Strange the feeling round the harbour: as if everybody had gone away. Yet there are people about. It is “festa” however, Epiphany. But it is so different from Sicily: none of the suave5 Greek-Italian charms, none of the airs and graces, none of the glamour6. Rather bare, rather stark7, rather cold and yellow—somehow like Malta, without Malta’s foreign liveliness. Thank Goodness no one wants to carry my knapsack. Thank Goodness no one has a fit at the sight of it. Thank Heaven no one takes any notice. They stand cold and aloof3, and don’t move.
We make our way through the Customs: then through the Dazio, the City Customs-house. Then we are free. We set off up a steep, new, broad road, with little trees on either side. But stone, arid8, new, wide stone, yellowish under the cold sky—and abandoned-seeming. Though, of course, there are people about. The north wind blows bitingly.
We climb a broad flight of steps, always upwards9, up the wide, precipitous, dreary10 boulevard with sprouts11 of trees. Looking for the Hotel, and dying with hunger.
At last we find it, the Scala di Ferro: through a courtyard with green plants. And at last a little man with lank12, black hair, like an esquimo, comes smiling. He is one brand of Sardinian—esquimo looking. There is no room with two beds: only single rooms. And thus we are led off, if you please, to the “bagnio”: the bathing-establishment wing, on the dank ground floor. Cubicles13 on either side a stone passage, and in every cubicle14 a dark stone bath, and a little bed. We can have each a little bath cubicle. If there’s nothing else for it, there isn’t: but it seems dank and cold and horrid15, underground. And one thinks of all the unsavory “assignations” at these old bagnio places. True, at the end of the passage are seated two carabinieri. But whether to ensure respectibility or not, Heaven knows. We are in the baths, that’s all.
The esquimo returns after five minutes, however. There is a bedroom in the house. He is pleased, because he didn’t like putting us into the bagnio. Where he found the bedroom I don’t know. But there it was, large, sombre, cold, and over the kitchen fumes16 of a small inner court like a well. But perfectly17 clean and all right. And the people seemed warm and good-natured, like human beings. One has got so used to the non-human ancient-souled Sicilians, who are suave and so completely callous18.
After a really good meal we went out to see the town. It was after three o’clock and everywhere was shut up like an English Sunday. Cold, stony19 Cagliari: in summer you must be sizzling hot, Cagliari, like a kiln20. The men stood about in groups, but without the intimate Italian watchfulness21 that never leaves a passer-by alone.
Strange, stony Cagliari. We climbed up a street like a corkscrew stairway. And we saw announcements of a children’s fancy-dress ball. Cagliari is very steep. Half-way up there is a strange place called the bastions, a large, level space like a drill-ground with trees, curiously22 suspended over the town, and sending off a long shoot like a wide viaduct, across above the corkscrew street that comes climbing up. Above this bastion place the town still rises steeply to the Cathedral and the fort. What is so curious is that this terrace or bastion is so large, like some big recreation ground, that it is almost dreary, and one cannot understand its being suspended in mid-air. Down below is the little circle of the harbour. To the left a low, malarial23-looking sea plain, with tufts of palm trees and Arab-looking houses. From this runs out the long spit of land towards that black-and-white watch-fort, the white road trailing forth24. On the right, most curiously, a long strange spit of sand runs in a causeway far across the shallows of the bay, with the open sea on one hand, and vast, end-of-the-world lagoons25 on the other. There are peaky, dark mountains beyond this—just as across the vast bay are gloomy hills. It is a strange, strange landscape: as if here the world left off. The bay is vast in itself; and all these curious things happening at its head: this curious, craggy-studded town, like a great stud of house-covered rock jutting26 up out of the bay flats: around it on one side the weary, Arab-looking palm-desolated malarial plain, and on the other side great salt lagoons, dead beyond the sand-bar: these backed again by serried27, clustered mountains, suddenly, while away beyond the plain, hills rise to sea again. Land and sea both seem to give out, exhausted28, at the bay head: the world’s end. And into this world’s end starts up Cagliari, and on either side, sudden, serpent-crest hills.
But it still reminds me of Malta: lost between Europe and Africa and belonging to nowhere. Belonging to nowhere, never having belonged to anywhere. To Spain and the Arabs and the Ph?nicians most. But as if it had never really had a fate. No fate. Left outside of time and history.
The spirit of the place is a strange thing. Our mechanical age tries to override29 it. But it does not succeed. In the end the strange, sinister30 spirit of the place, so diverse and adverse31 in differing places, will smash our mechanical oneness into smithereens, and all that we think the real thing will go off with a pop, and we shall be left staring.
