I Tried To
Persuade Myself That I Was Merely Suffering From A Violent Attack Of
Dyspepsia, The Natural Result Of Concordia Diet.
When the waiter
brought my breakfast I regarded it with resentful eye, feeling for
the moment very much like my grumbling acquaintance of the dinner
hour.
It may be as well to explain that the breakfast consisted of
very bad coffee, with goat's milk, hard, coarse bread, and goat's
butter, which tasted exactly like indifferent lard. The so-called
butter, by a strange custom of Cotrone, was served in the emptied
rind of a spherical cheese - the small caccio cavallo, horse
cheese, which one sees everywhere in the South. I should not have
liked to inquire where, how, when, or by whom the substance of the
cheese had been consumed. Possibly this receptacle is supposed to
communicate a subtle flavour to the butter; I only know that, even
to a healthy palate, the stuff was rather horrible. Cow's milk could
be obtained in very small quantities, but it was of evil flavour;
butter, in the septentrional sense of the word, did not exist.
It surprises me to remember that I went out, walked down to the
shore, and watched the great waves breaking over the harbour mole.
There was a lull in the storm, but as yet no sign of improving
weather; clouds drove swiftly across a lowering sky. My eyes turned
to the Lacinian promontory, dark upon the turbid sea. Should I ever
stand by the sacred column? It seemed to me hopelessly remote; the
voyage an impossible effort.
I talked with a man, of whom I remember nothing but his piercing
eyes steadily fixed upon me; he said there had been a wreck in the
night, a ship carrying live pigs had gone to pieces, and the shore
was sprinkled with porcine corpses.
Presently I found myself back at the Concordia, not knowing
exactly how I had returned. The dyspepsia - I clung to this
hypothesis - was growing so violent that I had difficulty in
breathing: before long I found it impossible to stand.
My hostess was summoned, and she told me that Cotrone had "a great
physician," by name "Dr. Scurco." Translating this name from dialect
into Italian, I presumed that the physician's real name was Sculco,
and this proved to be the case. Dr. Riccardo Sculco was a youngish
man, with an open, friendly countenance. At once I liked him. After
an examination, of which I quite understood the result, he remarked
in his amiable, airy manner that I had "a touch of rheumatism"; as a
simple matter of precaution, I had better go to bed for the rest of
the day, and, just for the form of the thing, he would send some
medicine. Having listened to this with as pleasant a smile as I
could command, I caught the Doctor's eye, and asked quietly, "Is
there much congestion?" His manner at once changed; he became
businesslike and confidential. The right lung; yes, the right lung.
Mustn't worry; get to bed and take my quinine in dosi forti, and
he would look in again at night.
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