Approach of evening in a land of black mountains. Fine, cold rain like a
winding sheet. A highway crawling along the narrow valley, about half
way up the height, like a man bent over a stone, or a goat; from afar it
looks like a woolen thread stretched across a cliff.
The wet rocks shone like black coals, or metal mirrors. Now and then a
ray of light from the west slipped across the barren waste.
It was cold. What difference did it make if it was? In the cell of a
cloister I knew there was a hearth kept warm for me; I was hastening
toward the warmth, toward people--even if they were silent
people--toward the smoke of homes and the cheerful light.
Beside me holding the reins sat the owner of the cart; huge, raw-boned,
grey, crabbed. Behind his brow colossal thoughts were crowding. We were
driving at top speed. Silence had reigned between us for some time.
He had offered me a seat beside him with a gesture of the hand which
said: “Perhaps it will give you pleasure to drive through a couple of
villages with me. You know, of course--” They all have the manners of
dethroned princes. He had used his whip with the _grandezza_ of a
capitalist upon the Corso in Buda.
Still it rains. It is cold.
* * * * *
I wrap myself closer in my sheepskin. For hours we have not exchanged a
word. Why should we?
Then the highway makes a sharp curve--and--suddenly, the horse jumps to
one side, curves back and neck, stiffens his front legs, while myriads
of stars shoot from his iron shoes--and stops. We are all but thrown
out. What is the trouble? Now imagine--I lift my head and try to
see--what a strange thing is life--I see--a long road black with hogs.
Fifty, a hundred, a thousand, ten thousand--even this gives you no
conception of the number. Thousands of hogs crowding around a swine
herd.
And the swine herd sits upon a milestone. He holds a one-string violin
upon his knee, from which from time to time he draws two notes, one high
and one low, as accompaniment to a song. With the dignity of a royal
bard, with the calmness of a ruling prince, he addressed his people--his
herd of hogs. Thus Homer spake; thus Ossian sang.