On the great parapet above the Municipal Hall and above the corkscrew high-street a thick fringe of people is hanging, looking down. We go to look too: and behold32, below there is the entrance to the ball. Yes, there is a china shepherdess in pale blue and powdered hair, crook33, ribbons, Marie Antoinette satin daintiness and all, slowly and haughtily34 walking up the road, and gazing superbly round. She is not more than twelve years old, moreover. Two servants accompany her. She gazes supremely35 from right to left as she goes, mincingly37, and I would give her the prize for haughtiness38. She is perfect—a little too haughty39 for Watteau, but “marquise” to a T. The people watch in silence. There is no yelling and screaming and running. They watch in a suitable silence.
Comes a carriage with two fat bay horses slithering, almost swimming up the corkscrew high-street. That in itself is a “tour-de-force”: for Cagliari doesn’t have carriages. Imagine a street like a corkscrew stair, paved with slippery stone. And imagine two bay horses rowing their way up it: they did not walk a single stride. But they arrived. And there fluttered out three strangely exquisite40 children, two frail41, white satin Pierrots and a white satin Pierrette. They were like fragile winter butterflies with black spots. They had a curious, indefinable remote elegance42, something conventional and “fin-de-siècle”. But not our century. The wonderful artificial delicacy43 of the eighteenth. The boys had big, perfect ruffs round their necks: and behind were slung44 old, cream-colored Spanish shawls, for warmth. They were frail as tobacco flowers, and with remote, cold elegance they fluttered by the carriage, from which emerged a large black-satin Mama. Fluttering their queer little butterfly feet on the pavement, hovering45 round the large Mama like three frail-tissued ghosts, they found their way past the solid, seated Carabinieri into the hall.
Arrived a primrose-brocade beau, with ruffles46, and his hat under his arm: about twelve years old. Walking statelily, without a qualm up the steep twist of the street. Or perhaps so perfect in his self-consciousness that it became an elegant “aplomb” in him. He was a genuine eighteenth-century exquisite, rather stiffer than the French, maybe, but completely in the spirit. Curious, curious children! They had a certain stand-offish superbness, and not a single trace of misgiving47. For them, their “noblesse” was indisputable. For the first time in my life I recognized the true cold superbness of the old “noblesse”. They had not a single qualm about their own perfect representing of the higher order of being.
Followed another white satin “marquise”, with a maid-servant. They are strong on the eighteenth century in Cagliari. Perhaps it is the last bright reality to them. The nineteenth hardly counts.
Curious the children in Cagliari. The poor seem thoroughly48 poor-bare-footed urchins49, gay and wild in the narrow dark streets. But the more well-to-do children are so fine: so extraordinarily50 elegantly dressed. It quite strikes one of a heap. Not so much the grown-ups. The children. All the “chic,” all the fashion, all the originality51 is expended52 on the children. And with a great deal of success. Better than Kensington Gardens very often. And they promenade53 with Papa and Mama with such alert assurance, having quite brought it off, their fashionable get-up. Who would have expected it?
Oh narrow, dark, and humid streets going up to the Cathedral, like crevices54. I narrowly miss a huge pail of slop-water which comes crashing down from heaven. A small boy who was playing in the street, and whose miss is not quite a clean miss, looks up with that na?ve, impersonal55 wonder with which children stare at a star or a lamp-lighter.
The Cathedral must have been a fine old pagan stone fortress57 once. Now it has come, as it were, through the mincing36 machine of the ages, and oozed58 out baroque and sausagey, a bit like the horrible baldachins in St. Peter’s at Rome. None the less it is homely59 and hole-and-cornery, with a rather ragged60 high mass trailing across the pavement towards the high altar, since it is almost sunset, and Epiphany. It feels as if one might squat61 in a corner and play marbles and eat bread and cheese and be at home: a comfortable old-time churchey feel.
There is some striking filet62 lace on the various altar-cloths. And St. Joseph must be a prime saint. He has an altar and a verse of invocation praying for the dying.
“Oh, St. Joseph, true potential father of Our Lord.” What can it profit a man, I wonder, to be the potential father of anybody! For the rest I am not Baedeker.
The top of Cagliari is the fortress: the old gate, the old ramparts, of honey-combed, fine yellowish sandstone. Up in a great sweep goes the rampart wall, Spanish and splendid, dizzy. And the road creeping down again at the foot, down the back of the hill. There lies the country: that dead plain with its bunch of palms and a fainting sea, and inland again, hills. Cagliari must be on a single, loose, lost bluff64 of rock.
From the terrace just below the fortress, above the town, not behind it, we stand and look at the sunset. It is all terrible, taking place beyond the knotted, serpent-crested hills that lie, bluey and velvety65, beyond the waste lagoons. Dark, sultry, heavy crimson67 the west is, hanging sinisterly68, with those gloomy blue cloud-bars and cloud-banks drawn69 across. All behind the blue-gloomy peaks stretches the curtain of sinister, smouldering red, and away to the sea. Deep below lie the sea-meres. They seem miles and miles, and utterly70 waste. But the sand-bar crosses like a bridge, and has a road. All the air is dark, a sombre bluish tone. The great west burns inwardly, sullenly71, and gives no glow, yet a deep red. It is cold.
