we poor Italians we +pay heavily for everything at an exaggerated price, and we can have +nothing. Ah, it is all very nice to be English in Italy now. You can +travel, you go to the hotels, you can see everything and buy everything, +and it costs you nothing. What is the exchange today? She whipped it +out. A hundred and four, twenty. + +This she told me to my nose. And the fat man murmured bitterly _gia! +gia!_--ay! ay! Her impertinence and the fat man's quiet bitterness +stirred my bile. Has not this song been sung at me once too often, by +these people? + +You are mistaken, said I to the schoolmistress. We don't by any means +live in Italy for nothing. Even with the exchange at a hundred and +three, we don't live for nothing. We pay, and pay through the nose, for +whatever we have in Italy: and you Italians see that we pay. What! You +put all the tariff you do on foreigners, and then say we live here for +nothing. I tell you I could live in England just as well, on the same +money--perhaps better. Compare the cost of things in England with the +cost here in Italy, and even considering the exchange, Italy costs +nearly as much as England. Some things are cheaper here--the railway +comes a little cheaper, and is infinitely more miserable. Travelling is +usually a misery. But other things, clothes of all sorts, and a good +deal of food is even more expensive here than in England, exchange +considered. + +Oh yes, she said, England had had to bring her prices down this last +fortnight. In her own interests indeed. + +"This last fortnight! This last six months," said I. "Whereas prices +rise every single day here." + +Here a word from the quiet young man who had got in at Caserta. + +"Yes," he said, "yes. I say, every nation pays in its own money, no +matter what the exchange. And it works out about equal." + +But I felt angry. Am I always to have the exchange flung in my teeth, as +if I were a personal thief? But the woman persisted. + +"Ah," she said, "we Italians, we are so nice, we are so good. Noi, siamo +cosi buoni. We are so good-natured. But others, they are not buoni, they +are not good-natured to us." And she nodded her head. And truly, I did +not feel at all good-natured towards her: which she knew. And as for the +Italian good-nature, it forms a sound and unshakeable basis nowadays for +their extortion and self-justification and spite. + + * * * * * + +Darkness was falling over the rich flat plains that lie around Naples, +over the tall uncanny vines with their brown thongs in the intensely +cultivated black earth. It was night by the time we were in that vast +and thievish station. About half-past five. We were not very late. +Should we sit on in our present carriage, and go down in it to the port, +along with the schoolmistress, and risk it? But first look at the coach +which was going on to Sicily. So we got down and ran along the train to +the Syracuse coach. Hubbub, confusion, a wedge in the corridor, and for +sure no room. Certainly no room to lie down a bit. We _could_ not sit +tight for twenty-four hours more. + +So we decided to go to the port--and to walk. Heaven knows when the +railway carriage would be shunted down. Back we went therefore for the +sack, told the schoolmistress our intention. + +"You can but try," she said frostily. + + * * * * * + +So there we are, with the sack over my shoulder and the kitchenino in +the q-b's hand, bursting out of that thrice-damned and annoying station, +and running through the black wet gulf of a Naples night, in a slow +rain. Cabmen look at us. But my sack saved me. I am weary of that +boa-constrictor, a Naples cabman after dark. By day there is +more-or-less a tariff. + +It is about a mile from the station to the quay where the ship lies. We +make our way through the deep, gulf-like streets, over the slippery +black cobbles. The black houses rise massive to a great height on either +side, but the streets are not in this part very narrow. We plunge +forwards in the unearthly half-darkness of this great uncontrolled city. +There are no lights at all from the buildings--only the small electric +lamps of the streets. + +So we emerge on the harbour front, and hurry past the great storehouses +in the rainy night, to where the actual entrances begin. The tram bangs +past us. We scuffle along that pavement-ridge which lies like an isthmus +down the vast black quicksands of that harbour road. One feels peril all +round. But at length we come to a gate by the harbour railway. No, not +that. On to the next iron gate of the railway crossing. And so we run +out past the great sheds and the buildings of the port station, till we +see a ship rearing in front, and the sea all black. But now where is +that little hole where one gets the tickets? We are at the back of +everywhere in this desert jungle of the harbour darkness. + + * * * * * + +A man directs us round the corner--and actually does not demand money. +It is the sack again. So--there, I see the knot of men, soldiers +chiefly, fighting in a bare room round a tiny