THE PLACE CALLED CALIFANO
There is no mistake about it, Alvina was a lost girl. She was cut off
from everything she belonged to. Ovid isolated in Thrace might well
lament. The soul itself needs its own mysterious nourishment. This
nourishment lacking, nothing is well.
At Pescocalascio it was the mysterious influence of the mountains and
valleys themselves which seemed always to be annihilating the
Englishwoman: nay, not only her, but the very natives themselves.
Ciccio and Pancrazio clung to her, essentially, as if she saved them
also from extinction. It needed all her courage. Truly, she had to
support the souls of the two men.
At first she did not realize. She was only stunned with the strangeness
of it all: startled, half-enraptured with the terrific beauty of the
place, half-horrified by its savage annihilation of her. But she was
stunned. The days went by.
It seems there are places which resist us, which have the power to
overthrow our psychic being. It seems as if every country has its
potent negative centres, localities which savagely and triumphantly
refuse our living culture. And Alvina had struck one of them, here on
the edge of the Abruzzi.
She was not in the village of Pescocalascio itself. That was a long
hour’s walk away. Pancrazio’s house was the chief of a tiny hamlet of
three houses, called Califano because the Califanos had made it. There
was the ancient, savage hole of a house, quite windowless, where
Pancrazio and Ciccio’s mother had been born: the family home. Then
there was Pancrazio’s villa. And then, a little below, another newish,
modern house in a sort of wild meadow, inhabited by the peasants who
worked the land. Ten minutes’ walk away was another cluster of seven or
eight houses, where Giovanni lived. But there was no shop, no post
nearer than Pescocalascio, an hour’s heavy road up deep and rocky,
wearying tracks.
And yet, what could be more lovely than the sunny days: pure, hot, blue
days among the mountain foothills: irregular, steep little hills half
wild with twiggy brown oak-trees and marshes and broom heaths, half
cultivated, in a wild, scattered fashion. Lovely, in the lost hollows
beyond a marsh, to see Ciccio slowly ploughing with two great white
oxen: lovely to go with Pancrazio down to the wild scrub that bordered
the river-bed, then over the white-bouldered, massive desert and across
stream to the other scrubby savage shore, and so up to the high-road.
Pancrazio was very happy if Alvina would accompany him. He liked it
that she was not afraid. And her sense of the beauty of the place was
an infinite relief to him.
Nothing could have been more marvellous than the winter twilight.
Sometimes Alvina and Pancrazio were late returning with the ass. And
then gingerly the ass would step down the steep banks, already
beginning to freeze when the sun went down. And again and again he
would balk the stream, while a violet-blue dusk descended on the white,
wide stream-bed, and the scrub and lower hills became dark, and in
heaven, oh, almost unbearably lovely, the snow of the near mountains
was burning rose, against the dark-blue heavens. How unspeakably lovely
it was, no one could ever tell, the grand, pagan twilight of the
valleys, savage, cold, with a sense of ancient gods who knew the right
for human sacrifice. It stole away the soul of Alvina. She felt
transfigured in it, clairvoyant in another mystery of life. A savage
hardness came in her heart. The gods who had demanded human sacrifice
were quite right, immutably right. The fierce, savage gods who dipped
their lips in blood, these were the true gods.
The terror, the agony, the nostalgia of the heathen past was a constant
torture to her mediumistic soul. She did not know what it was. But it
was a kind of neuralgia in the very soul, never to be located in the
human body, and yet physical. Coming over the brow of a heathy, rocky
hillock, and seeing Ciccio beyond leaning deep over the plough, in his
white shirt-sleeves following the slow, waving, moth-pale oxen across a
small track of land turned up in the heathen hollow, her soul would go
all faint, she would almost swoon with realization of the world that
had gone before. And Ciccio was so silent, there seemed so much dumb
magic and anguish in him, as if he were for ever afraid of himself and
the thing he was. He seemed, in his silence, to _concentrate_ upon her
so terribly. She believed she would not live.
Sometimes she would go gathering acorns, large, fine acorns, a precious
crop in that land where the fat pig was almost an object of veneration.
Silently she would crouch filling the pannier. And far off she would
hear the sound of Giovanni chopping wood, of Ciccio calling to the oxen
or Pancrazio making noises to the ass, or the sound of a peasant’s
mattock. Over all the constant speech of the passing river, and the
real breathing presence of the upper snows. And a wild, terrible
happiness would take hold of her, beyond despair, but very like
despair. No one would ever find her. She had gone beyond the world into
the pre-world, she had reopened on the old eternity.
