The landlady watched me devouring this fare, more astonished than
ever - indeed, astonishment seemed to be her chronic condition so long as
I was under her roof. But the promised bread was not forthcoming, for
the simple reason that there was none in the house. She had said that
she could procure it for me, not that she possessed it; now, since I had
given no orders to that effect, she had not troubled about it.
Nobody travels south of Rome. . . .
Strengthened beyond expectation by this repast, I sallied into the night
once more, and first of all attended an excellent performance at the
local cinematograph. After that, I was invited to a cup of coffee by
certain burghers, and we strolled about the piazza awhile, taking our
pleasure in the cool air of evening (the town lies 794 metres above
sea-level). Its streets are orderly and clean; there are no Albanians,
and no costumes of any kind. Here, firm-planted on the square, and
jutting at an angle from the body of the church, stands a massive
bell-tower overgrown from head to foot with pendent weeds and grasses
whose roots have found a home in the interstices of its masonry; a
grimly venerable pile, full of character.
Weary but not yet satiated, I took leave of the citizens and
perambulated the more ignoble quarters, all of which are decently
lighted with electricity. Everywhere in these stiller regions was the
sound of running waters, and I soon discerned that Longobucco is an
improvement on the usual site affected by Calabrian hill-towns - the
Y-shaped enclosure, namely, at the junction of two rivers - inasmuch as
it has contrived to perch itself on a lofty platform protected by no
less than three streams that rush impetuously under its walls: the
Trionto and two of its affluents. On the flank inclined towards the
Ionian there is a veritable chasm; the Trionto side is equally difficult
of approach - the rear, of course, inaccessible. No wonder the brigands
chose it for their chief citadel.
I am always on the look-out for modern epigraphical curiosities;
regarding the subject as one of profound social significance (postage
stamps, indeed!) I have assiduously formed a collection, the envy of
connaisseurs, about one-third of whose material, they tell me, might
possibly be printed at Brussels or Geneva. Well, here is a mural
graffito secured in the course of this evening's walk:
Abaso [sic] questo paese sporco incivile: down with this dirty savage
country!
There is food for thought in this inscription. For if some bilious
hyper-civilized stranger were its author, the sentiments might pass. But
coming from a native, to what depths of morbid discontent do they
testify!
