It Proved To Be A Very Ugly Case Of Extortion, And The
Tone Of Sullen Menace With Which My Arguments Were Met Did Not Help
To Smooth Things.
Presently the man hit upon a pleasant sort of
compromise.
Why, he asked, did I not pay the bill as it stood, and
then, on dismissing my carriage - he had learnt that I was not
returning to Catanzaro - deduct as much as I chose from the payment
of the driver? A pretty piece of rascality, this, which he would
certainly not have suggested but that the driver was a mere boy,
helpless himself and bound to render an account to his master. I had
to be content with resolutely striking off half the sum charged for
the lad's wine (he was supposed to have drunk four litres), and
sending the receipted bill to Don Pasquale at Catanzaro, that he
might be ready with information if any future traveller consulted
him about the accommodation to be had at Squillace. No one is likely
to do so for a long time to come, but I have no doubt Don Pasquale
had a chuckle of amused indignation over the interesting and very
dirty bit of paper. We drove quickly down the winding road, and from
below I again admired the picturesqueness of Squillace. Both my
guide-books, by the way, the orthodox English and German
authorities, assert that from the railway station by the sea-shore
Squillace is invisible. Which of the two borrowed this information
from the other? As a matter of fact, the view of mountain and town
from the station platform is admirable, though, of course, at so
great a distance, only a whitish patch represents the hovels and
ruins upon their royal height.
I found that I had a good couple of hours at my disposal, and that
to the foot of Mons Moscius (now called Coscia di Stalletti) was
only a short walk. It rained drearily, but by this time I had ceased
to think of the weather. After watching the carriage for a moment,
as it rolled away on the long road back to Catanzaro (sorry not to
be going with it), I followed the advice of the stationmaster, and
set out to walk along the line of rails towards the black, furrowed
mountain side.
CHAPTER XVI
CASSIODORUS
The iron way crosses the mouth of the valley river. As I had already
noticed, it was a turbid torrent, of dull yellow; where it poured
into the sea, it made a vast, clean-edged patch of its own hue upon
the darker surface of the waves. This peculiarity resulted, no
doubt, from much rain upon the hills; it may be that in calmer
seasons the Fiume di Squillace bears more resemblance to the Pellena
as one pictures it, a delightful stream flowing through the gardens
of the old monastery. Cassiodorus tells us that it abounded in fish.
One of his happy labours was to make fish-ponds, filled and peopled
from the river itself.
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