And then Maria, the little elvish old wife of Giovanni, would come up
with the cows. One cow she held by a rope round its horns, and she
hauled it from the patches of young corn into the rough grass, from the
little plantation of trees in among the heath. Maria wore the
full-pleated white-sleeved dress of the peasants, and a red kerchief on
her head. But her dress was dirty, and her face was dirty, and the big
gold rings of her ears hung from ears which perhaps had never been
washed. She was rather smoke-dried too, from perpetual wood-smoke.
Maria in her red kerchief hauling the white cow, and screaming at it,
would come laughing towards Alvina, who was rather afraid of cows. And
then, screaming high in dialect, Maria would talk to her. Alvina smiled
and tried to understand. Impossible. It was not strictly a human
speech. It was rather like the crying of half-articulate animals. It
certainly was not Italian. And yet Alvina by dint of constant hearing
began to pick up the coagulated phrases.
She liked Maria. She liked them all. They were all very kind to her, as
far as they knew. But they did not know. And they were kind with each
other. For they all seemed lost, like lost, forlorn aborigines, and
they treated Alvina as if she were a higher being. They loved her that
she would strip maize-cobs or pick acorns. But they were all anxious to
serve her. And it seemed as if they needed some one to serve. It seemed
as if Alvina, the Englishwoman, had a certain magic glamour for them,
and so long as she was happy, it was a supreme joy and relief to them
to have her there. But it seemed to her she would not live.
And when she was unhappy! Ah, the dreadful days of cold rain mingled
with sleet, when the world outside was more than impossible, and the
house inside was a horror. The natives kept themselves alive by going
about constantly working, dumb and elemental. But what was Alvina to
do?
For the house was unspeakable. The only two habitable rooms were the
kitchen and Alvina’s bedroom: and the kitchen, with its little grated
windows high up in the wall, one of which had a broken pane and must
keep one-half of its shutters closed, was like a dark cavern vaulted
and bitter with wood-smoke. Seated on the settle before the fire, the
hard, greasy settle, Alvina could indeed keep the fire going, with
faggots of green oak. But the smoke hurt her chest, she was not clean
for one moment, and she could do nothing else. The bedroom again was
just impossibly cold. And there was no other place. And from far away
came the wild braying of an ass, primeval and desperate in the snow.
The house was quite large; but uninhabitable. Downstairs, on the left
of the wide passage where the ass occasionally stood out of the
weather, and where the chickens wandered in search of treasure, was a
big, long apartment where Pancrazio kept implements and tools and
potatoes and pumpkins, and where four or five rabbits hopped
unexpectedly out of the shadows. Opposite this, on the right, was the
cantina, a dark place with wine-barrels and more agricultural stores.
This was the whole of the downstairs.
Going upstairs, half way up, at the turn of the stairs was the opening
of a sort of barn, a great wire-netting behind which showed a glow of
orange maize-cobs and some wheat. Upstairs were four rooms. But
Alvina’s room alone was furnished. Pancrazio slept in the unfurnished
bedroom opposite, on a pile of old clothes. Beyond was a room with
litter in it, a chest of drawers, and rubbish of old books and
photographs Pancrazio had brought from England. There was a battered
photograph of Lord Leighton, among others. The fourth room, approached
through the corn-chamber, was always locked.
Outside was just as hopeless. There had been a little garden within the
stone enclosure. But fowls, geese, and the ass had made an end of this.
Fowl-droppings were everywhere, indoors and out, the ass left his pile
of droppings to steam in the winter air on the threshold, while his
heartrending bray rent the air. Roads there were none: only deep
tracks, like profound ruts with rocks in them, in the hollows, and
rocky, grooved tracks over the brows. The hollow grooves were full of
mud and water, and one struggled slipperily from rock to rock, or along
narrow grass-ledges.
What was to be done, then, on mornings that were dark with sleet?
Pancrazio would bring a kettle of hot water at about half-past eight.
For had he not travelled Europe with English gentlemen, as a sort of
model-valet! Had he not _loved_ his English gentlemen? Even now, he was
infinitely happier performing these little attentions for Alvina than
attending to his wretched domains.
Ciccio rose early, and went about in the hap-hazard, useless way of
Italians all day long, getting nothing done. Alvina came out of the icy
bedroom to the black kitchen. Pancrazio would be gallantly heating milk
for her, at the end of a long stick. So she would sit on the settle and
drink her coffee and milk, into which she dipped her dry bread. Then
the day was before her.
