At our end was plenty of room. Just across the gangway was an elderly couple, like two children, coming home very happily. He was fat, fat all over, with a white moustache and a little not-unamiable frown. She was a tall lean, brown woman, in a brown full-skirted dress and black apron2, with huge pocket. She wore no head covering, and her iron grey hair was parted smoothly3. They were rather pleased and excited being in the train. She took all her money out of her big pocket, and counted it and gave it to him: all the ten Lira notes, and the five Lira and the two and the one, peering at the dirty scraps4 of pink-backed one-lira notes to see if they were good. Then she gave him her half-pennies. And he stowed them away in the trouser pocket, standing5 up to push them down his fat leg. And then one saw, to one’s amazement6, that the whole of his shirt-tail was left out behind, like a sort of apron worn backwards7. Why—a mystery. He was one of those fat, good-natured, unheeding men with a little masterful frown, such as usually have tall, lean, hard-faced, obedient wives.
They were very happy. With amazement he watched us taking hot tea from the Thermos8 flask9. I think he too had suspected it might be a bomb. He had blue eyes and standing-up white eyebrows10.
“Beautiful hot—!” he said, seeing the tea steam. It is the inevitable11 exclamation12. “Does it do you good?”
“Yes,” said the q-b. “Much good.” And they both nodded complacently13. They were going home.
The train was running over the malarial-looking sea-plain—past the down-at-heel palm trees, past the mosque-looking buildings. At a level crossing the woman crossing-keeper darted14 out vigorously with her red flag. And we rambled15 into the first village. It was built of sun-dried brick-adobe16 houses, thick adobe garden-walls, with tile ridges18 to keep off the rain. In the enclosures were dark orange trees. But the clay-coloured villages, clay-dry, looked foreign: the next thing to mere19 earth they seem, like fox-holes or coyote colonies.
Looking back, one sees Cagliari bluff20 on her rock, rather fine, with the thin edge of the sea’s blade curving round. It is rather hard to believe in the real sea, on this sort of clay-pale plain.
But soon we begin to climb to the hills. And soon the cultivation21 begins to be intermittent22. Extraordinary how the heathy, moor-like hills come near the sea: extraordinary how scrubby and uninhabited the great spaces of Sardinia are. It is wild, with heath and arbutus scrub and a sort of myrtle, breast-high. Sometimes one sees a few head of cattle. And then again come the greyish arable23-patches, where the corn is grown. It is like Cornwall, like the Land’s End region. Here and there, in the distance, are peasants working on the lonely landscape. Sometimes it is one man alone in the distance, showing so vividly24 in his black-and-white costume, small and far-off like a solitary25 magpie26, and curiously27 distinct. All the strange magic of Sardinia is in this sight. Among the low, moor-like hills, away in a hollow of the wide landscape one solitary figure, small but vivid black-and-white, working alone, as if eternally. There are patches and hollows of grey arable land, good for corn. Sardinia was once a great granary.
Usually, however, the peasants of the South have left off the costume. Usually it is the invisible soldiers’ grey-green cloth, the Italian khaki. Wherever you go, wherever you be, you see this khaki, this grey-green war-clothing. How many millions of yards of the thick, excellent, but hateful material the Italian government must have provided I don’t know: but enough to cover Italy with a felt carpet, I should think. It is everywhere. It cases the tiny children in stiff and neutral frocks and coats, it covers their extinguished fathers, and sometimes it even encloses the women in its warmth. It is symbolic28 of the universal grey mist that has come over men, the extinguishing of all bright individuality, the blotting29 out of all wild singleness. Oh democracy! Oh khaki democracy!
This is very different from Italian landscape. Italy is almost always dramatic, and perhaps invariably romantic. There is drama in the plains of Lombardy, and romance in the Venetian lagoons30, and sheer scenic31 excitement in nearly all the hilly parts of the peninsula. Perhaps it is the natural floridity of lime-stone formations. But Italian landscape is really eighteenth-century landscape, to be represented in that romantic-classic manner which makes everything rather marvelous and very topical: aqueducts, and ruins upon sugar-loaf mountains, and craggy ravines and Wilhelm Meister water-falls: all up and down.
Sardinia is another thing. Much wider, much more ordinary, not up-and-down at all, but running away into the distance. Unremarkable ridges of moor-like hills running away, perhaps to a bunch of dramatic peaks on the southwest. This gives a sense of space, which is so lacking in Italy. Lovely space about one, and traveling distances—nothing finished, nothing final. It is like liberty itself, after the peaky confinement32 of Sicily. Room—give me room—give me room for my spirit: and you can have all the toppling crags of romance.