We go down the steep streets, smelly, dark, dank, and very cold. No wheeled vehicle can scramble72 up them, presumably. People live in one room. Men are combing their hair or fastening their collars in the doorways73. Evening is here, and it is a feast day.
At the bottom of the street we come to a little bunch of masked youths, one in a long yellow frock and a frilled bonnet75, another like an old woman, another in red twill. They are arm in arm and are accosting76 the passers-by. The q-b gives a cry, and looks for escape. She has a terror of maskers, a terror that comes from childhood. To say the truth, so have I. We hasten invisibly down the far side of the street, and come out under the bastions. Then we go down our own familiar wide, short, cold boulevard to the sea.
At the bottom, again, is a carriage with more maskers. Carnival77 is beginning. A man dressed as a peasant woman in native costume is clambering with his great wide skirts and wide strides on to the box, and, flourishing his ribboned whip, is addressing a little crowd of listeners. He opens his mouth wide and goes on with a long yelling harangue78 of taking a drive with his mother—another man in old-woman’s gaudy79 finery and wig80 who sits already bobbing on the box. The would-be daughter flourishes, yells, and prances81 up there on the box of the carriage. The crowd listens attentively83 and mildly smiles. It all seems real to them. The q-b hovers84 in the distance, half-fascinated, and watches. With a great flourish of whip and legs—showing his frilled drawers—the masker pulls round to drive along the boulevard by the sea—the only place where one can drive.
The big street by the sea is the Via Roma. It has the cafés on one side and across the road the thick tufts of trees intervening between the sea and us. Among these thick tufts of sea-front trees the little steam tram, like a little train, bumps to rest, after having wound round the back of the town.
The Via Roma is all social Cagliari. Including the cafés with their outdoor tables on the one side of the road, and the avenue strand86 on the other, it is very wide, and at evening it contains the whole town. Here, and here alone carriages can spank87 along, very slowly, officers can ride, and the people can promenade “en masse.”
We were amazed at the sudden crowd we found ourselves amongst—like a short, dense88 river of people streaming slowly in a mass. There is practically no vehicular traffic—only the steady dense streams of human beings of all sorts, all on a human footing. It must have been something like this in the streets of imperial Rome, where no chariots might drive and humanity was all on foot.
Little bunches of maskers, and single maskers danced and strutted89 along in the thick flow under the trees. If you are a mask you don’t walk like a human being: you dance and prance82 along extraordinarily like the life-size marionettes, conducted by wires from above. That is how you go: with that odd jauntiness90 as if lifted and propelled by wires from the shoulders. In front of me went a charming coloured harlequin, all in diamond-shaped colours, and beautiful as a piece of china. He tripped with the light, fantastic trip, quite alone in the thick crowd, and quite blithe91. Came two little children hand in hand in brilliant scarlet92 and white costumes, sauntering calmly. They did not do the mask trip. After a while a sky-blue girl with a high hat and full skirts, very short, that went flip-flip-flip, as a ballet dancer’s, whilst she strutted; after her a Spanish grandee93 capering94 like a monkey. They threaded among the slow stream of the crowd. Appeared Dante and Beatrice, in Paradise apparently95, all in white sheet-robes, and with silver wreaths on their heads, arm in arm, and prancing96 very slowly and majestically97, yet with the long lilt as if hitched98 along by wires from above. They were very good: all the well-known vision come to life, Dante incorporate, and white as a shroud99, with his tow-haired, silver-crowned, immortal100 Beatrice on his arm, strutting101 the dark avenues. He had the nose and cheek-bones and banded cheek, and the stupid wooden look, and offered a modern criticism on the Inferno102.
It had become quite dark, the lamps were lighted. We crossed the road to the Café Roma, and found a table on the pavement among the crowd. In a moment we had our tea. The evening was cold, with ice in the wind. But the crowd surged on, back and forth, back and forth, slowly. At the tables were seated mostly men, taking coffee or vermouth or aqua vitae, all familiar and easy, without the modern self-consciousness. There was a certain pleasant, natural robustness103 of spirit, and something of a feudal104 free-and-easiness. Then arrived a family, with children, and nurse in her native costume. They all sat at table together, perfectly easy with one another, though the marvellous nurse seemed to be seated below the salt. She was bright as a poppy, in a rose-scarlet dress of fine cloth, with a curious little waistcoat of emerald green and purple, and a bodice of soft, homespun linen105 with great full sleeves. On her head she had a rose-scarlet and white head-dress, and she wore great studs of gold filigree106, and similar ear-rings. The feudal-bourgeois family drank its syrup-drinks and watched the crowd. Most remarkable107 is the complete absence of self-consciousness. They all have a perfect natural “sang-froid,” the nurse in her marvellous native costume is as thoroughly at her ease as if she were in her own village street. She moves and speaks and calls to a passer-by without the slightest constraint108, and much more, without the slightest presumption109. She is below the invisible salt, the invisible but insuperable salt. And it strikes me the salt-barrier is a fine thing for both parties: they both remain natural and human on either side of it, instead of becoming devilish, scrambling110 and pushing at the barricade111.