She washed her cup and her enamelled plate, and she tried to clean the
kitchen. But Pancrazio had on the fire a great black pot, dangling from
the chain. He was boiling food for the eternal pig—the only creature
for which any cooking was done. Ciccio was tramping in with faggots.
Pancrazio went in and out, back and forth from his pot.
Alvina stroked her brow and decided on a method. Once she was rid of
Pancrazio, she would wash every cup and plate and utensil in boiling
water. Well, at last Pancrazio went off with his great black pan, and
she set to. But there were not six pieces of crockery in the house, and
not more than six cooking utensils. These were soon scrubbed. Then she
scrubbed the two little tables and the shelves. She lined the
food-chest with clean paper. She washed the high window-ledges and the
narrow mantel-piece, that had large mounds of dusty candle-wax, in
deposits. Then she tackled the settle. She scrubbed it also. Then she
looked at the floor. And even she, English housewife as she was,
realized the futility of trying to wash it. As well try to wash the
earth itself outside. It was just a piece of stone-laid earth. She
swept it as well as she could, and made a little order in the
faggot-heap in the corner. Then she washed the little, high-up windows,
to try and let in light.
And what was the difference? A dank wet soapy smell, and not much more.
Maria had kept scuffling admiringly in and out, crying her wonderment
and approval. She had most ostentatiously chased out an obtrusive hen,
from this temple of cleanliness. And that was all.
It was hopeless. The same black walls, the same floor, the same cold
from behind, the same green-oak wood-smoke, the same bucket of water
from the well—the same come-and-go of aimless busy men, the same cackle
of wet hens, the same hopeless nothingness.
Alvina stood up against it for a time. And then she caught a bad cold,
and was wretched. Probably it was the wood-smoke. But her chest was
raw, she felt weak and miserable. She could not sit in her bedroom, for
it was too cold. If she sat in the darkness of the kitchen she was hurt
with smoke, and perpetually cold behind her neck. And Pancrazio rather
resented the amount of faggots consumed for nothing. The only hope
would have been in work. But there was nothing in that house to be
done. How could she even sew?
She was to prepare the mid-day and evening meals. But with no pots, and
over a smoking wood fire, what could she prepare? Black and greasy, she
boiled potatoes and fried meat in lard, in a long-handled frying pan.
Then Pancrazio decreed that Maria should prepare macaroni with the
tomato sauce, and thick vegetable soup, and sometimes polenta. This
coarse, heavy food was wearying beyond words.
Alvina began to feel she would die, in the awful comfortless
meaninglessness of it all. True, sunny days returned and some magic.
But she was weak and feverish with her cold, which would not get
better. So that even in the sunshine the crude comfortlessness and
inferior savagery of the place only repelled her.
The others were depressed when she was unhappy.
“Do you wish you were back in England?” Ciccio asked her, with a little
sardonic bitterness in his voice. She looked at him without answering.
He ducked and went away.
“We will make a fire-place in the other bedroom,” said Pancrazio.
No sooner said than done. Ciccio persuaded Alvina to stay in bed a few
days. She was thankful to take refuge. Then she heard a rare
come-and-go. Pancrazio, Ciccio, Giovanni, Maria and a mason all set
about the fire-place. Up and down stairs they went, Maria carrying
stone and lime on her head, and swerving in Alvina’s doorway, with her
burden perched aloft, to shout a few unintelligible words. In the
intervals of lime-carrying she brought the invalid her soup or her
coffee or her hot milk.
It turned out quite a good job—a pleasant room with two windows, that
would have all the sun in the afternoon, and would see the mountains on
one hand, the far-off village perched up on the other. When she was
well enough they set off one early Monday morning to the market in
Ossona. They left the house by starlight, but dawn was coming by the
time they reached the river. At the high-road, Pancrazio harnessed the
ass, and after endless delay they jogged off to Ossona. The dawning
mountains were wonderful, dim-green and mauve and rose, the ground rang
with frost. Along the roads many peasants were trooping to market,
women in their best dresses, some of thick heavy silk with the white,
full-sleeved bodices, dresses green, lavender, dark-red, with gay
kerchiefs on the head: men muffled in cloaks, treading silently in
their pointed skin sandals: asses with loads, carts full of peasants, a
belated cow.
