. . Suppose we put the head of
the mayor of Bagnara into the vacant basket? Shall we? Yes, we'll have
the mayor. It will make him more careful in future." And within half an
hour the basket was filled once more.
There was a little hitch in starting from Bagnara. From the windings of
the carriage-road as portrayed by the map, I guessed that there must be
a number of short cuts into the uplands at the back of the town,
undiscoverable to myself, which would greatly shorten the journey.
Besides, there was my small bag to be carried. A porter familiar with
the tracks was plainly required, and soon enough I found a number of
lusty youths leaning against a wall and doing nothing in particular.
Yes, they would accompany me, they said, the whole lot of them, just for
the fun of the thing.
"And my bag?" I asked.
"A bag to be carried? Then we must get a woman."
They unearthed a nondescript female who undertook to bear the burden as
far as Sinopoli for a reasonable consideration. So far good. But as we
proceeded, the boys began to drop off, till only a single one was left.
And then the woman suddenly vanished down a side street, declaring that
she must change her clothes. We waited for three-quarters of an hour, in
the glaring dust of the turnpike; she never emerged again, and the
remaining boy stoutly refused to handle her load.
"No," he declared. "She must carry the bag. And I will keep you company."
The precious morning hours were wearing away, and here we stood idly by
the side of the road. It never struck me that the time might have been
profitably employed in paying a flying visit to one of the most sacred
objects in Calabria and possibly in the whole world, one which Signor N.
Marcene describes as reposing at Bagnara in a rich reliquary - the
authentic Hat of the Mother of God. A lady tourist would not have missed
this chance of studying the fashions of those days. [Footnote: See next
chapter.]
Finally, in desperation, I snatched up the wretched luggage and poured
my griefs with unwonted eloquence into the ears of a man driving a
bullock-cart down the road. So much was he moved, that he peremptorily
ordered his son to conduct me then and there to Sinopoli, to carry the
bag, and claim one franc by way of payment. The little man tumbled off
the cart, rather reluctantly.
"Away with you!" cried the stern parent, and we began the long march,
climbing uphill in the blazing sunshine; winding, later on, through
shady chestnut woods and across broad tracts of cultivated land. It was
plain that the task was beyond his powers, and when we had reached a
spot where the strange-looking new village of Sant' Eufemia was
visible - it is built entirely of wooden shelters; the stone town was
greatly shaken in the late earthquake - he was obliged to halt, and
thenceforward stumbled slowly into the place. There he deposited the bag
on the ground, and faced me squarely.
"No more of this!" he said, concentrating every ounce of his virility
into a look of uncompromising defiance.
"Then I shall not pay you a single farthing, my son. And, moreover, I
will tell your father. You know what he commanded: to Sinopoli. This is
only Sant' Eufemia. Unless - - "
"You will tell my father? Unless - - ?"
"Unless you discover some one who will carry the bag not only to
Sinopoli, but as far as Delianuova." I was not in the mood for repeating
the experiences of the morning.
"It is difficult. But we will try."
He went in search, and returned anon with a slender lad of unusual
comeliness - an earthquake orphan. "This big one," he explained, "walks
wherever you please and carries whatever you give him. And you will pay
him nothing at all, unless he deserves it. Such is the arrangement. Are
you content?"
"You have acted like a man."
The earthquake survivor set off at a swinging pace, and we soon reached
Sinopoli - new Sinopoli; the older settlement lies at a considerable
distance. Midday was past, and the long main street of the town - a
former fief of the terrible Ruffo family - stood deserted in the
trembling heat. None the less there was sufficient liveliness within the
houses; the whole place seemed in a state of jollification. It was
Sunday, the orphan explained; the country was duller than usual,
however, because of the high price of wine. There had been no murders to
speak of - no, not for a long time past. But the vintage of this year, he
added, promises well, and life will soon become normal again.
The mule track from here to Delianuova traverses some pretty scenery,
both wild and pastoral. But the personal graces of my companion made me
take small heed of the landscape. He was aglow with animal spirits, and
his conversation naively brilliant and of uncommon import. Understanding
at a glance that he belonged to a type which is rather rare in Calabria,
that he was a classic (of a kind), I made every effort to be pleasant to
him; and I must have succeeded, for he was soon relating anecdotes which
would have been neither instructive, nor even intelligible, to the
jeune fille; all this, with angelic serenity of conscience.
This radiantly-vicious child was the embodiment of the joy of life, the
perfect immoralist. There was no cynicism in his nature, no cruelty, no
obliquity, no remorse; nothing but sunshine with a few clouds sailing
across the fathomless blue spaces - the sky of Hellas. Nihil humani
alienum; and as I listened to those glad tales, I marvelled at the
many-tinted experiences that could be crammed into seventeen short
years; what a document the ad-verttures of such a frolicsome demon would
be, what a feast for the initiated, could some one be induced to make
them known!