The crowd is across the road, under the trees near the sea. On this side stroll occasional pedestrians112. And I see my first peasant in costume. He is an elderly, upright, handsome man, beautiful in the black-and-white costume. He wears the full-sleeved white shirt and the close black bodice of thick, native frieze113, cut low. From this sticks out a short kilt or frill, of the same black frieze, a band of which goes between the legs, between the full loose drawers of coarse linen. The drawers are banded below the knee into tight black frieze gaiters. On his head he has the long black stocking cap, hanging down behind. How handsome he is, and so beautifully male! He walks with his hands loose behind his back, slowly, upright, and aloof. The lovely unapproachableness, indomitable. And the flash of the black and white, the slow stride of the full white drawers, the black gaiters and black cuirass with the bolero, then the great white sleeves and white breast again, and once more the black cap—what marvellous massing of the contrast, marvellous, and superb, as on a magpie114.—How beautiful maleness is, if it finds its right expression.—And how perfectly ridiculous it is made in modern clothes.
There is another peasant too, a young one with a swift eye and hard cheek and hard, dangerous thighs115. He has folded his stocking cap, so that it comes forward to his brow like a phrygian cap. He wears close knee breeches and close sleeved waistcoat of thick brownish stuff that looks like leather. Over the waistcoat a sort of cuirass of black, rusty116 sheepskin, the curly wool outside. So he strides, talking to a comrade. How fascinating it is, after the soft Italians, to see these limbs in their close knee-breeches, so definite, so manly117, with the old fierceness in them still. One realises, with horror, that the race of men is almost extinct in Europe. Only Christ-like heroes and woman-worshipping Don Juans, and rabid equality-mongrels. The old, hardy118, indomitable male is gone. His fierce singleness is quenched119. The last sparks are dying out in Sardinia and Spain. Nothing left but the herd-proletariat and the herd-equality mongrelism, and the wistful poisonous self-sacrificial cultured soul. How detestable.
But that curious, flashing, black-and-white costume! I seem to have known it before: to have worn it even: to have dreamed it. To have dreamed it: to have had actual contact with it. It belongs in some way to something in me—to my past, perhaps. I don’t know. But the uneasy sense of blood-familiarity haunts me. I know I have known it before. It is something of the same uneasiness I feel before Mount Eryx: but without the awe85 this time.
In the morning the sun was shining from a blue, blue sky, but the shadows were deadly cold, and the wind like a flat blade of ice. We went out running to the sun. The hotel could not give us coffee and milk: only a little black coffee. So we descended120 to the sea-front again, to the Via Roma, and to our café. It was Friday: people seemed to be bustling121 in from the country with huge baskets.
The Café Roma had coffee and milk, but no butter. We sat and watched the movement outside. Tiny Sardinian donkeys, the tiniest things ever seen, trotted122 their infinitesimal little paws along the road, drawing little wagons123 like handcarts. Their proportion is so small, that they make a boy walking at their side look like a tall man, while a natural man looks like a Cyclops stalking hugely and cruelly. It is ridiculous for a grown man to have one of these little creatures, hardly bigger than a fly, hauling his load for him. One is pulling a chest of drawers on a cart, and it seems to have a whole house behind it. Nevertheless it plods124 bravely, away beneath the load, a wee thing.
They tell me there used to be flocks of these donkeys, feeding half wild on the wild, moor-like hills of Sardinia. But the war—and also the imbecile wantonness of the war-masters—consumed these flocks too, so that few are left. The same with the cattle. Sardinia, home of cattle, hilly little Argentine of the Mediterranean125, is now almost deserted126. It is war, say the Italiana.—And also the wanton, imbecile, foul127 lavishness128 of the war-masters. It was not alone the war which exhausted the world. It was the deliberate evil wastefulness129 of the war-makers in their own countries. Italy ruined Italy.
Two peasants in black-and-white are strolling in the sun, flashing. And my dream of last evening was not a dream. And my nostalgia130 for something I know not what was not an illusion. I feel it again, at once, at the sight of the men in frieze and linen, a heart yearning131 for something I have known, and which I want back again.
