A live
coal of a red leaf or two still smouldering upon them.
As yet lingering mulleins throw up their golden spikes amid a
profusion of blue chicory, and the gourds run along upon the ground
like the fire mingled with the hail in "Israel in Egypt." Overhead
are the umbrageous chestnuts loaded with their prickly harvest.
Now and again there is a manure heap upon the grass itself, and
lusty wanton gourds grow out from it along the ground like
vegetable octopi. If there is a stream it will run with water
limpid as air, and as full of dimples as "While Kedron's brook" in
"Joshua":-
[At this point in the book a music score is given]
How quiet and full of rest does everything appear to be. There is
no dust nor glare, and hardly a sound save that of the unfailing
waterfalls, or the falling cry with which the peasants call to one
another from afar. {29}
So much depends upon the aspect in which one sees a place for the
first time. What scenery can stand, for example, a noontide glare?
Take the valley from Lanzo to Viu. It is of incredible beauty in
the mornings and afternoons of brilliant days, and all day long
upon a gray day; but in the middle hours of a bright summer's day
it is hardly beautiful at all, except locally in the shade under
chestnuts. Buildings and towns are the only things that show well
in a glare. We perhaps, therefore, thought the valley of the Moesa
to be of such singular beauty on account of the day on which we saw
it, but doubt whether it must not be absolutely among the most
beautiful of the subalpine valleys upon the Italian side.
The least interesting part is that between Bellinzona and Roveredo,
but soon after leaving Roveredo the valley begins to get narrower
and to assume a more mountain character. Ere long the eye catches
sight of a white church tower and a massive keep, near to one
another and some two thousand feet above the road. This is Santa
Maria in Calanca. One can see at once that it must be an important
place for such a district, but it is strange why it should be
placed so high. I will say more about it later on.
Presently we passed Cama, where there is an inn, and where the road
branches off into the Val Calanca. Alighting here for a few
minutes we saw a cane lupino - that is to say, a dun mouse-coloured
dog about as large as a mastiff, and with a very large infusion of
wolf blood in him. It was like finding one's self alone with a
wolf - but he looked even more uncanny and ferocious than a wolf. I
once saw a man walking down Fleet Street accompanied by one of
these cani lupini, and noted the general attention and alarm which
the dog caused. Encouraged by the landlord, we introduced
ourselves to the dog at Cama, and found him to be a most sweet
person, with no sense whatever of self-respect, and shrinking from
no ignominy in his importunity for bits of bread. When we put the
bread into his mouth and felt his teeth, he would not take it till
he had looked in our eyes and said as plainly as though in words,
"Are you quite sure that my teeth are not painful to you? Do you
really think I may now close my teeth upon the bread without
causing you any inconvenience?" We assured him that we were quite
comfortable, so he swallowed it down, and presently began to pat us
softly with his foot to remind us that it was our turn now.
Before we left, a wandering organ-grinder began to play outside the
inn. Our friend the dog lifted up his voice and howled. I am sure
it was with pleasure. If he had disliked the music he would have
gone away. He was not at all the kind of person who would stay a
concert out if he did not like it. He howled because he was
stirred to the innermost depths of his nature. On this he became
intense, and as a matter of course made a fool of himself; but he
was in no way more ridiculous than an Art Professor whom I once
observed as he was holding forth to a number of working men, whilst
escorting them round the Italian pictures in the National Gallery.
When the organ left off he cast an appealing look at Jones, and we
could almost hear the words, "What IS it out of?" coming from his
eyes. We did not happen to know, so we told him that it was "Ah
che la morte" from "Il Trovatore," and he was quite contented.
Jones even thought he looked as much as to say, "Oh yes, of course,
how stupid of me; I thought I knew it." He very well may have done
so, but I am bound to say that I did not see this.
Near to Cama is Grono, where Baedeker says there is a chapel
containing some ancient frescoes. I searched Grono in vain for any
such chapel. A few miles higher up, the church of Soazza makes its
appearance perched upon the top of its hill, and soon afterwards
the splendid ruin of Mesocco on another rock or hill which rises in
the middle of the valley.
The mortuary chapel of Soazza church is the subject my friend Mr.
Gogin has selected for the etching at the beginning of this volume.
There was a man mowing another part of the churchyard when I was
there. He was so old and lean that his flesh seemed little more
than parchment stretched over his bones, and he might have been
almost taken for Death mowing his own acre.
