- Considered to be, there is nothing incongruous or offensive in an
amiable commingling of Semitic and Hellenic deities after the approved
Italian recipe; nor do a few long words about geography or science
disquiet us any more. Milton was not writing for an uncivilized mob, and
his occasional displays of erudition will represent to a cultured person
only those breathing spaces so refreshing in all epic poetry. That
Milton's language is saturated with Latinisms and Italianisms is
perfectly true. His English may not have been good enough for his
contemporaries. But it is quite good enough for us. That 'grand manner'
which Matthew Arnold claimed for Milton, that sustained pitch of kingly
elaboration and fullness, is not wholly an affair of high moral tone; it
results in part from the humbler ministrations of words happily
chosen - from a felicitous alloy of Mediterranean grace and Saxon mettle.
For, whether consciously or not, we cannot but be influenced by the
colour-effects of mere words, that arouse in us definite but
indefinable moods of mind. To complain of the foreign phraseology and
turns of thought in 'Paradise Lost' would be the blackest ingratitude
nowadays, seeing that our language has become enriched by steady gleams
of pomp and splendour due, in large part, to the peculiar lustre of
Milton's comely importations.
XXII
THE "GREEK" SILA
It was to be the Sila in earnest, this time. I would traverse the whole
country, from the Coscile valley to Catanzaro, at the other end.
Arriving from Cosenza the train deposited me, once more, at the unlovely
station of Castrovillari. I looked around the dusty square, half-dazed
by the sunlight - it was a glittering noonday in July - but the postal
waggon to Spezzano Albanese, my first resting-point, had not yet
arrived. Then a withered old man, sitting on a vehicle behind the sorry
skeleton of a horse, volunteered to take me there at once; we quickly
came to terms; it was too hot, we both agreed, to waste breath in
bargaining. With the end of his whip he pointed out the church of
Spezzano on its hilltop; a proud structure it looked at this distance,
though nearer acquaintance reduced it to extremely humble proportions.
The Albanian Spezzano (Spezzano Grande is another place) lies on the
main road from Castrovillari to Cosenza, on the summit of a
long-stretched tongue of limestone which separates the Crati river from
the Esaro; this latter, after flowing into the Coscile, joins its waters
with the Crati, and so closes the promontory. An odd geographical
feature, this low stretch, viewed from the greater heights of Sila or
Pollino; one feels inclined to take a broom and sweep it into the sea,
so that the waters may mingle sooner.
Our road ascended the thousand feet in a sinuous ribbon of white dust,
and an eternity seemed to pass as we crawled drowsily upwards to the
music of the cicadas, under the simmering blue sky. There was not a soul
in sight; a hush had fallen upon all things; great Pan was brooding over
the earth. At last we entered the village, and here, once more,
deathlike stillness reigned; it was the hour of post-prandial slumber.
At our knocking the proprietor of the inn, situated in a side-street,
descended. But he was in bad humour, and held out no hopes of
refreshment. Certain doctors and government officials, he said, were
gathered together in his house, telegraphically summoned to consult
about a local case of cholera. As to edibles, the gentlemen had lunched,
and nothing was left, absolutely nothing; it had been uno
sterminio - an extermination - of all he possessed. The prospect of
walking about the burning streets till evening did not appeal to me, and
as this was the only inn at Spezzano I insisted, first gently, then
forcibly - in vain. There was not so much as a chair to sit upon, he
avowed; and therewith retired into his cool twilight.
Despairing, I entered a small shop wherein I had observed the only signs
of life so far - an Albanian woman spinning in patriarchal fashion. It
was a low-ceilinged room, stocked with candles, seeds, and other
commodities which a humble householder might desire to purchase,
including certain of those water-gugglets of Corigliano ware in whose
shapely contours something of the artistic dreamings of old Sybaris
still seems to linger. The proprietress, clothed in gaudily picturesque
costume, greeted me with a smile and the easy familiarity which I have
since discovered to be natural to all these women. She had a room, she
said, where I could rest; there was also food, such as it was, cheese,
and wine, and - -
"Fruit?" I queried.
"Ah, you like fruit? Well, we may not so much as speak about it just
now - the cholera, the doctors, the policeman, the prison! I was going to
say salami."
Salami? I thanked her. I know Calabrian pigs and what they feed on,
though it would be hard to describe in the language of polite society.
Despite the heat and the swarms of flies in that chamber, I felt little
desire for repose after her simple repast; the dame was so affable and
entertaining that we soon became great friends. I caused her some
amusement by my efforts to understand and pronounce her language - these
folk speak Albanian and Italian with equal facility - which seemed to my
unpractised ears as hopeless as Finnish. Very patiently, she gave me a
long lesson during which I thought to pick up a few words and phrases,
but the upshot of it all was:
"You'll never learn it. You have begun a hundred years too late."
I tried her with modern Greek, but among such fragments as remained on
my tongue after a lapse of over twenty years, only hit upon one word
that she could understand.