It is market day. We turn up the Largo132 Carlo-Felice, the second wide gap of a street, a vast but very short boulevard, like the end of something. Cagliari is like that: all bits and bobs. And by the side of the pavement are many stalls, stalls selling combs and collar-studs, cheap mirrors, handkerchiefs, shoddy Manchester goods, bed-ticking, boot-paste, poor crockery, and so on. But we see also Madame of Cagliari going marketing133, with a servant accompanying her, carrying a huge grass-woven basket: or returning from marketing, followed by a small boy supporting one of these huge grass-woven baskets—like huge dishes—on his head, piled with bread, eggs, vegetables, a chicken, and so forth. Therefore we follow Madame going marketing, and find ourselves in the vast market house, and it fairly glows with eggs: eggs in these great round dish-baskets of golden grass: but eggs in piles, in mounds134, in heaps, a Sierra Nevada of eggs, glowing warm white. How they glow! I have never noticed it before. But they give off a warm, pearly effulgence135 into the air, almost a warmth. A pearly-gold heat seems to come out of them. Myriads137 of eggs, glowing avenues of eggs.
And they are marked—60 centimes, 65 centimes. Ah, cries the q-b, I must live in Cagliari—For in Sicily the eggs cost 1.50 each.
This is the meat and poultry138 and bread market. There are stalls of new, various-shaped bread, brown and bright: there are tiny stalls of marvellous native cakes, which I want to taste, there is a great deal of meat and kid: and there are stalls of cheese, all cheeses, all shapes, all whitenesses, all the cream-colours, on into daffodil yellow. Goat cheese, sheeps cheese, Swiss cheese, Parmegiano, stracchino, caciocavallo, torolone, how many cheeses I don’t know the names of! But they cost about the same as in Sicily, eighteen francs, twenty francs, twenty-five francs the kilo. And there is lovely ham—thirty and thirty-five francs the kilo. There is a little fresh butter too—thirty or thirty-two francs the kilo. Most of the butter, however, is tinned in Milan. It costs the same as the fresh. There are splendid piles of salted black olives, and huge bowls of green salted olives. There are chickens and ducks and wild-fowl: at eleven and twelve and fourteen francs a kilo. There is mortadella, the enormous Bologna sausage, thick as a church pillar: 16 francs: and there are various sorts of smaller sausage, salami, to be eaten in slices. A wonderful abundance of food, glowing and shining. We are rather late for fish, especially on Friday. But a barefooted man offers us two weird139 objects from the Mediterranean, which teems140 with marine141 monsters.
The peasant women sit behind their wares142, their home-woven linen skirts, hugely full, and of various colours, ballooning round them. The yellow baskets give off a glow of light. There is a sense of profusion143 once more. But alas144 no sense of cheapness: save the eggs. Every month, up goes the price of everything.
“I must come and live in Cagliari, to do my shopping here,” says the q-b. “I must have one of those big grass baskets.”
We went down to the little street—but saw more baskets emerging from a broad flight of stone stairs, enclosed. So up we went-and found ourselves in the vegetable market. Here the q-b was happier still. Peasant women, sometimes barefoot, sat in their tight little bodices and voluminous, coloured skirts behind the piles of vegetables, and never have I seen a lovelier show. The intense deep green of spinach145 seemed to predominate, and out of that came the monuments of curd-white and black-purple cauliflowers: but marvellous cauliflowers, like a flower-show, the purple ones intense as great bunches of violets. From this green, white, and purple massing struck out the vivid rose-scarlet and blue crimson of radishes, large radishes like little turnips146, in piles. Then the long, slim, grey-purple buds of artichokes, and dangling147 clusters of dates, and piles of sugar-dusty white figs148 and sombre-looking black figs, and bright burnt figs: basketfuls and basketfuls of figs. A few baskets of almonds, and many huge walnuts149. Basket-pans of native raisins150. Scarlet peppers like trumpets151: magnificent fennels, so white and big and succulent: baskets of new potatoes: scaly152 kohlrabi: wild asparagus in bunches, yellow-budding sparacelli: big, clean-fleshed carrots: feathery salads with white hearts: long, brown-purple onions and then, of course pyramids of big oranges, pyramids of pale apples, and baskets of brilliant shiny mandarini, the little tangerine153 orange with their green-black leaves. The green and vivid-coloured world of fruit-gleams I have never seen in such splendour as under the market roof at Cagliari: so raw and gorgeous. And all quite cheap, the one remaining cheapness, except potatoes. Potatoes of any sort are 1.40 or 1.50 the kilo.
“Oh!” cried the q-b, “If I don’t live at Cagliari and come and do my shopping here, I shall die with one of my wishes unfulfilled.”
But out of the sun it was cold, nevertheless. We went into the streets to try and get warm. The sun was powerful. But alas, as in southern towns generally, the streets are sunless as wells.
So the q-b and I creep slowly along the sunny bits, and then perforce are swallowed by shadow. We look at the shops. But there is not much to see. Little, frowsy provincial154 shops, on the whole.
