"Beans? Not likely! But fried fish, and beefsteaks of veal." I tried to
picture the scene, but the effort was too much for my hereditary Puritan
leanings. Unable to rise to these heights of realism, I was rated a
pagan for my ill-timed spirituality.
Madame est servie. . . .
IX
MOVING SOUTHWARDS
The train conveying me to Taranto was to halt for the night at the
second station beyond Venosa - at Spinaz-zola. Aware of this fact, I had
enquired about the place and received assuring reports as to its hotel
accommodation. But the fates were against me. On my arrival in the late
evening I learnt that the hotels were all closed long ago, the townsfolk
having gone to bed "with the chickens"; it was suggested that I had
better stay at the station, where the manageress of the restaurant kept
certain sleeping quarters specially provided for travellers in my
predicament.
Presently the gentle dame lighted a dim lantern and led me across what
seemed to be a marsh (it was raining) to the door of a hut which was to
be my resting-place. At the entrance she paused, and after informing me
that a band of musicians had taken all the beds save one which was at my
disposal if I were good enough to pay her half a franc, she placed the
lantern in my hand and stumbled back into the darkness.
I stepped into a low chamber, the beds of which were smothered under a
profusion of miscellaneous wraps. The air was warm - the place exhaled an
indescribable esprit de corps. Groping further, I reached another
apartment, vaulted and still lower than the last, an old-fashioned
cow-stable, possibly, converted into a bedroom. One glance sufficed me:
the couch was plainly not to be trusted. Thankful to be out of the rain
at least, I lit a pipe and prepared to pass the weary hours till 4 a.m.
It was not long ere I discovered that there was another bed in this den,
opposite my own; and judging by certain undulatory and saltatory
movements within, it was occupied. Presently the head of a youth
emerged, with closed eyes and flushed features. He indulged in a series
of groans and spasmodic kicks, that subsided once more, only to
recommence. A flute projected from under his pillow.
"This poor young man," I thought, "is plainly in bad case. On account of
illness, he has been left behind by the rest of the band, who have gone
to Spinazzola to play at some marriage festival. He is feverish, or
possibly subject to fits - to choriasis or who knows what disorder of the
nervous system. A cruel trick, to leave a suffering youngster alone in
this foul hovel." I mis-liked his symptoms - that anguished complexion
and delirious intermittent trembling, and began to run over the scanty
stock of household remedies contained in my bag, wondering which of them
might apply to his complaint.
