“What is your affair then? What affair is it, yours?”
“How? What?” I exclaimed, not understanding. “_Che genere di affari_? What sort of business?”
“How — affari?” said I, still not grasping.
“What do you sell?” he said, flatly and rather spitefully. “What goods?”
“I don’t sell anything,” replied I, laughing to think he took us for some sort of strolling quacks or commercial travellers.
“Cloth — or something,” he said cajolingly, slyly, as if to worm my secret out of me.
“But nothing at all. Nothing at all,” said I. “We have come to Sardinia to see the peasant costumes — ” I thought that might sound satisfactory.
“Ah, the costumes!” he said, evidently thinking I was a deep one. And he turned bandying words with his dark-browed mate, who was still poking the meat at the embers and crouching on the hearth. The room was almost quite dark. The mate answered him back, and tried to seem witty too. But the girovago was the commanding personality! rather too much so: too impudent for the q-b, though rather after my own secret heart. The mate was one of those handsome, passive, stupid men.
“Him!” said the girovago, turning suddenly to me and pointing at the mate. “He’s my wife.”
“Your wife!” said I.
“Yes. He’s my wife, because we’re always together.” There had become a sudden dead silence in the background.
In spite of it the mate looked up under his black lashes and said, with a half smile:
“Don’t talk, or I shall give thee a good bacio to-night.”
There was an instant’s fatal pause, then the girovago continued:
“To-morrow is festa of Sant’ Antonio at Tonara. To-morrow we are going to Tonara. Where are you going?”
“To Abbasanta,” said I.
“Ah, Abbasanta! You should come to Tonara. At Tonara there is a brisk trade — and there are costumes. You should come to Tonara. Come with him and me to Tonara to-morrow, and we will do business together.”
I laughed, but did not answer.
“Come,” said he. “You will like Tonara! Ah, Tonara is a fine place. There is an inn: you can eat well, sleep well. I tell you, because to you ten francs don’t matter. Isn’t that so? Ten francs don’t matter to you. Well, then come to Tonara. What? What do you say?”
I shook my head and laughed, but did not answer. To tell the truth I should have liked to go to Tonara with him and his mate and do the brisk trade: if only I knew what trade it would be.
“You are sleeping upstairs?” he said to me. I nodded.
“This is my bed,” he said, taking one of the home-made rush mats from against the wall. I did not take him seriously at any point.
“Do they make those in Sorgono?” I said.
“Yes, in Sorgono — they are the beds, you see! And you roll up this end a bit — so! and that is the pillow.” He laid his cheek sideways.
“Not really,” said I.
He came and sat down again next to me, and my attention wandered. The q-b was raging for her dinner. It must be quite half-past eight. The kid, the perfect kid, would be cold and ruined. Both fire and candle were burning low. Someone had been out for a new candle, but there was evidently no means of replenishing the fire. The mate still crouched on the hearth, the dull red fire-glow on his handsome face, patiently trying to roast the kid and poking it against the embers, he had heavy, strong limbs in his khaki clothes, but his hand that held the spit was brown and tender and sensitive, a real Mediterranean hand. The girovago, blonde, round-faced, mature and aggressive with all his liveliness, was more like a northerner. In the background, were four or five other men, of whom I had distinguished none but a stout soldier, probably chief carabiniere.
Just as the q-b was working up to the rage I had at last calmed down from, appeared the shawl-swathed girl announcing “Pronto!”
“Pronto! Pronto!” said everybody.
“High time, too,” said the q-b, springing from the low bench before the fire. “Where do we cat? Is there another room?”
“There is another room, Signora,” said the carabiniere.
