With Whip-Cracking And Vociferation, Amid
Good-Natured Farewells From The Crowd, We Started Away.
It was just
ten o'clock.
At once the road began to climb, and nearly three hours were spent
in reaching the highest point of the mountain barrier. Incessantly
winding, often doubling upon itself, the road crept up the sides of
profound gorges, and skirted many a precipice; bridges innumerable
spanned the dry ravines which at another season are filled with
furious torrents. From the zone of orange and olive and cactus we
passed that of beech and oak, noble trees now shedding their
rich-hued foliage on bracken crisped and brown; here I noticed the
feathery bowers of wild clematis ("old man's beard"), and many a
spike of the great mullein, strange to me because so familiar in
English lanes. Through mists that floated far below I looked over
miles of shore, and outward to the ever-rising limit of sea and sky.
Very lovely were the effects of light, the gradations of colour;
from the blue-black abysses, where no shape could be distinguished,
to those violet hues upon the furrowed heights which had a
transparency, a softness, an indefiniteness, unlike anything to be
seen in northern landscape.
The driver was accompanied by a half-naked lad, who, at certain
points, suddenly disappeared, and came into view again after a few
minutes, having made a short cut up some rugged footway between the
loops of the road. Perspiring, even as I sat, in the blaze of the
sun, I envied the boy his breath and muscle. Now and then he slaked
his thirst at a stone fountain by the wayside, not without
reverencing the blue-hooded Madonna painted over it. A few lean,
brown peasants, bending under faggots, and one or two carts, passed
us before we gained the top, and half-way up there was a hovel where
drink could be bought; but with these exceptions nothing broke the
loneliness of the long, wild ascent. My man was not talkative, but
answered inquiries civilly; only on one subject was he very curt -
that of the two wooden crosses which we passed just before arriving
at the summit; they meant murders. At the moment when I spoke of
them I was stretching my legs in a walk beside the carriage, the
driver walking just in front of me; and something then happened
which is still a puzzle when I recall it. Whether the thought of
crimes had made the man nervous, or whether just then I wore a
peculiarly truculent face, or had made some alarming gesture, all of
a sudden he turned upon me, grasped my arm and asked sharply: "What
have you got in your hand?" I had a bit of fern, plucked a few
minutes before, and with surprise I showed it; whereupon he murmured
an apology, said something about making haste, and jumped to his
seat. An odd little incident.
At an unexpected turn of the road there spread before me a vast
prospect; I looked down upon inland Calabria. It was a valley broad
enough to be called a plain, dotted with white villages, and backed
by the mass of mountains which now, as in old time, bear the name of
Great Sila. Through this landscape flowed the river Crati - the
ancient Crathis; northward it curved, and eastward, to fall at
length into the Ionian Sea, far beyond my vision. The river Crathis,
which flowed by the walls of Sybaris. I stopped the horses to gaze
and wonder; gladly I would have stood there for hours. Less
interested, and impatient to get on, the driver pointed out to me
the direction of Cosenza, still at a great distance. He added the
information that, in summer, the well-to-do folk of Cosenza go to
Paola for sea-bathing, and that they always perform the journey by
night. I, listening carelessly amid my dream, tried to imagine the
crossing of those Calabrian hills under a summer sun! By summer
moonlight it must be wonderful.
We descended at a sharp pace, all the way through a forest of
chestnuts, the fruit already gathered, the golden leaves rustling in
their fall. At the foot lies the village of San Fili, and here we
left the crazy old cart which we had dragged so far. A little
further, and before us lay a long, level road, a true Roman highway,
straight for mile after mile. By this road the Visigoths must have
marched after the sack of Rome. In approaching Cosenza I was drawing
near to the grave of Alaric. Along this road the barbarian bore in
triumph those spoils of the Eternal City which were to enrich his
tomb.
By this road, six hundred years before the Goth, marched Hannibal on
his sullen retreat from Italy, passing through Cosentia to embark at
Croton.
CHAPTER III
THE GRAVE OF ALARIC
It would have been prudent to consult with my driver as to the inns
of Cosenza. But, with a pardonable desire not to seem helpless in
his hands, I had from the first directed him to the Due Lionetti,
relying upon my guide-book. Even at Cosenza there is progress, and
guide-beooks to little-known parts of Europe are easily allowed to
fall out of date. On my arrival - -
But, first of all, the dazio. This time it was a serious business;
impossible to convince the rather surly officer that certain of the
contents of my portmanteau were not for sale. What in the world was
I doing with tanti libri? Of course I was a commercial traveller;
ridiculous to pretend anything else. After much strain of courtesy,
I clapped to my luggage, locked it up, and with a resolute face
cried "Avanti!" And there was an end of it. In this case, as so
often, I have no doubt that simple curiosity went for much in the
man's pertinacious questioning. Of course the whole dazio business
is ludicrous and contemptible; I scarce know a baser spectacle than
that of uniformed officials groping in the poor little bundles of
starved peasant women, mauling a handful of onions, or prodding with
long irons a cartload of straw.
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