Here I Would Stay For The Night, At All Events; If The
Weather Cleared, I Might Be Glad To Remain For Two Or Three Days.
Certainly The Rain Was Stopping; The Wind No Longer Howled.
Up we
went towards those ragged walls and great, vacant windows.
We
reached the summit; for two minutes the horses trotted; then a
sudden halt, and my lad's face at the carriage door.
"Ecco l'albergo, Signore!"
I jumped out. We were at the entrance to an unpaved street of
squalid hovels, a street which the rain had converted into a muddy
river, so that, on quitting the vehicle, I stepped into running
water up to my ankles. Before me was a long low cabin, with a row of
four or five windows and no upper storey; a miserable hut of rubble
and plaster, stained with ancient dirt and, at this moment, looking
soaked with moisture. Above the doorway I read "Osteria Centrale";
on the bare end of the house was the prouder inscription, "Albergo
Nazionale" - the National Hotel. I am sorry to say that at the time
this touch of humour made no appeal to me; my position was no
laughing matter. Faint with hunger, I saw at once that I should have
to browse on fearsome food. I saw, too, that there was scarce a
possibility of passing the night in this place; I must drive down to
the sea-shore, and take my chance of a train which would bring me at
some time to Reggio. While I thus reflected - the water rushing
over my boots - a very ill-looking man came forth and began to
stare curiously at me. I met his eye, but he offered no greeting. A
woman joined him, and the two, quite passive, waited to discover my
intentions.
Eat I must, so I stepped forward and asked if I could have a meal.
Without stirring, the man gave a sullen assent. Could I have food at
once? Yes, in a few minutes. Would they show me - the dining room?
Man and woman turned upon their heels, and I followed. The entrance
led into a filthy kitchen; out of this I turned to the right, went
along a passage upon which opened certain chamber doors, and was
conducted into a room at the end - for the nonce, a dining-room,
but at ordinary times a bedroom. Evidently the kitchen served for
native guests; as a foreigner I was treated with more ceremony. Left
alone till my meal should be ready, I examined the surroundings. The
floor was of worn stone, which looked to me like the natural
foundation of the house; the walls were rudely plastered, cracked,
grimed, and with many a deep chink; as for the window, it admitted
light, but, owing to the aged dirt which had gathered upon it,
refused any view of things without save in two or three places where
the glass was broken; by these apertures, and at every point of the
framework, entered a sharp wind. In one corner stood an iron
bedstead, with mattress and bedding in a great roll upon it; a shaky
deal table and primitive chair completed the furniture. Ornament did
not wholly lack; round the walls hung a number of those coloured
political caricatures (several indecent) which are published by some
Italian newspapers, and a large advertisement of a line of emigrant
ships between Naples and New York. Moreover, there was suspended in
a corner a large wooden crucifix, very quaint, very hideous, and
black with grime.
Spite of all this, I still debated with myself whether to engage the
room for the night. I should have liked to stay; the thought of a
sunny morning here on the height strongly allured me, and it seemed
a shame to confess myself beaten by an Italian inn. On the other
hand, the look of the people did not please me; they had surly,
forbidding faces. I glanced at the door - no lock. Fears, no doubt,
were ridiculous; yet I felt ill at ease. I would decide after seeing
the sort of fare that was set before me.
The meal came with no delay. First, a dish of great peperoni cut
up in oil. This gorgeous fruit is never much to my taste, but I had
as yet eaten no such peperoni as those of Squillace; an hour or
two afterwards my mouth was still burning from the heat of a few
morsels to which I was constrained by hunger. Next appeared a dish
for which I had covenanted - the only food, indeed, which the
people had been able to offer at short notice - a stew of pork and
potatoes. Pork (maiale) is the staple meat of all this region;
viewing it as Homeric diet, I had often battened upon such flesh
with moderate satisfaction. But the pork of Squillace defeated me;
it smelt abominably, and it was tough as leather. No eggs were to be
had no macaroni; cheese, yes - the familiar cacci cavallo Bread
appeared in the form of a fiat circular cake, a foot in diameter,
with a hole through the middle; its consistency resembled that of
cold pancake. And the drink! At least I might hope to solace myself
with an honest draught of red wine. I poured from the thick decanter
(dirtier vessel was never seen on table) and tasted. The stuff was
poison. Assuredly I am far from fastidious; this, I believe, was the
only occasion when wine has been offered me in Italy which I could
not drink. After desperately trying to persuade myself that the
liquor was merely "rough," that its nauseating flavour meant only a
certain coarse quality of the local grape, I began to suspect that
it was largely mixed with water - the water of Squillace!
Notwithstanding a severe thirst, I could not and durst not drink.
Very soon I made my way to the kitchen, where my driver, who had
stabled his horses, sat feeding heartily; he looked up with his
merry smile, surprised at the rapidity with which I had finished.
How I envied his sturdy stomach!
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