So we trooped out of the fire-warmed dungeon, leaving the girovago and his mate and two other men, muleteers from the road, behind us. I could see that it irked my girovago to be left behind. He was by far the strongest personality in the place, and he had the keenest intelligence. So he hated having to fall into the background, when he had been dragging all the lime-light on to himself all the evening. To me, too, he was something of a kindred soul that night. But there we are: fate, in the guise of that mysterious division between a respectable life and a scamp’s life divided us. There was a gulf between me and him, between my way and his. He was a kindred spirit — but with a hopeless difference. There was something a bit sordid about him — and he knew it. That is why he was always tipsy. Yet I like the lone wolf souls best — better than the sheep. If only they didn’t feel mongrel inside themselves. Presumably a scamp is bound to be mongrel. It is a pity the untamable, lone-wolf souls should always become pariahs, almost of choice: mere scamps.
Top and bottom of it is, I regretted my girovago, though I knew it was no good thinking of him. His way was not my way. Yet I regretted him, I did.
We found ourselves in a dining-room with a long white table and inverted soup-plates, tomb-cold, lighted by an acetylene flare. Three men had accompanied us: the carabiniere, a little dark youth with a small black moustache, in a soldier’s short, wool-lined great-coat: and a young man who looked tired round his blue eyes, and who wore a dark-blue overcoat, quite smart. The be-shawled damsel came in with the inevitable bowl of minestrone, soup with cabbage and cauliflower and other things. We helped ourselves, and the fat carabiniere started the conversation with the usual questions — and where were we going to-morrow?
I asked about buses. Then the responsible-looking, tired-eyed youth told me he was the bus-driver. He had come from Oristano, on the main line, that day. It is a distance of some forty miles. Next morning he was going on over the mountains to Nuoro — about the same distance again. The youth with the little black moustache and the Greek, large eyes, was his mate, the conductor. This was their run, from Oristano to Nuoro — a course of ninety miles or more. And every day on, on, on. No wonder he looked nerve-tired. Yet he had that kind of dignity, the wistful seriousness and pride of a man in machine control: the only god-like ones today, those who pull the iron levers and are the gods in the machine.
They repeated what the old roaster said: much nicer for us to go to Nuoro than to Abbasanta. So to Nuoro we decided to go, leaving at half-past nine in the morning.
Every other night the driver and his mate spent in this benighted Risveglio inn. It must have been their bedroom we saw, clean and tidy. I said was the food always so late, was everything always as bad as to-day. Always — if not worse, they said, making light of it, with sarcastic humour against the Risveglio. You spent your whole life at the Risveglio sitting, waiting, and going block-cold: unless you were content to drink aqua vitae, like those in there. The driver jerked his head towards the dungeon.
“Who were those in there?” said I.
The one who did all the talking was a mercante, a mercante girovago, a wandering peddler. This was my girovago: a wandering peddler selling saints and youngsters! The other was his mate, who helped carry the pack. They went about together. Oh, my girovago was a known figure all over the country. — And where would they sleep? There, in the room where the fire was dying.
They would unroll the mats and lie with their feet to the hearth. For this they paid threepence, or at most fourpence. And they had the privilege of cooking their own food. The Risveglio supplied them with nothing but the fire, the roof, and the rush mat. — And, of course, the drink. Oh, we need have no sympathy with the girovago and his sort. They lacked for nothing. They had everything they wanted: everything: and money in abundance. They lived for the aqua vitae they drank. That was all they wanted: their cont
inual allowance of aqua vitae. And they got it. Ah, they were not cold. If the room became cold during the night: if they had no coverings at all: pah, they waited for morning, and as soon as it was light they drank a large glass of aqua vitae. That was their fire, their hearth, and their home: drink. Aqua vitae was hearth and home to them.
I was surprised at the contempt, tolerant and yet profound, with which these three men in the dining-room spoke of the others in the stanza. How contemptuous, almost bitter, the driver was against alcohol. It was evident he hated it. And though we all had our bottles of dead-cold dark wine, and though we all drank: still, the feeling of the three youths against actual intoxication was deep and hostile, with a certain burning moral dislike that is more northern than Italian. And they curled their lip with real dislike of the girovago: his forwardness, his impudent aggressiveness.