wicket. I recognise the +place where I have fought before. + +So while the q-b stands guard over sack and bag, I plunge into the fray. +It literally is a fight. Some thirty men all at once want to get at a +tiny wicket in a blank wall. There are no queue-rails, there is no +order: just a hole in a blank wall, and thirty fellows, mostly military, +pressing at it in a mass. But I have done this before. The way is to +insert the thin end of oneself, and without any violence, by deadly +pressure and pertinacity come at the goal. One hand must be kept fast +over the money pocket, and one must be free to clutch the wicket-side +when one gets there. And thus one is ground small in those mills of God, +Demos struggling for tickets. It isn't very nice--so close, so +incomparably crushed. And never for a second must one be off one's guard +for one's watch and money and even hanky. When I first came to Italy +after the war I was robbed twice in three weeks, floating round in the +sweet old innocent confidence in mankind. Since then I have never ceased +to be on my guard. Somehow or other, waking and sleeping one's spirit +must be on its guard nowadays. Which is really what I prefer, now I have +learnt it. Confidence in the goodness of mankind is a very thin +protection indeed. _Integer vitae scelerisque purus_ will do nothing for +you when it comes to humanity, however efficacious it may be with lions +and wolves. Therefore, tight on my guard, like a screw biting into a bit +of wood, I bite my way through that knot of fellows, to the wicket, and +shout for two first-class. The clerk inside ignores me for some time, +serving soldiers. But if you stand like Doomsday you get your way. Two +firsts, says the clerk. Husband and wife, say I, in case there is a +two-berth cabin. Jokes behind. But I get my tickets. Impossible to put +my hand to my pocket. The tickets cost about a hundred and five francs +each. Clutching paper change and the green slips, with a last gasp I get +out of the knot. So--we've done it. As I sort my money and stow away, I +hear another ask for one first-class. Nothing left, says the clerk. So +you see how one must fight. + +I must say for these dense and struggling crowds, they are only intense, +not violent, and not in the least brutal. I always feel a certain +sympathy with the men in them. + + * * * * * + +Bolt through the pouring rain to the ship. And in two minutes we are +aboard. And behold, each of us has a deck cabin, I one to myself, the +q-b to herself next door. Palatial--not a cabin at all, but a proper +little bedroom with a curtained bed under the porthole windows, a +comfortable sofa, chairs, table, carpets, big wash-bowls with silver +taps--a whole _de luxe_. I dropped the sack on the sofa with a gasp, +drew back the yellow curtains of the bed, looked out of the porthole at +the lights of Naples, and sighed with relief. One could wash thoroughly, +refreshingly, and change one's linen. Wonderful! + + * * * * * + +The state-room is like a hotel lounge, many little tables with flowers +and periodicals, arm-chairs, warm carpet, bright but soft lights, and +people sitting about chatting. A loud group of English people in one +corner, very assured: two quiet English ladies: various Italians seeming +quite modest. Here one could sit in peace and rest, pretending to look +at an illustrated magazine. So we rested. After about an hour there +entered a young Englishman and his wife, whom we had seen on our train. +So, at last the coach had been shunted down to the port. Where should we +have been had we waited! + + * * * * * + +The waiters began to flap the white table-cloths and spread the tables +nearest the walls. Dinner would begin at half-past seven, immediately +the boat started. We sat in silence, till eight or nine tables were +spread. Then we let the other people take their choice. After which we +chose a table by ourselves, neither of us wanting company. So we sat +before the plates and the wine-bottles and sighed in the hopes of a +decent meal. Food by the way is not included in the hundred-and-five +francs. + +Alas, we were not to be alone: two young Neapolitans, pleasant, quiet, +blond, or semi-blond. They were well-bred, and evidently of northern +extraction. Afterwards we found out they were jewellers. But I liked +their quiet, gentle manners. The dinner began, and we were through the +soup, when up pranced another young fellow, rather strapping and loud, a +commercial traveller, for sure. He had those cocky assured manners of +one who is not sure of his manners. He had a rather high forehead, and +black hair brushed up in a showy wing, and a large ring on his finger. +Not that a ring signifies anything. Here most of the men wear several, +all massively jewelled. If one believed in all the jewels, why Italy +would be more fabulous than fabled India. But our friend the bounder was +smart, and smelled of cash. Not money, but cash. + +I had an inkling of what to expect when he handed the salt and said in +English "Salt, thenk you." But I ignored the