So we ran on through the gold of the afternoon, across a wide, almost Celtic landscape of hills, our little train winding33 and puffing34 away very nimbly. Only the heath and scrub, breast-high, man-high, is too big and brigand-like for a Celtic land. The horns of black, wild-looking cattle show sometimes.
After a long pull, we come to a station after a stretch of loneliness. Each time, it looks as if there were nothing beyond—no more habitations. And each time we come to a station.
Most of the people have left the train. And as with men driving in a gig, who get down at every public-house, so the passengers usually alight for an airing at each station. Our old fat friend stands up and tucks his shirt-tail comfortably in his trousers, which trousers all the time make one hold one’s breath, for they seem at each very moment to be just dropping right down: and he clambers out, followed by the long, brown stalk of a wife.
So the train sits comfortably for five or ten minutes, in the way the trains have. At last we hear whistles and horns, and our old fat friend running and clinging like a fat crab35 to the very end of the train as it sets off. At the same instant a loud shriek36 and a bunch of shouts from outside. We all jump up. There, down the line, is the long brown stork37 of a wife. She had just walked back to a house some hundred yards off, for a few words, and has now seen the train moving.
Now behold38 her with her hands thrown to heaven, and hear the wild shriek “Madonna!” through all the hubbub39. But she picks up her two skirt-knees, and with her thin legs in grey stockings starts with a mad rush after the train. In vain. The train inexorably pursues its course. Prancing41, she reaches one end of the platform as we leave the other end. Then she realizes it is not going to stop for her. And then, oh horror, her long arms thrown out in wild supplication42 after the retreating train: then flung aloft to God: then brought down in absolute despair on her head. And this is the last sight we have of her, clutching her poor head in agony and doubling forward. She is left—she is abandoned.
The poor fat husband has been all the time on the little outside platform at the end of the carriage, holding out his hand to her and shouting frenzied43 scolding to her and frenzied yells for the train to stop. And the train has not stopped. And she is left—left on that God-forsaken station in the waning44 light.
So, his face all bright, his eyes round and bright as two stars, absolutely transfigured by dismay, chagrin45, anger and distress46, he comes and sits in his seat, ablaze47, stiff, speechless. His face is almost beautiful in its blaze of conflicting emotions. For some time he is as if unconscious in the midst of his feelings. Then anger and resentment48 crop out of his consternation49. He turns with a flash to the long-nosed, insidious50, Ph?nician-looking guard. Why couldn’t they stop the train for her! And immediately, as if someone had set fire to him, off flares51 the guard. Heh!—the train can’t stop for every person’s convenience! The train is a train—the time-table is a time-table. What did the old woman want to take her trips down the line for? Heh! She pays the penalty for her own inconsiderateness. Had she paid for the train—heh? And the fat man all the time firing off his unheeding and unheeded answers. One minute—only one minute—if he, the conductor had told the driver! if he, the conductor, had shouted! A poor woman! Not another train! What was she going to do! Her ticket? And no money. A poor woman—
There was a train back to Cagliari that night, said the conductor, at which the fat man nearly burst out of his clothing like a bursting seed-pod. He bounced on his seat. What good was that? What good was a train back to Cagliari, when their home was in Snelli! Making matters worse—
So they bounced and jerked and argued at one another, to their hearts’ content. Then the conductor retired52, smiling subtly, in a way they have. Our fat friend looked at us with hot, angry, ashamed, grieved eyes and said it was a shame. Yes, we chimed, it was a shame. Whereupon a self-important miss who said she came from some Collegio at Cagliari advanced and asked a number of impertinent questions in a tone of pert sympathy. After which our fat friend, left alone, covered his clouded face with his hand, turned his back on the world, and gloomed.
It had all been so dramatic that in spite of ourselves we laughed, even while the q-b shed a few tears.
Well, the journey lasted hours. We came to a station, and the conductor said we must get out: these coaches went no further. Only two coaches would proceed to Mandas. So we climbed out with our traps, and our fat friend with his saddle-bag, the picture of misery53.
The one coach into which we clambered was rather crowded. The only other coach was most of it first-class. And the rest of the train was freight. We were two insignificant54 passenger wagons55 at the end of a long string of freight-vans and trucks.
