Both say
it was printed at Cosenza; the first, in 1650; the second, in 1630.]
The path ascends now through a long and wearisome limestone gap called
Valle di Gaudolino, only the last half-hour of the march being shaded by
trees. It was in this gully that an accidental encounter took place
between a detachment of French soldiers and part of the band of the
celebrated brigand Scarolla, whom they had been pursuing for months all
over the country. The brigands were sleeping when the others fell upon
them, killing numbers and carrying off a large booty; so rich it was,
that the soldiers were seen playing at "petis palets" - whatever that may
be - with quadruples of Spain - whatever that may be. Scarolla escaped
wounded, but was afterwards handed over to justice, for a consideration
of a thousand ducats, by some shepherds with whom he had taken refuge;
and duly hanged. His band consisted of four thousand ruffians; it was
one of several that infested south Italy. This gives some idea of the
magnitude of the evil.
It was my misfortune that after weeks of serene weather this particular
morning should be cloudy. There was sunshine in the valley below, but
wreaths of mist were skidding over the summit of Pollino; the view, I
felt sure, would be spoilt. And so it was. Through swiftly-careering
cloud-drifts I caught glimpses of the plain and the blue Ionian; of the
Sila range confronting me; of the peak of Dolcedorme to the left, and
the "Montagna del Principe" on the right; of the large forest region at
my back. Tantalizing visions!
Viewed from below, this Pollino is shaped like a pyramid, and promises
rather a steep climb over bare limestone; but the ascent is quite easy.
No trees grow on the pyramid. The rock is covered with a profusion of
forget-me-nots and gay pansies; some mez-ereon and a few dwarfed
junipers - earthward-creeping - nearly reach the summit. When I passed
here on a former trip, on the 6th of June, this peak was shrouded in
snow. There are some patches of snow even now, one of them descending in
glacier fashion down the slope on the other side; they call it
"eternal," but I question whether it will survive the heats of autumn.
Beyond a brace of red-legged partridges, I saw no birds whatever. This
group of Pollino, descending its seven thousand feet in a precipitous
flight of terraces to the plain of Sibari, is an imposing finale to
the Apennines that have run hitherward, without a break, from Genoa and
Bologna. Westward of this spot there are mountains galore; but no more
Apennines; no more limestone precipices. The boundary of the old
provinces of Calabria and Basilicata ran over this spot. . . .
I was glad to descend once more, and to reach the Altipiano di
Pollino - an Alpine meadow with a little lake (the merest puddle),
bright with rare and beautiful flowers. It lies 1780 metres above
sea-level, and no one who visits these regions should omit to see this
exquisite tract encircled by mountain peaks, though it lies a little off
the usual paths. Strawberries, which I had eaten at Rossano, had not yet
opened their flowers here; the flora, boreal in parts, has been studied
by Terracciano and other Italian botanists.
It was on this verdant, flower-enamelled mead that, fatigued with the
climb, I thought to try the powers of my riding mule. But the beast
proved vicious; there was no staying on her back. A piece of string
attached to her nose by way of guiding-rope was useless as a rein; she
had no mane wherewith I might have steadied myself in moments of danger,
and as to seizing her ears for that purpose, it was out of the question,
for hardly was I in the saddle before her head descended to the ground
and there remained, while her hinder feet essayed to touch the stars.
After a succession of ignominious and painful flights to earth, I
complained to her owner, who had been watching the proceedings with
quiet interest.
"That lady-mule," he said, "is good at carrying loads. But she has never
had a Christian on her back till now. I was rather curious to see how
she would behave."
"Santo Dio! And do you expect me to pay four francs a day for having
my bones broken in this fashion?"
"What would you, sir? She is still young - barely four years old. Only
wait! Wait till she is ten or twelve."
To do him justice, however, he tried to make amends in other ways. And
he certainly knew the tracks. But he was a returned emigrant, and when
an Italian has once crossed the ocean he is useless for my purposes, he
has lost his savour - the virtue has gone out of him. True Italians will
soon be rare as the dodo in these parts. These americani cast off
their ancient animistic traits and patriarchal disposition with the ease
of a serpent; a new creature emerges, of a wholly different
character - sophisticated, extortionate at times, often practical and in
so far useful; scorner of every tradition, infernally wideawake and
curiously deficient in what the Germans call "Gemuet" (one of those
words which we sadly need in our own language). Instead of being regaled
with tales of Saint Venus and fairies and the Evil Eye, I learnt a good
deal about the price of food in the Brazilian highlands.
The only piece of local information I was able to draw from him
concerned a mysterious plant in the forest that "shines by night." I
dare say he meant the dictamnus fraxinella, which is sometimes luminous.
The finest part of the forest was traversed in the afternoon. It is
called Janace, and composed of firs and beeches. The botanist Tenore
says that firs 150 feet in height are "not difficult to find" here, and
some of the beeches, a forestal inspector assured me, attain the height
of 35 metres.