advance. However, he did +not wait long. Through the windows across the room the q-b saw the +lights of the harbour slowly moving. "Oh," she cried, "are we going?" +And also in Italian: "Partiamo?" All watched the lights, the bounder +screwing round. He had one of the fine, bounderish backs. + +"Yes," he said. "We--_going_." + +"Oh," cried she. "Do you speak English?" + +"Ye-es. Some English--I speak." + +As a matter of fact he spoke about forty disconnected words. But his +accent was so good for these forty. He did not speak English, he +imitated an English voice making sounds. And the effect was startling. +He had served on the Italian front with the Scots Guards--so he told us +in Italian. He was Milanese. Oh, he had had a time with the Scots +Guards. Wheesky--eh? Wheesky. + +"Come along _bhoys_!" he shouted. + +And it was such a Scotch voice shouting, so loud-mouthed and actual, I +nearly went under the table. It struck us both like a blow. + +Afterwards he rattled away without misgiving. He was a traveller for a +certain type of machine, and was doing Sicily. Shortly he was going to +England--and he asked largely about first-class hotels. Then he asked +was the q-b French?--Was she Italian?--No, she was German. Ah--German. +And immediately out he came with the German word: "Deutsch! Deutsch, eh? +From Deutschland. Oh yes! Deutschland ueber alles! Ah, I know. No +more--what? Deutschland unter alles now? Deutschland unter alles." And +he bounced on his seat with gratification of the words. Of German as of +English he knew half a dozen phrases. + +"No," said the q-b, "Not Deutschland unter alles. Not for long, +anyhow." + +"How? Not for long? You think so? I think so too," said the bounder. +Then in Italian: "La Germania won't stand under all for long. No, no. At +present it is England ueber alles. _England ueber alles._ But Germany will +rise up again." + +"Of course," said the q-b. "How shouldn't she?" + +"Ah," said the bounder, "while England keeps the money in her pocket, we +shall none of us rise up. Italy won the war, and Germany lost it. And +Italy and Germany they both are down, and England is up. They both are +down, and England is up. England and France. Strange, isn't it? Ah, the +allies. What are the allies for? To keep England up, and France half +way, and Germany and Italy down." + +"Ah, they won't stay down for ever," said the q-b. + +"You think not? Ah! We will see. We will see how England goes on now." + +"England is not going on so marvellously, after all," say I. + +"How not? You mean Ireland?" + +"No, not only Ireland. Industry altogether. England is as near to ruin +as other countries." + +"Ma! With all the money, and we others with no money? How will she be +ruined?" + +"And what good would it be to you if she were?" + +"Oh well--who knows. If England were ruined--" a slow smile of +anticipation spread over his face. How he would love it--how they would +all love it, if England were ruined. That is, the business part of them, +perhaps, would not love it. But the human part would. The human part +fairly licks its lips at the thought of England's ruin. The commercial +part, however, quite violently disclaims the anticipations of the human +part. And there it is. The newspapers chiefly speak with the commercial +voice. But individually, when you are got at in a railway carriage or as +now on a ship, up speaks the human voice, and you know how they love +you. This is no doubt inevitable. When the exchange stands at a hundred +and six men go humanly blind, I suppose, however much they may keep the +commercial eye open. And having gone humanly blind they bump into one's +human self nastily: a nasty jar. You know then how they hate you. +Underneath, they hate us, and as human beings we are objects of envy and +malice. They hate us, with envy, and despise us, with jealousy. Which +perhaps doesn't hurt commercially. Humanly it is to me unpleasant. + +The dinner was over, and the bounder was lavishing cigarettes--Murattis, +if you please. We had all drunk two bottles of wine. Two other +commercial travellers had joined the bounder at our table--two smart +young fellows, one a bounder and one gentle and nice. Our two jewellers +remained quiet, talking their share, but quietly and so sensitively. One +could not help liking them. So we were seven people, six men. + +"Wheesky! Will you drink Wheesky, Mister?" said our original bounder. +"Yes, one small Scotch! One Scotch Wheesky." All this in a perfect +Scotty voice of a man standing at a bar calling for a drink. It was +comical, one could not but laugh: and very impertinent. He called for +the waiter, took him by the button-hole, and with a breast-to-breast +intimacy asked if there was whisky. The waiter, with the same tone of +you-and-I-are-men-who-have-the-same-feelings, said he didn't think there +was whisky, but he would look. Our bounder went round the table inviting +us all to whiskies, and pressing on us his expensive English cigarettes +with great aplomb. + +The whisky came--and five persons partook. It