As for the inn, yes, it was very bad. It had been quite good under the previous proprietors. But now — they shrugged their shoulders. The dirty-breast and the shawled girl were not the owners. They were merely conductors of the hotel: here a sarcastic curl of the lip. The owner was a man in the village — a young man. A week or two back, at Christmas time, there had been a roomful of men sitting drinking and roistering at this very table. When in had come the proprietor, mad-drunk, swinging a litre bottle round his head and yelling: “Out! Out! Out, all of you! Out, every one of you! I am proprietor here. And when I want to clear my house I clear my house. Every man obeys — who doesn’t obey has his brains knocked out with this bottle. Out, out, I say — Out, everyone!” And the men all cleared out. “But,” said the bus-driver, “I told him that when I had paid for my bed I was going to sleep in it. I was not going to be turned out by him or anybody. And so he came down.”
There was a little silence from everybody after this story. Evidently there was more to it, that we were not to be told. Especially the carabiniere was silent. He was a fat, not very brave fellow, though quite nice.
Ah, but — said the little dark bus-conductor, with his small-featured swarthy Greek face — you must not be angry with them. True the inn was very bad. Very bad — but you must pity them, for they are only ignorant. Poor things, they are ignoranti! Why be angry?
The other two men nodded their heads in agreement and repeated ignoranti. They are ignoranti. It is true. Why be angry?
And here the modern Italian spirit came out: the endless pity for the ignorant. It is only slackness. The pity makes the ignorant more ignorant, and makes the Risveglio daily more impossible. If somebody let a bottle buzz round the ears of the dirty-breast, and whipped the shawl from the head of the pert young madam and sent her flying down the tunnel with a flea in her ear, we might get some attention and they might find a little self-respect. But no: pity them, poor ignoranti, while they pull life down and devour it like vermin. Pity them! What they need is not pity but prods: they and all their myriad of likes.
The be-shawled appeared with a dish of kid. Needless to say, the ignoranti had kept all the best portions for themselves. What arrived was five pieces of cold roast one for each of us. Mine was a sort of large comb of ribs with a thin web of meat: perhaps an ounce. That was all we got, after watching the whole process. There was moreover a dish of strong boiled cauliflower, which one ate, with the coarse bread, out of sheer hunger. After this a bilious orange. Simply one is not fed nowadays. In the good hotels and in the had, one is given paltry portions of unnourishing food, and one goes unfed.
The bus-driver, the only one with an earnest soul, was talking of the Sardinians. Ah, the Sardinians! They were hopeless. Why — because they did not know how to strike. They, too, were ignoranti. But this form of ignorance he found more annoying. They simply did not know what a strike was. If you offered them one day ten francs a stint — he was speaking now of the miners of the Iglesias region. — No, no, no, they would not take it, they wanted twelve francs. Go to them the next day and offer them four francs for half a stint, and yes, yes, yes, they would take it. And there they were: ignorant — ignorant Sardinians. They absolutely did not know how to strike. He was quite sarcastically hot about it. The whole tone of these three young men was the tone of sceptical irony common to the young people of our day the world over. Only they had — or at least the driver had — some little fervour for his strikes and his socialism. But it was a pathetic fervour: a _pis-aller_ fervour.
We talked about the land. The war has practically gutted Sardinia of her cattle: so they said. And now the lind is being deserted, the arable land is going back to fallow. Why? Why, says the driver, because the owners of the land won’t spend any capital. They have got the capital locked up, and the land is dead. They find it cheaper to let all the arable go back to fallow, and raise a few head of cattle, rather than to pay high wages, grow corn and get small returns.
Yes, and also, chimes in the carabiniere, the peasants don’t want to work the land. They hate the land. They’ll do anything to get off the land. They want regular wages, short hours, and devil take the rest. So they will go into France as navvies, by the hundred. They flock to Rome, they besiege the Labour bureaus, they will do the artificial Government navvy-work at a miserable five francs a day — a railway shunter having at least eighteen francs a day — anything, anything rather than work the land.
Yes, and what does the Government do? replies the bus-driver. They pull the roads to pieces in order to find work for the unemployed, remaking them, across the campagna. But in Sardinia, where roads and bridges are absolutely wanting, will they do anything? No!
