Moreover, There Was Suspended In
A Corner A Large Wooden Crucifix, Very Quaint, Very Hideous, And
Black With Grime.
Spite of all this, I still debated with myself whether to engage the
room for the night.
I should have liked to stay; the thought of a
sunny morning here on the height strongly allured me, and it seemed
a shame to confess myself beaten by an Italian inn. On the other
hand, the look of the people did not please me; they had surly,
forbidding faces. I glanced at the door - no lock. Fears, no doubt,
were ridiculous; yet I felt ill at ease. I would decide after seeing
the sort of fare that was set before me.
The meal came with no delay. First, a dish of great peperoni cut
up in oil. This gorgeous fruit is never much to my taste, but I had
as yet eaten no such peperoni as those of Squillace; an hour or
two afterwards my mouth was still burning from the heat of a few
morsels to which I was constrained by hunger. Next appeared a dish
for which I had covenanted - the only food, indeed, which the
people had been able to offer at short notice - a stew of pork and
potatoes. Pork (maiale) is the staple meat of all this region;
viewing it as Homeric diet, I had often battened upon such flesh
with moderate satisfaction. But the pork of Squillace defeated me;
it smelt abominably, and it was tough as leather. No eggs were to be
had no macaroni; cheese, yes - the familiar cacci cavallo Bread
appeared in the form of a fiat circular cake, a foot in diameter,
with a hole through the middle; its consistency resembled that of
cold pancake. And the drink! At least I might hope to solace myself
with an honest draught of red wine. I poured from the thick decanter
(dirtier vessel was never seen on table) and tasted. The stuff was
poison. Assuredly I am far from fastidious; this, I believe, was the
only occasion when wine has been offered me in Italy which I could
not drink. After desperately trying to persuade myself that the
liquor was merely "rough," that its nauseating flavour meant only a
certain coarse quality of the local grape, I began to suspect that
it was largely mixed with water - the water of Squillace!
Notwithstanding a severe thirst, I could not and durst not drink.
Very soon I made my way to the kitchen, where my driver, who had
stabled his horses, sat feeding heartily; he looked up with his
merry smile, surprised at the rapidity with which I had finished.
How I envied his sturdy stomach! With the remark that I was going to
have a stroll round the town and should be back to settle things in
half an hour, I hastened into the open.
CHAPTER XV
MISERIA
"What do people do here?" I once asked at a little town between Rome
and Naples; and the man with whom I talked, shrugging his shoulders,
answered curtly, "C'e miseria" - there's nothing but poverty.
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