was fiery, oily stuff from +heaven knows where. The bounder rattled away, spouting his bits of +English and his four words of German. He was in high feather, wriggling +his large haunches on his chair and waving his hands. He had a peculiar +manner of wriggling from the bottom of his back, with fussy +self-assertiveness. It was my turn to offer whisky. + +I was able in a moment's lull to peer through the windows and see the +dim lights of Capri--the glimmer of Anacapri up on the black +shadow--the lighthouse. We had passed the island. In the midst of the +babel I sent out a few thoughts to a few people on the island. Then I +had to come back. + +The bounder had once more resumed his theme of l'Inghilterra, l'Italia, +la Germania. He swanked England as hard as he could. Of course England +was the top dog, and if he could speak some English, if he were talking +to English people, and if, as he said, he was going to England in April, +why he was so much the more top-doggy than his companions, who could not +rise to all these heights. At the same time, my nerves had too much to +bear. + +Where were we going and where had we been and where did we live? And ah, +yes, English people lived in Italy. Thousands, thousands of English +people lived in Italy. Yes, it was very nice for them. There used to be +many Germans, but now the Germans were down. But the English--what could +be better for them than Italy now: they had sun, they had warmth, they +had abundance of everything, they had a charming people to deal with, +and they had the _cambio_! Ecco! The other commercial travellers agreed. +They appealed to the q-b if it was not so. And altogether I had enough +of it. + +"Oh yes," said I, "it's very nice to be in Italy: especially if you are +not living in an hotel, and you have to attend to things for yourself. +It is very nice to be overcharged every time, and then insulted if you +say a word. It's very nice to have the _cambio_ thrown in your teeth, if +you say two words to any Italian, even a perfect stranger. It's very +nice to have waiters and shop-people and railway porters sneering in a +bad temper and being insulting in small, mean ways all the time. It's +very nice to feel what they all feel against you. And if you understand +enough Italian, it's very nice to hear what they say when you've gone +by. Oh very nice. Very nice indeed!" + +I suppose the whisky had kindled this outburst in me. They sat dead +silent. And then our bounder began, in his sugary deprecating voice. + +"Why no! Why no! It is not true, signore. No, it is not true. Why, +England is the foremost nation in the world--" + +"And you want to pay her out for it." + +"But no, signore. But no. What makes you say so? Why, we Italians are so +good-natured. Noi Italiani siamo cosi buoni. Siamo cosi buoni." + +It was the identical words of the schoolmistress. + +"Buoni," said I. "Yes--perhaps. Buoni when it's not a question of the +exchange and of money. But since it is always a question of _cambio_ +and _soldi_ now, one is always, in a small way, insulted." + +I suppose it must have been the whisky. Anyhow Italians can never bear +hard bitterness. The jewellers looked distressed, the bounders looked +down their noses, half exulting even now, and half sheepish, being +caught. The third of the _commis voyageurs_, the gentle one, made large +eyes and was terrified that he was going to be sick. He represented a +certain Italian liqueur, and he modestly asked us to take a glass of it. +He went with the waiter to secure the proper brand. So we drank--and it +was good. But he, the giver, sat with large and haunted eyes. Then he +said he would go to bed. Our bounder gave him various advice regarding +seasickness. There was a mild swell on the sea. So he of the liqueur +departed. + + * * * * * + +Our bounder thrummed on the table and hummed something, and asked the +q-b if she knew the _Rosencavalier_. He always appealed to her. She said +she did. And ah, he was passionately fond of music, said he. Then he +warbled, in a head voice, a bit more. He only knew classical music, said +he. And he mewed a bit of Moussorgsky. The q-b said Moussorgsky was her +favourite musician, for opera. Ah, cried the bounder, if there were but +a piano!--There is a piano, said his mate.--Yes, he replied, but it is +locked up.