There was an empty seat, so we sat on it: only to realize after about five minutes, that a thin old woman with two children—her grandchildren—was chuntering her head off because it was her seat—why she had left it she didn’t say. And under my legs was her bundle of bread. She nearly went off her head. And over my head, on the little rack, was her bercola, her saddle-bag. Fat soldiers laughed at her good-naturedly, but she fluttered and flipped56 like a tart40, featherless old hen. Since she had another seat and was quite comfortable, we smiled and let her chunter. So she clawed her bread bundle from under my legs, and, clutching it and a fat child, sat tense.
It was getting quite dark. The conductor came and said that there was no more paraffin. If what there was in the lamps gave out, we should have to sit in the dark. There was no more paraffin all along the line.—So he climbed on the seats, and after a long struggle, with various boys striking matches for him, he managed to obtain a light as big as a pea. We sat in this clair-obscur, and looked at the sombre-shadowed faces round us: the fat soldier with a gun, the handsome soldier with huge saddle-bags, the weird57, dark little man who kept exchanging a baby with a solid woman who had a white cloth tied round her head, a tall peasant-woman in costume, who darted out at a dark station and returned triumphant58 with a piece of chocolate: a young and interested young man, who told us every station. And the man who spat59: there is always one.
Gradually the crowd thinned. At a station we saw our fat friend go by, bitterly, like a betrayed soul, his bulging60 saddle-bag hanging before and after, but no comfort in it now—no comfort. The pea of light from the paraffin lamp grew smaller. We sat in incredible dimness, and the smell of sheeps-wool and peasant, with only our fat and stoic61 young man to tell us where we were. The other dusky faces began to sink into a dead, gloomy silence. Some took to sleep. And the little train ran on and on, through unknown Sardinian darkness. In despair we drained the last drop of tea and ate the last crusts of bread. We knew we must arrive some time.
It was not much after seven when we came to Mandas. Mandas is a junction62 where these little trains sit and have a long happy chat after their arduous63 scramble64 over the downs. It had taken us somewhere about five hours to do our fifty miles. No wonder then that when the junction at last heaves in sight everybody bursts out of the train like seeds from an exploding pod, and rushes somewhere for something. To the station restaurant, of course. Hence there is a little station restaurant that does a brisk trade, and where one can have a bed.
A quite pleasant woman behind the little bar: a brown woman with brown parted hair and brownish eyes and brownish, tanned complexion65 and tight brown velveteen bodice. She led us up a narrow winding stone stair, as up a fortress66, leading on with her candle, and ushered67 us into the bedroom. It smelled horrid68 and sourish, as shutup bedrooms do. We threw open the window. There were big frosty stars snapping ferociously69 in heaven.
The room contained a huge bed, big enough for eight people, and quite clean. And the table on which stood the candle actually had a cloth. But imagine that cloth! I think it had been originally white: now, however, it was such a web of time-eaten holes and mournful black inkstains and poor dead wine stains that it was like some 2000 B.C. mummy-cloth. I wonder if it could have been lifted from that table: or if it was mummified on to it! I for one made no attempt to try. But that table-cover impressed me, as showing degrees I had not imagined.—A table-cloth.
We went down the fortress-stair to the eating-room. Here was a long table with soup-plates upside down and a lamp burning an uncanny naked acetylene flame. We sat at the cold table, and the lamp immediately began to wane70. The room—in fact the whole of Sardinia—was stone cold, stone, stone cold. Outside the earth was freezing. Inside there was no thought of any sort of warmth: dungeon71 stone floors, dungeon stone walls and a dead, corpse-like atmosphere, too heavy and icy to move.
The lamp went quite out, and the q-b gave a cry. The brown woman poked72 her head through a hole in the wall. Beyond her we saw the flames of the cooking, and two devil-figures stirring the pots. The brown woman came and shook the lamp—it was like a stodgy73 porcelain74 mantelpiece vase—shook it well and stirred up its innards, and started it going once more. Then she appeared with a bowl of smoking cabbage soup, in which were bits of macaroni: and would we have wine? I shuddered75 at the thought of death-cold red wine of the country, so asked what else there was. There was malvagia—malvoisie, the same old malmsey that did for the Duke of Clarence. So we had a pint76 of malvagia, and were comforted. At least we were being so, when the lamp went out again. The brown woman came and shook and smacked77 it, and started it off again. But as if to say “Shan’t for you”, it whipped out again.