There it is, however. The bus-driver, with dark shadows under his eyes, represents the intelligent portion of the conversation. The carabiniere is soft and will go any way, though always with some interest. The little Greek-looking conductor just does not care.
Enters another belated traveller, and takes a seat at the end of the table. The be-shawled brings him soup and a skinny bit of kid. He eyes this last with contempt, and fetches out of his bag a large hunk of roast pork, and bread, and black olives, thus proceeding to make a proper meal.
We being without cigarettes, the bus-driver and his companion press them on us: their beloved Macedonia cigarettes. The driver says they are squisitissimi — most, most exquisite — so exquisite that all foreigners want them. In truth I believe they are exported to Germany now. And they are quite good, when they really have tobacco in them. Usually they are hollow tubes of paper which just flare away under one’s nose and are done.
We decided to have a round drink: they choose the precious aqua vitae: the white sort I think. At last it arrives — when the little dark-eyed one has fetched it. And it tastes rather like sweetened petroleum, with a dash of aniseed: filthy. Most Italian liquors are now sweet and filthy.
At length we rise to go to bed. We shall all meet in the morning. And this room is dead cold, with frost outside. Going out we glance into the famous stanza. One figure alone lies stretched on the floor in the almost complete darkness. A few embers still glow. The other men no doubt are in the bar.
Ah, the filthy bedroom. The q-b ties up her head in a large, clean white kerchief, to avoid contact with the unsavoury pillow. It is a cold, hard, flat bed, with two cold, hard, flat blankets. But we are very tired. Just as we are going to sleep, however, weird, high-pitched singing starts below, very uncanny — with a refrain that is a yelp-yelp-yelp! almost like a dog in angry pain. Weird, almost gruesome this singing goes on, first one voice and then another and then a tangle of voices. Again we are roused by the pounding of heavy feet on the corridor outside, which is as hollow and resonant as a drum. And then in the infernal crew-yard outside a cock crows. Throughout the night — yea, through all the black and frosty hours this demoniac bird screams its demon griefs.
However, it is morning. I gingerly wash a bit of myself in the broken basin, and dry that bit on a muslin veil which masquerades upon the chair as a towel. The q-b contents herself with a dry wipe. And we go downstairs in hopes of the last night’s milk.
There is
no one to be seen. It is a cold, frost-strong, clear morning. There is no one in the bar. We stumble down the dark tunnel passage. The stanza is as if no man had ever set foot in it: very dark, the mats against the wall, the fireplace grey with a handful of long dead ash. Just like a dungeon. The dining-room has the same long table and eternal table-cloth — and our serviettes, still wet, lying where we shovelled them aside. So back again to the bar.
And this time a man is drinking aqua vitae, and the dirty-shirt is officiating. He has no hat on: and extraordinary, he has no brow at all: just flat, straight black hair slanting to his eyebrows, no forehead at all.
Is there coffee?
No, there is no coffee.
Why?
Because they can’t get sugar.
Ho! laughs the peasant drinking aqua vitae. You make coffee with sugar!
Here, say I, they make it with nothing. — Is there milk? No.
No milk at all?
No.
Why not?
Nobody brings it.
Yes, yes — there is milk if they like to get it, puts in the peasant. But they want you to drink aqua vitae.
I see myself drinking aqua vitae. My yesterday’s rage towers up again suddenly, till it quite suffocates me. There is something in this unsavoury, black, wine-dabbled, thick, greasy young man that does for me.
“Why,” say I, lapsing into the Italian rhetorical manner, “why do you keep an inn? Why do you write the word Ristorante so large, when you have nothing to offer people, and don’t intend to have anything. Why do you have the impudence to take in travellers? What does it mean, that this is an inn? What, say, what does it mean? Say then — what does it mean? What does it mean, your Ristorante Risveglio, written so large?”
Getting all this out in one breath, my indignation now stifled me. Him of the shirt said nothing at all. The peasant laughed. I demanded the bill. It was twenty-five francs odd. I picked up every farthing of the change.
Complete Works of D.H. Lawrence (Illustrated) Page 785