--Then let us get the key, said his mate, with aplomb. The +waiters, being men with the same feelings as our two, would give them +anything. So the key was forthcoming. We paid our bills--mine about +sixty francs. Then we went along the faintly rolling ship, up the curved +staircase to the drawing room. Our bounder unlocked the door of this +drawing room, and switched on the lights. + +It was quite a pleasant room, with deep divans upholstered in pale +colours, and palm-trees standing behind little tables, and a black +upright piano. Our bounder sat on the piano-stool and gave us an +exhibition. He splashed out noise on the piano in splashes, like water +splashing out of a pail. He lifted his head and shook his black mop of +hair, and yelled out some fragments of opera. And he wriggled his large, +bounder's back upon the piano stool, wriggling upon his well-filled +haunches. Evidently he had a great deal of feeling for music: but very +little prowess. He yelped it out, and wriggled, and splashed the piano. +His friend the other bounder, a quiet one in a pale suit, with stout +limbs, older than the wriggler, stood by the piano whilst the young one +exhibited. Across the space of carpet sat the two brother jewellers, +deep in a divan, their lean, semi-blond faces quite inscrutable. The +q-b sat next to me, asking for this and that music, none of which the +wriggler could supply. He knew four scraps, and a few splashes--not +more. The elder bounder stood near him quietly comforting, encouraging, +and admiring him, as a lover encouraging and admiring his _ingenue_ +betrothed. And the q-b sat bright-eyed and excited, admiring that a man +could perform so unself-consciously self-conscious, and give himself +away with such generous wriggles. For my part, as you may guess, I did +not admire. + +I had had enough. Rising, I bowed and marched off. The q-b came after +me. Good-night, said I, at the head of the corridor. She turned in, and +I went round the ship to look at the dark night of the sea. + + * * * * * + +Morning came sunny with pieces of cloud: and the Sicilian coast towering +pale blue in the distance. How wonderful it must have been to Ulysses to +venture into this Mediterranean and open his eyes on all the loveliness +of the tall coasts. How marvellous to steal with his ship into these +magic harbours. There is something eternally morning-glamourous about +these lands as they rise from the sea. And it is always the Odyssey +which comes back to one as one looks at them. All the lovely +morning-wonder of this world, in Homer's day! + +Our bounder was dashing about on deck, in one of those rain-coats +gathered in at the waist and ballooning out into skirts below the waist. +He greeted me with a cry of "It's a long, long way to Tipperary." "Very +long," said I. "Good-bye Piccadilly--" he continued. "Ciao," said I, as +he dashed jauntily down the steps. Soon we saw the others as well. But +it was morning, and I simply did not want to speak to them--except just +Good-day. For my life I couldn't say two more words to any of them this +morning: except to ask the mild one if he had been sick. He had not. + +So we waited for the great _Citta di Trieste_ to float her way into +Palermo harbour. It looked so near--the town there, the great circle of +the port, the mass of the hills crowding round. Panormus, the +All-harbour. I wished the bulky steamer would hurry up. For I hated her +now. I hated her swankiness, she seemed made for commercial travellers +with cash. I hated the big picture that filled one end of the +state-room: an elegant and ideal peasant-girl, a sort of Italia, +strolling on a lovely and ideal cliff's edge, among myriad blooms, and +carrying over her arm, in a most sophisticated fashion, a bough of +almond blossom and a sheaf of anemones. I hated the waiters, and the +cheap elegance, the common _de luxe_. I disliked the people, who all +turned their worst, cash-greasy sides outwards on this ship. Vulgar, +vulgar post-war commercialism and dog-fish money-stink. I longed to get +off. And the bloated boat edged her way so slowly into the port, and +then more slowly still edged round her fat stern. And even then we were +kept for fifteen minutes waiting for someone to put up the gangway for +the first class. The second class, of course, were streaming off and +melting like thawed snow into the crowds of onlookers on the quay, long +before we were allowed to come off. + + * * * * * + +Glad, glad I was to get off that ship: I don't know why, for she was +clean and comfortable and the attendants were perfectly civil. Glad, +glad I was not to share the deck with any more commercial travellers. +Glad I was to be on my own feet, independent. No, I would _not_ take a +carriage. I carried my sack on my back to the hotel, looking with a +jaundiced eye on the lethargic traffic of the harbour front. It was +about nine o'clock. + + * * * * * + +Later on, when I had slept, I thought as I have thought before, the +Italians are not to blame for their spite against us. We, England, have +taken upon ourselves for so long the role of leading nation. And if now, +in the war or after the war, we have led them all into a real old +swinery--which we have, notwithstanding all Entente cant--then they have +a legitimate grudge against us. If you take upon yourself to lead, you +must expect the mud to be thrown at you if you lead into a nasty morass. +Especially if, once in the bog, you think of nothing else but scrambling +out over other poor devils' backs. Pretty behaviour of great nations! + +And still, for all that, I must insist that I am a single human being, +an individual, not a mere national unit, a mere chip of l'Inghilterra or +la Germania. I am not a chip of any nasty old block. I am