Then came the host with a candle and a pin, a large, genial78 Sicilian with pendulous79 mustaches. And he thoroughly80 pricked81 the wretch82 with the pin, shook it, and turned little screws. So up flared83 the flame. We were a little nervous. He asked us where we came from, etc. And suddenly he asked us, with an excited gleam, were we Socialists84. Aha, he was going to hail us as citizens and comrades. He thought we were a pair of Bolshevist agents: I could see it. And as such he was prepared to embrace us. But no, the q-b disclaimed85 the honor. I merely smiled and shook my head. It is a pity to rob people of their exciting illusions.
“Ah, there is too much socialism everywhere!” cried the q-b.
“Ma—perhaps, perhaps—” said the discreet86 Sicilian. She saw which way the land lay, and added:
“Si vuole un pocchetino di Socialismo: one wants a tiny bit of socialism in the world, a tiny bit. But not much. Not much. At present there is too much.”
Our host, twinkling at this speech which treated of the sacred creed87 as if it were a pinch of salt in the broth88, believing the q-b was throwing dust in his eyes, and thoroughly intrigued89 by us as a pair of deep ones, retired. No sooner had he gone than the lamp-flame stood up at its full length, and started to whistle. The q-b drew back. Not satisfied by this, another flame suddenly began to whip round the bottom of the burner, like a lion lashing90 its tail. Unnerved, we made room: the q-b cried again: in came the host with a subtle smile and a pin and an air of benevolence91, and tamed the brute92.
What else was there to eat? There was a piece of fried pork for me, and boiled eggs for the q-b. As we were proceeding93 with these, in came the remainder of the night’s entertainment: three station officials, two in scarlet94 peaked caps, one in a black-and-gold peaked cap. They sat down with a clamour, in their caps, as if there was a sort of invisible screen between us and them. They were young. The black cap had a lean and sardonic95 look: one of the red-caps was little and ruddy, very young, with a little mustache: we called him the maialino, the gay little black pig, he was so plump and food-nourished and frisky96. The third was rather puffy and pale and had spectacles. They all seemed to present us the blank side of their cheek, and to intimate that no, they were not going to take their hats off, even if it were dinner-table and a strange signora. And they made rough quips with one another, still as if we were on the other side of the invisible screen.
Determined97 however, to remove this invisible screen, I said Good-evening, and it was very cold. They muttered Good-evening, and yes, it was fresh. An Italian never says it is cold: it is never more than fresco98. But this hint that it was cold they took as a hint at their caps, and they became very silent, till the woman came in with the soup-bowl. Then they clamoured at her, particularly the maialino, what was there to eat. She told them—beef-steaks of pork. Whereat they pulled faces. Or bits of boiled pork. They sighed, looked gloomy, cheered up, and said beef-steaks, then.
And they fell on their soup. And never, from among the steam, have I heard a more joyful99 trio of soup-swilkering. They sucked it in from their spoons with long, gusto-rich sucks. The maialino was the treble—he trilled his soup into his mouth with a swift, sucking vibration100, interrupted by bits of cabbage, which made the lamp start to dither again. Black-cap was the baritone; good, rolling spoon-sucks. And the one in spectacles was the bass101: he gave sudden deep gulps102. All was led by the long trilling of the maialino. Then suddenly, to vary matters, he cocked up his spoon in one hand, chewed a huge mouthful of bread, and swallowed it down with a smack-smack-smack! of his tongue against his palate. As children we used to call this “clapping”.
“Mother, she’s clapping!” I would yell with anger, against my sister. The German word is schmatzen.
So the maialino clapped like a pair of cymbals103, while baritone and bass rolled on. Then in chimed the swift bright treble.
At this rate however, the soup did not last long. Arrived the beef-steaks of pork. And now the trio was a trio of castanet smacks105 and cymbal104 claps. Triumphantly106 the maialino looked around. He out-smacked all.
The bread of the country is rather coarse and brown, with a hard, hard crust. A large rock of this is perched on every damp serviette. The maialino tore his rock asunder107, and grumbled108 at the black-cap, who had got a weird sort of three-cornered loaf-roll of pure white bread—starch109 white. He was a swell110 with this white bread.
Suddenly black-cap turned to me. Where had we come from, where were we going, what for? But in laconic111, sardonic tone.
“I like Sardinia,” cried the q-b.
“Why?” he asked sarcastically112. And she tried to find out.
“Yes, the Sardinians please me more than the Sicilians,” said I.
“Why?” he asked sarcastically.
“They are more open—more honest.” He seemed to turn his nose down.