But a fair number of peasants in the streets, and peasant women in rather ordinary costume: tight-bodiced, volume-skirted dresses of hand-woven linen or thickish cotton. The prettiest is of dark-blue-and-red, stripes-and-lines, intermingled, so made that the dark-blue gathers round the waist into one colour, the myriad136 pleats hiding all the rosy155 red. But when she walks, the full-petticoated peasant woman, then the red goes flash-flash-flash, like a bird showing its colours. Pretty that looks in the sombre street. She has a plain, light bodice with a peak: sometimes a little vest, and great full white sleeves, and usually a handkerchief or shawl loose knotted. It is charming the way they walk, with quick, short steps. When all is said and done, the most attractive costume for women in my eye, is the tight little bodice and the many-pleated skirt, full and vibrating with movement. It has a charm which modern elegance lacks completely—a bird-like play in movement.
They are amusing, these peasant girls and women: so brisk and defiant156. They have straight backs, like little walls, and decided157, well-drawn brows. And they are amusingly on the alert. There is no eastern creeping. Like sharp, brisk birds they dart158 along the streets, and you feel they would fetch you a bang over the head as leave as look at you. Tenderness, thank heaven, does not seem to be a Sardinian quality. Italy is so tender—like cooked macaroni—yards and yards of soft tenderness ravelled round everything. Here men don’t idealise women, by the looks of things. Here they don’t make these great leering eyes, the inevitable159 yours-to-command look of Italian males. When the men from the country look at these women, then it is Mind-yourself, my lady. I should think the grovelling160 Madonna-worship is not much of a Sardinian feature. These women have to look out for themselves, keep their own back-bone stiff and their knuckles161 hard. Man is going to be male Lord if he can. And woman isn’t going to give him too much of his own way, either. So there you have it, the fine old martial162 split between the sexes. It is tonic163 and splendid, really, after so much sticky intermingling and backboneless Madonna-worship. The Sardinian isn’t looking for the “noble woman nobly planned.” No, thank you. He wants that young madam over there, a young stiff-necked generation that she is. Far better sport than with the nobly-planned sort: hollow frauds that they are. Better sport too than with a Carmen, who gives herself away too much, In these women there is something shy and defiant and un-get-atable. The defiant, splendid split between the sexes, each absolutely determined164 to defend his side, her side, from assault. So the meeting has a certain wild, salty savour, each the deadly unknown to the other. And at the same time, each his own, her own native pride and courage, taking the dangerous leap and scrambling back.
Give me the old, salty way of love. How I am nauseated165 with sentiment and nobility, the macaroni slithery-slobbery mess of modern adorations.
One sees a few fascinating faces in Cagliari: those great dark unlighted eyes. There are fascinating dark eyes in Sicily, bright, big, with an impudent166 point of light, and a curious roll, and long lashes167: the eyes of old Greece, surely. But here one sees eyes of soft, blank darkness, all velvet66, with no imp56 looking out of them. And they strike a stranger, older note: before the soul became self-conscious: before the mentality168 of Greece appeared in the world. Remote, always remote, as if the intelligence lay deep within the cave, and never came forward. One searches into the gloom for one second, while the glance lasts. But without being able to penetrate169 to the reality. It recedes170, like some unknown creature deeper into its lair171. There is a creature, dark and potent63. But what?
Sometimes Velasquez, and sometimes Goya gives us a suggestion of these large, dark, unlighted eyes. And they go with fine, fleecy black hair—almost as fine as fur. I have not seen them north of Cagliari.
The q-b spies some of the blue-and-red stripe-and-line cotton stuff of which the peasants make their dress: a large roll in the doorway74 of a dark shop. In we go, and begin to feel it. It is just soft, thickish cotton stuff—twelve francs a metre. Like most peasant patterns, it is much more complicated and subtle than appears: the curious placing of the stripes, the subtle proportion, and a white thread left down one side only of each broad blue block. The stripes, moreover, run across the cloth, not lengthwise with it. But the width would be just long enough for a skirt—though the peasant skirts have almost all a band at the bottom with the stripes running round-ways.
The man—he is the esquimo type, simple, frank and aimiable—says the stuff is made in France, and this the first roll since the war. It is the old, old pattern, quite correct—but the material not quite so good. The q-b takes enough for a dress.
He shows us also cashmeres, orange, scarlet, sky-blue, royal blue: good, pure-wool cashmeres that were being sent to India, and were captured from a German mercantile sub-marine. So he says. Fifty francs a metre—very, very wide. But they are too much trouble to carry in a knapsack, though their brilliance172 fascinates.
So we stroll and look at the shops, at the filigree gold jewelling of the peasants, at a good bookshop. But there is little to see and therefore the question is, shall we go on? Shall we go forward?
There are two ways of leaving Cagliari for the north: the State railway that runs up the west side of the island, and the narrow-gauge secondary railway that pierces the centre. But we are too late for the big trains. So we will go by the secondary railway, wherever it goes.
There is a train at 2.30, and we can get as far as Mandas, some fifty miles in the interior. When we tell the queer little waiter at the hotel, he says he comes from Mandas, and there are two inns. So after lunch—a strictly173 fish menu—we pay our bill. It comes to sixty odd francs—for three good meals each, with wine, and the night’s lodging174, this is cheap, as prices now are in Italy.