myself. + + * * * * * + +In the evening the q-b insisted on going to the marionettes, for which +she has a sentimental passion. So the three of us--we were with the +American friend once more--chased through dark and tortuous side-streets +and markets of Palermo in the night, until at last a friendly man led us +to the place. The back streets of Palermo felt friendly, not huge and +rather horrible, like Naples near the port. + +The theatre was a little hole opening simply off the street. There was +no one in the little ticket box, so we walked past the door-screen. A +shabby old man with a long fennel-stalk hurried up and made us places on +the back benches, and hushed us when we spoke of tickets. The play was +in progress. A serpent-dragon was just having a tussle with a knight in +brilliant brass armour, and my heart came into my mouth. The audience +consisted mostly of boys, gazing with frantic interest on the bright +stage. There was a sprinkling of soldiers and elderly men. The place was +packed--about fifty souls crowded on narrow little ribbons of benches, +so close one behind the other that the end of the man in front of me +continually encroached and sat on my knee. I saw on a notice that the +price of entry was forty centimes. + +We had come in towards the end of the performance, and so sat rather +bewildered, unable to follow. The story was the inevitable Paladins of +France--one heard the names _Rinaldo!_ _Orlando!_ again and again. But +the story was told in dialect, hard to follow. + +I was charmed by the figures. The scene was very simple, showing the +interior of a castle. But the figures, which were about two-thirds of +human size, were wonderful in their brilliant, glittering gold armour, +and their martial prancing motions. All were knights--even the daughter +of the king of Babylon. She was distinguished only by her long hair. All +were in the beautiful, glittering armour, with helmets and visors that +could be let down at will. I am told this armour has been handed down +for many generations. It certainly is lovely. One actor alone was not +in armour, the wizard Magicce, or Malvigge, the Merlin of the Paladins. +He was in a long scarlet robe, edged with fur, and wore a three-cornered +scarlet hat. + +So we watched the dragon leap and twist and get the knight by the leg: +and then perish. We watched the knights burst into the castle. We +watched the wonderful armour-clashing embraces of the delivered knights, +Orlando and his bosom friend and the little dwarf, clashing their +armoured breasts to the breasts of their brothers and deliverers. We +watched the would-be tears flow.--And then the statue of the witch +suddenly go up in flames, at which a roar of exultation from the boys. +Then it was over. The theatre was empty in a moment, but the proprietors +and the two men who sat near us would not let us go. We must wait for +the next performance. + +My neighbour, a fat, jolly man, told me all about it. His neighbour, a +handsome tipsy man, kept contradicting and saying it wasn't so. But my +fat neighbour winked at me, not to take offence. + +This story of the Paladins of France lasted three nights. We had come on +the middle night--of course. But no matter--each night was a complete +story. I am sorry I have forgotten the names of the knights. But the +story was, that Orlando and his friend and the little dwarf, owing to +the tricks of that same dwarf, who belonged to the Paladins, had been +captured and immured in the enchanted castle of the ghastly old witch +who lived on the blood of Christians. It was now the business of Rinaldo +and the rest of the Paladins, by the help of Magicce the _good_ wizard, +to release their captured brethren from the ghoulish old witch. + +So much I made out of the fat man's story, while the theatre was +filling. He knew every detail of the whole Paladin cycle. And it is +evident the Paladin cycle has lots of versions. For the handsome tipsy +neighbour kept saying he was wrong, he was wrong, and giving different +stories, and shouting for a jury to come and say who was right, he or my +fat friend. A jury gathered, and a storm began to rise. But the stout +proprietor with a fennel-wand came and quenched the noise, telling the +handsome tipsy man he knew too much and wasn't asked. Whereupon the +tipsy one sulked. + +Ah, said my friend, couldn't I come on Friday. Friday was a great night. +On Friday they were giving I Beati Paoli: The Blessed Pauls. He pointed +to the walls where were the placards announcing The Blessed Pauls. These +Pauls were evidently some awful secret society with masking hoods and +daggers and awful eyes looking through the holes. I said were they +assassins like the Black Hand. By no means, by no means. The Blessed +Pauls were a society for the protection of the poor. Their business was +to track down and murder the oppressive rich. Ah, they were a wonderful, +a splendid society. Were they, said I, a sort of camorra? Ah, on the +contrary--here he lapsed into a tense voice--they hated the camorra. +These, the