“The padrone is a Sicilian,” said the maialino, stuffing a huge block of bread into his mouth, and rolling his insouciant113 eyes of a gay, well-fed little black pig towards the background. We weren’t making much headway.
“You’ve seen Cagliari?” the black-cap said to me, like a threat.
“Yes! oh Cagliari pleases me—Cagliari is beautiful!” cried the q-b, who travels with a vial of melted butter ready for her parsnips.
“Yes—Cagliari is so-so—Cagliari is very fair,” said the black cap. ”Cagliari è discreto.“ He was evidently proud of it.
“And is Mandas nice?” asked the q-b.
“In what way nice?” they asked, with immense sarcasm114.
“Is there anything to see?”
“Hens,” said the maialino briefly115. They all bristled116 when one asked if Mandas was nice.
“What does one do here?” asked the q-b.
“Niente! At Mandas one does nothing. At Mandas one goes to bed when it’s dark, like a chicken. At Mandas one walks down the road like a pig that is going nowhere. At Mandas a goat understands more than the inhabitants understand. At Mandas one needs socialism. . . . ”
They all cried out at once. Evidently Mandas was more than flesh and blood could bear for another minute to these three conspirators117.
“Then you are very bored here?” say I.
“Yes.”
And the quiet intensity118 of that naked yes spoke119 more than volumes.
“You would like to be in Cagliari?”
“Yes.”
Silence, intense, sardonic silence had intervened. The three looked at one another and made a sour joke about Mandas. Then the black-cap turned to me.
“Can you understand Sardinian?” he said.
“Somewhat. More than Sicilian, anyhow.”
“But Sardinian is more difficult than Sicilian. It is full of words utterly120 unknown to Italian—”
“Yes, but,” say I, “it is spoken openly, in plain words, and Sicilian is spoken all stuck together, none of the words there at all.”
He looks at me as if I were an imposter. Yet it is true. I find it quite easy to understand Sardinian. As a matter of fact, it is more a question of human approach than of sound. Sardinian seems open and manly121 and downright. Sicilian is gluey and evasive, as if the Sicilian didn’t want to speak straight to you. As a matter of fact, he doesn’t. He is an over-cultured, sensitive, ancient soul, and he has so many sides to his mind that he hasn’t got any definite one mind at all. He’s got a dozen minds, and uneasily he’s aware of it, and to commit himself to anyone of them is merely playing a trick on himself and his interlocutor. The Sardinian, on the other hand, still seems to have one downright mind. I bump up against a downright, smack-out belief in Socialism, for example. The Sicilian is much too old in our culture to swallow Socialism whole: much too ancient and rusé not to be sophisticated about any and every belief. He’ll go off like a squib: and then he’ll smoulder acridly122 and sceptically even against his own fire. One sympathizes with him in retrospect123. But in daily life it is unbearable124.
“Where do you find such white bread?” say I to the black cap, because he is proud of it.
“It comes from my home.” And then he asks about the bread of Sicily. Is it any whiter than this—the Mandas rock. Yes, it is a little whiter. At which they gloom again. For it is a very sore point, this bread. Bread means a great deal to an Italian: it is verily his staff of life. He practically lives on bread. And instead of going by taste, he now, like all the world, goes by eye. He has got it into his head that bread should be white, so that every time he fancies a darker shade in the loaf a shadow falls on his soul. Nor is he altogether wrong. For although, personally, I don’t like white bread any more, yet I do like my brown bread to be made of pure, unmixed flour. The peasants in Sicily, who have kept their own wheat and make their own natural brown bread, ah, it is amazing how fresh and sweet and clean their loaf seems, so perfumed as home-bread used all to be before the war. Whereas the bread of the commune, the regulation supply, is hard, and rather coarse and rough, so rough and harsh on the palate. One gets tired to death of it. I suspect myself the maize125 meal mixed in. But I don’t know. And finally the bread varies immensely from town to town, from commune to commune. The so-called just and equal distribution is all my-eye. One place has abundance of good sweet bread, another scrapes along, always stinted126, on an allowance of harsh coarse stuff. And the poor suffer bitterly, really, from the bread-stinting127, because they depend so on this one food. They say the inequality and the injustice128 of distribution comes from the Camorra—la grande Camorra—which is no more nowadays than a profiteering combine, which the poor hate. But for myself, I don’t know. I only know that one town—Venice, for example—seems to have an endless supply of pure bread, of sugar, of tobacco, of salt—while Florence is in one continual ferment129 of irritation130 over the stinting of these supplies—which are all government monopoly, doled131 out accordingly.