Pleased with the simple and friendly Scala di Ferre, I shoulder my sack and we walk off to the second station. The sun is shining hot this afternoon—burning hot, by the sea. The road and the buildings look dry and desiccated, the harbour rather weary and end of the world.
There is a great crowd of peasants at the little station. And almost every man has a pair of woven saddle-bags—a great flat strip of coarse-woven wool, with flat pockets at either end, stuffed with purchases. These are almost the only carrying bags. The men sling175 them over their shoulder, so that one great pocket hangs in front, one behind.
These saddle bags are most fascinating. They are coarsely woven in bands of raw black-rusty wool, with varying bands of raw white wool or hemp176 or cotton—the bands and stripes of varying widths going cross-wise. And on the pale bands are woven sometimes flowers in most lovely colours, rose-red and blue and green, peasant patterns—and sometimes fantastic animals, beasts, in dark wool again. So that these striped zebra bags, some wonderful gay with flowery colours on their stripes, some weird with fantastic, griffin-like animals, are a whole landscape in themselves.
The train has only first and third class. It costs about thirty francs for the two of us, third class to Mandas, which is some sixty miles. In we crowd with the joyful177 saddle-bags, into the wooden carriage with its many seats.
And, wonder of wonders, punctually to the second, off we go, out of Cagliari. En route again.
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1
quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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2
aloofness
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| 超然态度 | |
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aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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vindictiveness
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| 恶毒；怀恨在心 | |
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suave
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| adj.温和的；柔和的；文雅的 | |
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glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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11
sprouts
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| n.新芽，嫩枝( sprout的名词复数 )v.发芽( sprout的第三人称单数 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
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lank
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| adj.瘦削的；稀疏的 | |
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13
cubicles
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| n.小卧室，斗室( cubicle的名词复数 ) | |
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cubicle
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| n.大房间中隔出的小室 | |
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15
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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16
fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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17
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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18
callous
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| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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19
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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20
kiln
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| n.（砖、石灰等）窑，炉；v.烧窑 | |
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21
watchfulness
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| 警惕，留心； 警觉（性） | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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23
malarial
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| 患疟疾的，毒气的 | |
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24
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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25
lagoons
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| n.污水池( lagoon的名词复数 )；潟湖；（大湖或江河附近的）小而浅的淡水湖；温泉形成的池塘 | |
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26
jutting
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| v.（使）突出( jut的现在分词 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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27
serried
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| adj.拥挤的；密集的 | |
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28
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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29
override
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| vt.不顾，不理睬，否决；压倒，优先于 | |
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30
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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31
adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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32
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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33
crook
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| v.使弯曲；n.小偷，骗子，贼；弯曲(处) | |
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34
haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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35
supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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36
mincing
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| adj.矫饰的；v.切碎；切碎 | |
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37
mincingly
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38
haughtiness
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| n.傲慢；傲气 | |
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39
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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40
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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41
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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42
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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43
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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44
slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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45
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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46
ruffles
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| 褶裥花边( ruffle的名词复数 ) | |
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47
misgiving
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
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48
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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49
urchins
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| n.顽童( urchin的名词复数 )；淘气鬼；猬；海胆 | |
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50
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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51
originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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52
expended
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| v.花费( expend的过去式和过去分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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53
promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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54
crevices
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| n.（尤指岩石的）裂缝，缺口( crevice的名词复数 ) | |
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55
impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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56
imp
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| n.顽童 | |
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57
fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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58
oozed
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| v.（浓液等）慢慢地冒出，渗出( ooze的过去式和过去分词 )；使（液体）缓缓流出；（浓液）渗出，慢慢流出 | |
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59
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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60
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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61
squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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62
filet
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| n.肉片；鱼片 | |
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63
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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64
bluff
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| v.虚张声势，用假象骗人；n.虚张声势，欺骗 | |
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65
velvety
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| adj. 像天鹅绒的, 轻软光滑的, 柔软的 | |
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66
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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67
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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68
sinisterly
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| 不吉祥地，邪恶地 | |
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69
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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70
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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72
scramble
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| v.爬行，攀爬，杂乱蔓延，碎片，片段，废料 | |
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73
doorways
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| n.门口，门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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75
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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76
accosting
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的现在分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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77
carnival
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| n.嘉年华会，狂欢，狂欢节，巡回表演 | |
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78
harangue
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| n.慷慨冗长的训话，言辞激烈的讲话 | |
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gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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wig
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| n.假发 | |
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81
prances
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| v.（马）腾跃( prance的第三人称单数 ) | |
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prance
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| v.（马）腾跃，(人)神气活现地走 | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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hovers