Blest Pauls, were the powerful and terrible enemy of the +grand camorra. For the Grand Camorra oppresses the poor. And therefore +the Pauls track down in secret the leaders of the Grand Camorra, and +assassinate them, or bring them to the fearful hooded tribunal which +utters the dread verdict of the Beati Paoli. And when once the Beati +Paoli have decreed a man's death--all over. Ah bellissimo, bellissimo! +Why don't I come on Friday? + +It seems to me a queer moral for the urchins thick-packed and gazing at +the drop scene. They are all males: urchins or men. I ask my fat friend +why there are no women--no girls. Ah, he says, the theatre is so small. +But, I say, if there is room for all the boys and men, there is the same +room for girls and women. Oh no--not in this small theatre. Besides this +is nothing for women. Not that there is anything improper, he hastens to +add. Not at all. But what should women and girls be doing at the +marionette show? It was an affair for males. + +I agreed with him really, and was thankful we hadn't a lot of smirking +twitching girls and lasses in the audience. This male audience was so +tense and pure in its attention. + +But hist! the play is going to begin. A lad is grinding a broken +street-piano under the stage. The padrone yells _Silenzio!_ with a roar, +and reaching over, pokes obstreperous boys with his long fennel-stalk, +like a beadle in church. When the curtain rises the piano stops, and +there is dead silence. On swings a knight, glittering, marching with +that curious hippety lilt, and gazing round with fixed and martial eyes. +He begins the prologue, telling us where we are. And dramatically he +waves his sword and stamps his foot, and wonderfully sounds his male, +martial, rather husky voice. Then the Paladins, his companions who are +to accompany him, swing one by one onto the stage, till they are five in +all, handsome knights, including the Babylonian Princess and the Knight +of Britain. They stand in a handsome, glittering line. And then comes +Merlin in his red robe. Merlin has a bright, fair, rather chubby face +and blue eyes, and seems to typify the northern intelligence. He now +tells them, in many words, how to proceed and what is to be done. + +So then, the glittering knights are ready. Are they ready? Rinaldo +flourishes his sword with the wonderful cry "Andiamo!" let us go--and +the others respond: "Andiamo". Splendid word. + +The first enemy were the knights of Spain, in red kirtles and half +turbans. With these a terrible fight. First of all rushes in the Knight +of Britain. He is the boaster, who always in words, does everything. But +in fact, poor knight of Britain, he falls lamed. The four Paladins have +stood shoulder to shoulder, glittering, watching the fray. Forth now +steps another knight, and the fight recommences. Terrible is the +smacking of swords, terrible the gasps from behind the dropped visors. +Till at last the knight of Spain falls--and the Paladin stands with his +foot on the dead. Then loud acclamations from the Paladins, and yells of +joy from the audience. + +"_Silenzio!_" yells the padrone, flourishing the fennel-stalk. + +Dead silence, and the story goes on. The Knight of Britain of course +claims to have slain the foe: and the audience faintly, jeeringly +hisses. "He's always the boaster, and he never does anything, the Knight +of Britain," whispers my fat friend. He has forgotten my nationality. I +wonder if the Knight of Britain is pure tradition, or if a political +touch of today has crept in. + +However, this fray is over--Merlin comes to advise for the next move. +And are we ready? We are ready. _Andiamo!_ Again the word is yelled out, +and they set off. At first one is all engaged watching the figures: +their brilliance, their blank, martial stare, their sudden, angular, +gestures. There is something extremely suggestive in them. How much +better they fit the old legend-tales than living people would do. Nay, +if we are going to have human beings on the stage, they should be masked +and disguised. For in fact drama is enacted by symbolic creatures formed +out of human consciousness: puppets if you like: but not human +_individuals_. Our stage is all wrong, so boring in its personality. + +Gradually, however, I found that my eyes were of minor importance. +Gradually it was the voice that gained hold of the blood. It is a +strong, rather husky, male voice that acts direct on the blood, not on +the mind. Again the old male Adam began to stir at the roots of my soul. +Again the old, first-hand indifference, the rich, untamed male blood +rocked down my veins. What does one care? What does one care for precept +and mental dictation? Is there not the massive brilliant, out-flinging +recklessness in the male soul, summed up in the sudden word: _Andiamo!_ +Andiamo! Let us go on. Andiamo!