We said Good-night to our three railway friends, and went up to bed. We had only been in the room a minute or two, when the brown woman tapped: and if you please, the black-cap had sent us one of his little white loaves. We were really touched. Such delicate little generosities132 have almost disappeared from the world.
It was a queer little bread—three-cornered, and almost as hard as ships biscuit, made of starch flour. Not strictly133 bread at all.
The night was cold, the blankets flat and heavy, but one slept quite well till dawn. At seven o’clock it was a clear, cold morning, the sun not yet up. Standing at the bedroom window looking out, I could hardly believe my eyes it was so like England, like Cornwall in the bleak134 parts, or Derbyshire uplands. There was a little paddock-garden at the back of the Station, rather tumble-down, with two sheep in it. There were several forlorn-looking out-buildings, very like Cornwall. And then the wide, forlorn country road stretched away between borders of grass and low, drystone walls, towards a grey stone farm with a tuft of trees, and a naked stone village in the distance. The sun came up yellow, the bleak country glimmered135 bluish and reluctant. The low, green hill-slopes were divided into fields, with low drystone walls and ditches. Here and there a stone barn rose alone, or with a few bare, windy trees attached. Two rough-coated winter horses pastured on the rough grass, a boy came along the naked, wide, grass-bordered high-road with a couple of milk cans, drifting in from nowhere: and it was all so like Cornwall, or a part of Ireland, that the old nostalgia136 for the Celtic regions began to spring up in me. Ah, those old, drystone walls dividing the fields—pale and granite137-blenched! Ah, the dark, sombre grass, the naked sky! the forlorn horses in the wintry morning! Strange is a Celtic landscape, far more moving, disturbing than the lovely glamor138 of Italy and Greece. Before the curtains of history lifted, one feels the world was like this—this Celtic bareness and sombreness and air. But perhaps it is not Celtic at all: Iberian. Nothing is more unsatisfactory than our conception of what is Celtic and what is not Celtic. I believe there never were any Celts, as a race.—As for the Iberians—!
Wonderful to go out on a frozen road, to see the grass in shadow bluish with hoar-frost, to see the grass in the yellow winter-sunrise beams melting and going cold-twinkly. Wonderful the bluish, cold air, and things standing up in cold distance. After two southern winters, with roses blooming all the time, this bleakness139 and this touch of frost in the ringing morning goes to my soul like an intoxication140. I am so glad, on this lonely naked road, I don’t know what to do with myself. I walk down in the shallow grassy141 ditches under the loose stone walls, I walk on the little ridge17 of grass, the little bank on which the wall is built, I cross the road across the frozen cow-droppings: and it is all so familiar to my feet, my very feet in contact, that I am wild as if I had made a discovery. And I realize that I hate lime-stone, to live on lime-stone or marble or any of those limey rocks. I hate them. They are dead rocks, they have no life—thrills for the feet. Even sandstone is much better. But granite! Granite is my favorite. It is so live under the feet, it has a deep sparkle of its own. I like its roundnesses—and I hate the jaggy dryness of lime-stone, that burns in the sun, and withers142.
After coming to a deep well in a grassy plot in a wide space of the road, I go back, across the sunny naked upland country, towards the pink station and its out-buildings. An engine is steaming its white clouds in the new light. Away to the left there is even a row of small houses, like a row of railway-mens’ dwellings143. Strange and familiar sight. And the station precincts are disorderly and rather dilapidated. I think of our Sicilian host.
The brown woman gives us coffee, and very strong, rich goats’ milk, and bread. After which the q-b and I set off once more along the road to the village. She too is thrilled. She too breathes deep. She too feels space around her, and freedom to move the limbs: such as one does not feel in Italy and Sicily, where all is so classic and fixed144.
The village itself is just a long, winding, darkish street, in shadow, of houses and shops and a smithy. It might almost be Cornwall: not quite. Something, I don’t know what, suggests the stark145 burning glare of summer. And then, of course, there is none of the cosiness146 which climbing roses and lilac trees and cottage shops and haystacks would give to an English scene. This is harder, barer, starker147, more dreary148. An ancient man in the black-and-white costume comes out of a hovel of a cottage. The butcher carries a huge side of meat. The women peer at us—but more furtive149 and reticent150 than the howling stares of Italy.