The market was lovely, there in the crown of the pass, in the old town,
on the frosty sunny morning. Bulls, cows, sheep, pigs, goats stood and
lay about under the bare little trees on the platform high over the
valley: some one had kindled a great fire of brush-wood, and men
crowded round, out of the blue frost. From laden asses vegetables were
unloaded, from little carts all kinds of things, boots, pots, tin-ware,
hats, sweet-things, and heaps of corn and beans and seeds. By eight
o’clock in the December morning the market was in full swing: a great
crowd of handsome mountain people, all peasants, nearly all in costume,
with different head-dresses.
Ciccio and Pancrazio and Alvina went quietly about. They bought pots
and pans and vegetables and sweet-things and thick rush matting and two
wooden arm-chairs and one old soft arm-chair, going quietly and
bargaining modestly among the crowd, as Anglicized Italians do.
The sun came on to the market at about nine o’clock, and then, from the
terrace of the town gate, Alvina looked down on the wonderful sight of
all the coloured dresses of the peasant women, the black hats of the
men, the heaps of goods, the squealing pigs, the pale lovely cattle,
the many tethered asses—and she wondered if she would die before she
became one with it altogether. It was impossible for her to become one
with it altogether. Ciccio would have to take her to England again, or
to America. He was always hinting at America.
But then, Italy might enter the war. Even here it was the great theme
of conversation. She looked down on the seethe of the market. The sun
was warm on her. Ciccio and Pancrazio were bargaining for two cowskin
rugs: she saw Ciccio standing with his head rather forward. Her
husband! She felt her heart die away within her.
All those other peasant women, did they feel as she did?—the same sort
of acquiescent passion, the same lapse of life? She believed they did.
The same helpless passion for the man, the same remoteness from the
world’s actuality? Probably, under all their tension of money and
money-grubbing and vindictive mountain morality and rather horrible
religion, probably they felt the same. She was one with them. But she
could never endure it for a life-time. It was only a test on her.
Ciccio must take her to America, or England—to America preferably.
And even as he turned to look for her, she felt a strange thrilling in
her bowels: a sort of trill strangely within her, yet extraneous to
her. She caught her hand to her flank. And Ciccio was looking up for
her from the market beneath, searching with that quick, hasty look. He
caught sight of her. She seemed to glow with a delicate light for him,
there beyond all the women. He came straight towards her, smiling his
slow, enigmatic smile. He could not bear it if he lost her. She knew
how he loved her—almost inhumanly, elementally, without communication.
And she stood with her hand to her side, her face frightened. She
hardly noticed him. It seemed to her she was with child. And yet in the
whole market-place she was aware of nothing but him.
“We have bought the skins,” he said. “Twenty-seven lire each.”
She looked at him, his dark skin, his golden eyes—so near to her, so
unified with her, yet so incommunicably remote. How far off was his
being from hers!
“I believe I’m going to have a child,” she said.
“Eh?” he ejaculated quickly. But he had understood. His eyes shone
weirdly on her. She felt the strange terror and loveliness of his
passion. And she wished she could lie down there by that town gate, in
the sun, and swoon for ever unconscious. Living was almost too great a
demand on her. His yellow, luminous eyes watched her and enveloped her.
There was nothing for her but to yield, yield, yield. And yet she could
not sink to earth.
She saw Pancrazio carrying the skins to the little cart, which was
tilted up under a small, pale-stemmed tree on the platform above the
valley. Then she saw him making his way quickly back through the crowd,
to rejoin them.
“Did you feel something?” said Ciccio.
“Yes—here—!” she said, pressing her hand on her side as the sensation
trilled once more upon her consciousness. She looked at him with
remote, frightened eyes.
“That’s good—” he said, his eyes full of a triumphant, incommunicable
meaning.
“Well!—And now,” said Pancrazio, coming up, “shall we go and eat
something?”
They jogged home in the little flat cart in the wintry afternoon. It
was almost night before they had got the ass untackled from the shafts,
at the wild lonely house where Pancrazio left the cart. Giovanni was
there with the lantern. Ciccio went on ahead with Alvina, whilst the
others stood to load up the ass by the high-way.
Ciccio watched Alvina carefully. When they were over the river, and
among the dark scrub, he took her in his arms and kissed her with long,
terrible passion. She saw the snow-ridges flare with evening, beyond
his cheek. They had glowed dawn as she crossed the river outwards, they
were white-fiery now in the dusk sky as she returned. What strange
valley of shadow was she threading? What was the terrible man’s passion
that haunted her like a dark angel? Why was she so much beyond herself?