--let us go hell knows where, but let us +go on. The splendid recklessness and passion that knows no precept and +no school-teacher, whose very molten spontaneity is its own guide. + +I loved the voices of the Paladins--Rinaldo's voice, and Orlando's +voice: the voice of men once more, men who are not to be tutored. To be +sure there was Merlin making his long speeches in rather a chuntering, +prosy tone. But who was he? Was he a Paladin and a splendour? Not he. A +long-gowned chunterer. It is the reckless blood which achieves all, the +piff-piff-piffing of the mental and moral intelligence is but a +subsidiary help, a mere instrument. + +The dragon was splendid: I have seen dragons in Wagner, at Covent Garden +and at the Prinz-Regenten Theater in Munich, and they were ridiculous. +But this dragon simply frightened me, with his leaping and twisting. And +when he seized the knight by the leg, my blood ran cold. + +With smoke and sulphur leaps in Beelzebub. But he is merely the servant +of the great old witch. He is black and grinning, and he flourishes his +posterior and his tail. But he is curiously inefficacious: a sort of +lackey of wicked powers. + +The old witch with her grey hair and staring eyes succeeds in being +ghastly. With just a touch, she would be a tall, benevolent old lady. +But listen to her. Hear her horrible female voice with its scraping +yells of evil lustfulness. Yes, she fills me with horror. And I am +staggered to find how I believe in her as _the_ evil principle. +Beelzebub, poor devil, is only one of her instruments. + +It is her old, horrible, grinning female soul which locks up the heroes, +and which sends forth the awful and almost omnipotent malevolence. This +old, ghastly woman-spirit is the very core of mischief. And I felt my +heart getting as hot against her as the hearts of the lads in the +audience were. Red, deep hate I felt of that symbolic old ghoul-female. +Poor male Beelzebub is her loutish slave. And it takes all Merlin's +bright-faced intelligence, and all the surging hot urgency of the +Paladins, to conquer her. + +She will never be finally destroyed--she will never finally die, till +her statue, which is immured in the vaults of the castle, is +burned.--Oh, it was a very psychoanalytic performance altogether, and +one could give a very good Freudian analysis of it.--But behold this +image of the witch: this white, submerged _idea_ of woman which rules +from the deeps of the unconscious. Behold, the reckless, untamable male +knights will do for it. As the statue goes up in flame--it is only +paper over wires--the audience yells! And yells again. And would God the +symbolic act were really achieved. It is only little boys who yell. Men +merely smile at the trick. They know well enough the white image +endures. + +So it is over. The knights look at us once more. Orlando, hero of +heroes, has a slight inward cast of the eyes. This gives him that look +of almost fierce good-nature which these people adore: the look of a man +who does not think, but whose heart is all the time red hot with +burning, generous blood-passion. This is what they adore. + +So my knights go. They all have wonderful faces, and are so splendidly +glittering and male. I am sorry they will be laid in a box now. + +There is a great gasp of relief. The piano starts its lame rattle. +Somebody looking round laughs. And we all look round. And seated on the +top of the ticket office is a fat, solemn urchin of two or three years, +hands folded over his stomach, his forehead big and blank, like some +queer little Buddha. The audience laughs with that southern sympathy: +physical sympathy: that is what they love to feel and to arouse. + +But there is a little after-scene: in front of the drop-curtain jerks +out a little fat flat caricature of a Neapolitan, and from the opposite +side jerks the tall caricature of a Sicilian. They jerk towards one +another and bump into one another with a smack. And smack goes the +Neapolitan, down on his posterior. And the boys howl with joy. It is the +eternal collision between the two peoples, Neapolitan and Sicilian. Now +goes on a lot of fooling between the two clowns, in the two dialects. +Alas, I can hardly understand anything at all. But it sounds comic, and +looks very funny. The Neapolitan of course gets most of the knocks. And +there seems to be no indecency at all--unless once.--The boys howl and +rock with joy, and no one says Silenzio! + +But it is over. All is over. The theatre empties in a moment. And I +shake hands with my fat neighbour, affectionately, and in the right +spirit. Truly I loved them all in the theatre: the generous, hot +southern blood, so subtle and spontaneous, that asks for blood contact, +not for mental communion or spirit sympathy. I was sorry to leave them. + + +FINIS. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Sea and Sardinia, by D. H. Lawrence + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SEA AND SARDINIA *** + +***** This file should be named 37206.txt or 37206.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/7/2/0/37206/ + +Produced by Charlene Taylor, Mary Meehan and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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