So we go on, down the rough-cobbled street through the whole length of the village. And emerging on the other side, past the last cottage, we find ourselves again facing the open country, on the gentle down-slope of the rolling hill. The landscape continues the same: low, rolling upland hills, dim under the yellow sun of the January morning: stone fences, fields, grey-arable land: a man slowly, slowly ploughing with a pony151 and a dark-red cow: the road trailing empty across the distance: and then, the one violently unfamiliar152 note, the enclosed cemetery153 lying outside on the gentle hill-side, closed in all round, very compact, with high walls: and on the inside face of the enclosure wall the marble slabs154, like shut drawers of the sepulchres, shining white, the wall being like a chest of drawers, or pigeon holes to hold the dead. Tufts of dark and plumy cypresses155 rise among the flat graves of the enclosure. In the south, cemeteries156 are walled off and isolated157 very tight. The dead, as it were, are kept fast in pound. There is no spreading of graves over the face of the country. They are penned in a tight fold, with cypresses to fatten158 on the bones. This is the one thoroughly strange note in the landscape. But all-pervading there is a strangeness, that strange feeling as if the depths were barren, which comes in the south and the east, sun-stricken. Sun-stricken, and the heart eaten out by the dryness.
“I like it! I like it!” cries the q-b.
“But could you live here?” She would like to say yes, but daren’t.
We stray back. The q-b wants to buy one of those saddle-bag arrangements. I say what for? She says to keep things in. Ach! but peeping in the shops, we see one and go in and examine it. It is quite a sound one, properly made: but plain, quite plain. On the white cross-stripes there are no lovely colored flowers of rose and green and magenta159: the three favorite Sardinian colors: nor are there any of the fantastic and griffin-like beasts. So it won’t do. How much does it cost? Forty-five francs.
There is nothing to do in Mandas. So we will take the morning train and go to the terminus, to Sorgono. Thus, we shall cross the lower slopes of the great central knot of Sardinia, the mountain knot called Gennargentu. And Sorgono we feel will be lovely.
Back at the station we make tea on the spirit lamp, fill the thermos, pack the knapsack and the kitchenino, and come out into the sun of the platform. The q-b goes to thank the black-cap for the white bread, whilst I settle the bill and ask for food for the journey. The brown woman fishes out from a huge black pot in the background sundry160 hunks of coarse boiled pork, and gives me two of these, hot, with bread and salt. This is the luncheon161. I pay the bill: which amounts to twenty-four francs, for everything. (One says francs or liras, irrespective, in Italy.) At that moment arrives the train from Cagliari, and men rush in, roaring for the soup—or rather, for the broth. “Ready, ready!” she cries, going to the black pot.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
compartments
|
|
| n.间隔( compartment的名词复数 )；（列车车厢的）隔间；（家具或设备等的）分隔间；隔层 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
apron
|
|
| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
smoothly
|
|
| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
scraps
|
|
| 油渣 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
standing
|
|
| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
amazement
|
|
| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
backwards
|
|
| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
thermos
|
|
| n.保湿瓶，热水瓶 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
flask
|
|
| n.瓶，火药筒，砂箱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
eyebrows
|
|
| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
inevitable
|
|
| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
exclamation
|
|
| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
complacently
|
|
| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
darted
|
|
| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
rambled
|
|
| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的过去式和过去分词 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
adobe
|
|
| n.泥砖，土坯，美国Adobe公司 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
ridge
|
|
| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
ridges
|
|
| n.脊( ridge的名词复数 )；山脊；脊状突起；大气层的)高压脊 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
mere
|
|
| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
bluff
|
|
| v.虚张声势，用假象骗人；n.虚张声势，欺骗 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
cultivation
|
|
| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
intermittent
|
|
| adj.间歇的，断断续续的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
arable
|
|
| adj.可耕的，适合种植的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
vividly
|
|
| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
solitary
|
|
| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
magpie
|
|
| n.喜欢收藏物品的人，喜鹊，饶舌者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
curiously
|
|
| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
symbolic
|
|
| adj.象征性的，符号的，象征主义的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
blotting
|
|
| 吸墨水纸 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
lagoons
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
scenic
|
|
| adj.自然景色的，景色优美的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
confinement
|
|
| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
winding
|
|
| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
puffing
|
|
| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
crab
|
|
| n.螃蟹，偏航，脾气乖戾的人，酸苹果；vi.捕蟹，偏航，发牢骚；vt.使偏航，发脾气 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
shriek
|
|
| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
stork
|
|
| n.鹳 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