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| 鸟( hover的第三人称单数 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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85
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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87
spank
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| v.打，拍打(在屁股上) | |
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88
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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89
strutted
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| 趾高气扬地走，高视阔步( strut的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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90
jauntiness
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| n.心满意足；洋洋得意；高兴；活泼 | |
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blithe
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| adj.快乐的，无忧无虑的 | |
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92
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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93
grandee
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| n.贵族；大公 | |
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94
capering
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| v.跳跃，雀跃( caper的现在分词 )；蹦蹦跳跳 | |
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95
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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96
prancing
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| v.（马）腾跃( prance的现在分词 ) | |
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97
majestically
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| 雄伟地； 庄重地； 威严地； 崇高地 | |
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98
hitched
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| （免费）搭乘他人之车( hitch的过去式和过去分词 )； 搭便车； 攀上； 跃上 | |
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99
shroud
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| n.裹尸布，寿衣；罩，幕；vt.覆盖，隐藏 | |
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100
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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101
strutting
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| 加固，支撑物 | |
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102
inferno
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| n.火海；地狱般的场所 | |
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103
robustness
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| 坚固性，健壮性；鲁棒性 | |
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104
feudal
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| adj.封建的，封地的，领地的 | |
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105
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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106
filigree
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| n.金银丝做的工艺品；v.用金银细丝饰品装饰；用华而不实的饰品装饰；adj.金银细丝工艺的 | |
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107
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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108
constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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109
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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110
scrambling
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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111
barricade
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| n.路障，栅栏，障碍；vt.设路障挡住 | |
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112
pedestrians
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| n.步行者( pedestrian的名词复数 ) | |
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113
frieze
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| n.(墙上的)横饰带，雕带 | |
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114
magpie
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| n.喜欢收藏物品的人，喜鹊，饶舌者 | |
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115
thighs
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| n.股，大腿( thigh的名词复数 )；食用的鸡（等的）腿 | |
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116
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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119
quenched
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| 解（渴）( quench的过去式和过去分词 )； 终止（某事物）； （用水）扑灭（火焰等）； 将（热物体）放入水中急速冷却 | |
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120
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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121
bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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122
trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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123
wagons
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| n.四轮的运货马车( wagon的名词复数 )；铁路货车；小手推车 | |
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124
plods
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| v.沉重缓慢地走（路）( plod的第三人称单数 )；努力从事；沉闷地苦干；缓慢进行（尤指艰难枯燥的工作） | |
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125
Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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126
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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128
lavishness
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| n.浪费，过度 | |
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129
wastefulness
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| 浪费，挥霍，耗费 | |
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130
nostalgia
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| n.怀乡病，留恋过去，怀旧 | |
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131
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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largo
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| n.广板乐章；adj.缓慢的，宽广的；adv.缓慢地，宽广地 | |
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133
marketing
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| n.行销，在市场的买卖，买东西 | |
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134
mounds
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| 土堆，土丘( mound的名词复数 )； 一大堆 | |
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effulgence
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| n.光辉 | |
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136
myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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137
myriads
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| n.无数，极大数量( myriad的名词复数 ) | |
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138
poultry
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| n.家禽，禽肉 | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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teems
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| v.充满( teem的第三人称单数 )；到处都是；（指水、雨等）暴降；倾注 | |
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141
marine
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| adj.海的；海生的；航海的；海事的；n.水兵 | |
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142
wares
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| n. 货物, 商品 | |
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143
profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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144
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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145
spinach
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| n.菠菜 | |
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146
turnips
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| 芜青( turnip的名词复数 )； 芜菁块根； 芜菁甘蓝块根； 怀表 | |
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dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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148
figs
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| figures 数字，图形，外形 | |
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149
walnuts
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| 胡桃（树）( walnut的名词复数 )； 胡桃木 | |
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raisins
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| n.葡萄干( raisin的名词复数 ) | |
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151
trumpets
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| 喇叭( trumpet的名词复数 )； 小号； 喇叭形物； （尤指）绽开的水仙花 | |
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152
scaly
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| adj.鱼鳞状的；干燥粗糙的 | |
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153
tangerine
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| n.橘子，橘子树 | |
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154
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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158
dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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159
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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160
grovelling
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| adj.卑下的，奴颜婢膝的v.卑躬屈节，奴颜婢膝( grovel的现在分词 )；趴 | |
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161
knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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162
martial
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| adj.战争的，军事的，尚武的，威武的 | |
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tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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165
nauseated
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| adj.作呕的，厌恶的v.使恶心，作呕( nauseate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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166
impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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167
lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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168
mentality
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| n.心理，思想，脑力 | |
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169
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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170
recedes
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的第三人称单数 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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171
lair
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| n.野兽的巢穴；躲藏处 | |
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172
brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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173
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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174
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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175
sling
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| vt.扔；悬挂；n.挂带；吊索，吊兜；弹弓 | |
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176
hemp
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| n.大麻；纤维 | |
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177
joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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