I Hope I May Never Again Be Obliged To
Drink Goat's Milk; In These Days It Became So Unutterably Loathsome
To Me That I Had, At Length, To Give It Up Altogether, And I Cannot
Think Of It Now Without A Qualm.
The broth offered me was infamous,
mere coloured water beneath half an inch of floating grease.
Once
there was a promise of a fowl, and I looked forward to it eagerly;
but, alas! this miserable bird had undergone a process of seething
for the extraction of soup. I would have defied anyone to
distinguish between the substance remaining and two or three old kid
gloves boiled into a lump. With a pleased air, the hostess one day
suggested a pigeon, a roasted pigeon, and I welcomed the idea
joyously. Indeed, the appearance of the dish, when it was borne in,
had nothing to discourage my appetite - the odour was savoury; I
prepared myself for a treat. Out of pure kindness, for she saw me
tremble in my weakness, the good woman offered her aid in the
carving; she took hold of the bird by the two legs, rent it asunder,
tore off the wings in the same way, and then, with a smile of
satisfaction, wiped her hands upon her skirt. If her hands had known
water (to say nothing of soap) during the past twelve months I am
much mistaken. It was a pity, for I found that my teeth could just
masticate a portion of the flesh which hunger compelled me to
assail.
Of course I suffered much from thirst, and Dr. Sculco startled me
one day by asking if I liked tea. Tea? Was it really procurable?
The Doctor assured me that it could be supplied by the chemist;
though, considering how rarely the exotic was demanded, it might
have lost something of its finer flavour whilst stored at the
pharmacy. An order was despatched. Presently the waiter brought me a
very small paper packet, such as might have contained a couple of
Seidlitz powders; on opening it I discovered something black and
triturated, a crumbling substance rather like ground charcoal. I
smelt it, but there was no perceptible odour; I put a little of it
to my tongue, but the effect was merely that of dust. Proceeding to
treat it as if it were veritable tea, I succeeded in imparting a
yellowish tinge to the hot water, and, so thirsty was I, this
beverage tempted me to a long draught. There followed no ill result
that I know of, but the paper packet lay thenceforth untouched, and,
on leaving, I made a present of it to my landlady.
To complete the domestic group, I must make mention of the
"chambermaid." This was a lively little fellow of about twelve years
old, son of the landlady, who gave me much amusement. I don't know
whether he performed chambermaid duty in all the rooms; probably the
fierce-eyed cook did the heavier work elsewhere, but upon me his
attendance was constant. At an uncertain hour of the evening he
entered (of course, without knocking), doffed his cap in salutation,
and began by asking how I found myself. The question could not have
been more deliberately and thoughtfully put by the Doctor himself.
When I replied that I was better, the little man expressed his
satisfaction, and went on to make a few remarks about the pessimo
tempo. Finally, with a gesture of politeness, he inquired whether
I would permit him "di fare un po' di pulizia" - to clean up a
little, and this he proceeded to do with much briskness. Excepting
the good Sculco, my chambermaid was altogether the most civilized
person I met at Cotrone. He had a singular amiability of nature, and
his boyish spirits were not yet subdued by the pestilent climate. If
I thanked him for anything, he took off his cap, bowed with comical
dignity, and answered "Grazie a voi, Signore." Of course these
people never used the third person feminine of polite Italian. Dr.
Sculco did so, for I had begun by addressing him in that manner, but
plainly it was not familiar to his lips. At the same time there
prevailed certain forms of civility, which seemed a trifle
excessive. For instance, when the Doctor entered my room, and I gave
him "Buon giorno," he was wont to reply, "Troppo gentile!" -
too kind of you!
My newspaper boy came regularly for a few days, always complaining
of feverish symptoms, then ceased to appear. I made inquiry: he was
down with illness, and as no one took his place I suppose the
regular distribution of newspapers in Cotrone was suspended. When
the poor fellow again showed himself, he had a sorry visage; he sat
down by my bedside (rain dripping from his hat, and mud, very thick,
upon his boots) to give an account of his sufferings. I pictured the
sort of retreat in which he had lain during those miserable hours.
My own chamber contained merely the barest necessaries, and, as the
gentleman of Cosenza would have said, "left something to be desired"
in point of cleanliness. Conceive the places into which Cotrone's
poorest have to crawl when they are stricken with disease. I admit,
however, that the thought was worse to me at that moment than it is
now. After all, the native of Cotrone has advantages over the native
of a city slum; and it is better to die in a hovel by the Ionian Sea
than in a cellar at Shoreditch.
The position of my room, which looked upon the piazza, enabled me to
hear a great deal of what went on in the town. The life of Cotrone
began about three in the morning; at that hour I heard the first
voices, upon which there soon followed the bleating of goats and the
tinkling of ox-bells. No doubt the greater part of the poor people
were in bed by eight o'clock every evening; only those who had
dealings in the outer world were stirring when the diligenza
arrived about ten, and I suspect that some of these snatched a nap
before that late hour.
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