I shall never see them. Spring hesitates to smile
upon these chill uplands; we are still in the grip of winter -
Aut aquilonibus
Querceti Gargani laborent
Et foliis viduantur orni -
so sang old Horace, of Garganian winds. I scanned the horizon, seeking
for his Mount Vulture, but all that region was enshrouded in a grey
curtain of vapour; only the Stagno Salso - a salt mere wherein Candelaro
forgets his mephitic waters - shone with a steady glow, like a sheet of
polished lead.
Soon the rain fell once more and drove me to seek refuge among the
houses, where I glimpsed the familiar figure of my coachman, sitting
disconsolately under a porch. He looked up and remarked (for want of
something better to say) that he had been searching for me all over the
town, fearing that some mischief might have happened to me. I was
touched by these words; touched, that is, by his child-like simplicity
in imagining that he could bring me to believe a statement of such
radiant improbability; so touched, that I pressed a franc into his
reluctant palm and bade him buy with it something to eat. A whole franc.
. . . Aha! he doubtless thought, my theory of the gentleman:
