This will never do. If it is a question of going to
ruin, We prefer that it should be the bears rather than Ourselves. We
must withdraw Our Royal protection, after settling up these last items.
What say you, my good Minister?"
"Your Majesty is always right. A private individual may indulge in the
pastime of breeding bears to the verge of personal bankruptcy. Ruling
sovereigns will be guided by juster and more complex considerations."
And from that moment, added our gentlemanly informant, there began a
wonderful shrinkage in the numbers of the bears. Within a day or two,
they were again reduced to a single couple.
Gladly would I have listened to more of these tales but, having by far
the worst of the day's walk still before us, we left the stricken
regions about midday and soon began an interminable ascent, all through
woods, to the shrine of Madonna di Tranquillo. Hereabouts is the
watershed, whence you may see, far below, the tower of Campoli Apennino.
That village was passed in due course, and Sora lay before us, after a
thirteen hours' march....
That same night in Sora - it may have been 2 a.m. - some demon drew nigh
to my bedside and whispered in my ear: "What are you doing here, at
Sora? Why not revisit Alatri? (I had been there already in June.) Just
another little promenade! Up, sluggard, while the night-air is cool!"
I obeyed the summons and turned to rouse my slumbering companion, to
whom I announced my inspiration. His remarks, on that occasion, were
well worth listening to.
Next evening found us at Alatri.
Now whoever, after walking from Scanno over Pescasseroli to Sora in one
day, and on the next, in the blazing heat of early autumn, from Sora
over Isola Liri and Veroli to Alatri - touching in two days the soil of
three Italian provinces: Aquila, Caserta, and Rome - whoever, after doing
this, and inspecting the convent of Casamari en route, feels inclined
for a similar promenade on the third day: let him rest assured of my
profound respect.
Calm, sunny days at Olevano. And tranquil nights, for some time past.
The nightingale has been inspired to move a little up country, into
another bush. Its rivals have likewise retired further off, and their
melodramatic trills sound quite pleasant at this distance.
So tin cans have their uses, even when empty. Certain building
operations may have been interrupted. I apologise, though I will not
promise not to repeat the offence. They can move their nests; I cannot
move this house. Bless their souls! I would not hurt a hair on their
dear little heads, but one must really have a few hours' sleep, somehow
or other. A single night's repose is more precious to me than a myriad
birds or quadrupeds or bipeds; my ideas on the sacred nature of sleep
being perfectly Oriental. That Black Hole of Calcutta was an infamous
business. And yet, while nowise approving the tyrant's action, I can
thoroughly understand his instructions on the subject of slumber.
Not every one at Olevano is so callous. Waiting the other day at the
bifurcation of the roads for the arrival of the station motor-car - the
social event of the place - I noticed two children bringing up to a
bigger one the nest of a chaffinch, artfully frosted over with silver
lichen from some olive, and containing a naked brood which sprawled
pathetically within. Wasn't it pretty, they asked?
"Very pretty," he replied. "Now you will take it straight back where you
found it. Go ahead. I am coming with you." And he marched them off.
I am glad to put this incident on record. It is the second of its kind
which I have observed in this country, the first being when a fisherman
climbed up a bad piece of rock to replace a nest - idle undertaking -
which some boys had dislodged with stones. At a short distance from
the scene sat the mother-bird in pensive mood, her head cocked on one
side. What did she think of the benevolent enthusiast?...
Olevano is said to have been discovered by the Germans. I am sceptical
on this point, having never yet found a place that was discovered by
them. An English eccentric or two is sure to have lived and died here
all by himself; though doubtless, once on the spot, they did their best
to popularise and vulgarise it. In this matter, as in art or science or
every department of life, a German requires forerunners. He must follow
footsteps. He gleans; picks the brains of other people, profits by their
mistakes and improves on their ideas.
I know nothing of the social history of Olevano - of its origin, so far
as foreigners are concerned. It is the easiest and the flimsiest thing
in the world to invent; there are so many analogies!
The first foreign resident of Olevano was a retired Anglo-Indian army
officer with unblemished record, Major Frederick Potter. He came across
the place on a trip from Rome, and took a fancy to it. Decent climate.
Passable food. You could pick up a woodcock or two. He was accustomed to
solitude anyhow, all his old friends being dead or buried, or scattered
about the world. He had tried England for a couple of years and
discovered that people there did not like being ordered about as they
should be; they seemed to mind it less, at Olevano. He had always been
something of a pioneer, and the mere fact of being the first "white man"
in the place gave him a kind of fondness for it.
It was he, then, who discovered Olevano - Freddy Potter. We can see him
living alone, wiry and whiskered and cantankerous, glorying in his
solitude up to the fateful day when, to his infinite annoyance, a
fellow-countryman turns up - Mr. Augustus Browne of London. Mr. Browne is
a blameless personality who, enjoying indifferent health, brings an
equally blameless old housekeeper with him.