behold
|
|
| v.看，注视，看到 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
hubbub
|
|
| n.嘈杂；骚乱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
tart
|
|
| adj.酸的；尖酸的，刻薄的；n.果馅饼；淫妇 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
prancing
|
|
| v.（马）腾跃( prance的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
supplication
|
|
| n.恳求，祈愿，哀求 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
frenzied
|
|
| a.激怒的；疯狂的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
waning
|
|
| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
chagrin
|
|
| n.懊恼；气愤；委屈 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
distress
|
|
| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
ablaze
|
|
| adj.着火的，燃烧的；闪耀的，灯火辉煌的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
resentment
|
|
| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
consternation
|
|
| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
insidious
|
|
| adj.阴险的，隐匿的，暗中为害的，（疾病）不知不觉之间加剧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
flares
|
|
| n.喇叭裤v.（使）闪耀( flare的第三人称单数 )；（使）（船舷）外倾；（使）鼻孔张大；（使）（衣裙、酒杯等）呈喇叭形展开 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
retired
|
|
| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
misery
|
|
| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
insignificant
|
|
| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
wagons
|
|
| n.四轮的运货马车( wagon的名词复数 )；铁路货车；小手推车 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
flipped
|
|
| 轻弹( flip的过去式和过去分词 )； 按（开关）； 快速翻转； 急挥 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
weird
|
|
| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
triumphant
|
|
| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
spat
|
|
| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
bulging
|
|
| 膨胀； 凸出（部）； 打气； 折皱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
stoic
|
|
| n.坚忍克己之人，禁欲主义者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
junction
|
|
| n.连接，接合；交叉点，接合处，枢纽站 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
arduous
|
|
| adj.艰苦的，费力的，陡峭的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
scramble
|
|
| v.爬行，攀爬，杂乱蔓延，碎片，片段，废料 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
complexion
|
|
| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
fortress
|
|
| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
ushered
|
|
| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
horrid
|
|
| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
ferociously
|
|
| 野蛮地，残忍地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
wane
|
|
| n.衰微，亏缺，变弱；v.变小，亏缺，呈下弦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
dungeon
|
|
| n.地牢，土牢 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
poked
|
|
| v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
stodgy
|
|
| adj.易饱的；笨重的；滞涩的；古板的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
porcelain
|
|
| n.瓷；adj.瓷的，瓷制的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
shuddered
|
|
| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
pint
|
|
| n.品脱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
smacked
|
|
| 拍，打，掴( smack的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
genial
|
|
| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
pendulous
|
|
| adj.下垂的；摆动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
thoroughly
|
|
| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
pricked
|
|
| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
wretch
|
|
| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
Flared
|
|
| adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
socialists
|
|
| 社会主义者( socialist的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
disclaimed
|
|
| v.否认( disclaim的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
discreet
|
|
| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
creed
|
|
| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
broth
|
|
| n.原(汁)汤(鱼汤、肉汤、菜汤等) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
intrigued
|
|
| adj.好奇的，被迷住了的v.搞阴谋诡计(intrigue的过去式)；激起…的兴趣或好奇心；“intrigue”的过去式和过去分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
lashing
|
|
| n.鞭打；痛斥；大量；许多v.鞭打( lash的现在分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
benevolence
|
|
| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
92
brute
|
|
| n.野兽，兽性 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
93
proceeding
|
|
| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
94
scarlet
|
|
| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
95
sardonic
|
|
| adj.嘲笑的，冷笑的，讥讽的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
96
frisky
|
|
| adj.活泼的，欢闹的；n.活泼，闹着玩；adv.活泼地，闹着玩地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
97
determined
|
|
| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
98
fresco
|
|
| n.壁画；vt.作壁画于 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
99
joyful
|
|
| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
100
vibration
|
|
| n.颤动，振动；摆动 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
101
bass
|
|
| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
102
gulps
|
|
| n.一大口（尤指液体）( gulp的名词复数 )v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的第三人称单数 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
103
cymbals
|
|
| pl.铙钹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
104
cymbal
|
|
| n.铙钹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
105
smacks
|
|
| 掌掴（声）( smack的名词复数 )； 海洛因； （打的）一拳； 打巴掌 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
106
triumphantly
|
|
| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
107
asunder
|
|
| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
108
grumbled
|
|
| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
109
starch
|
|
| n.淀粉；vt.给...上浆 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
110
swell
|
|
| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
111
laconic
|
|
| adj.简洁的；精练的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
112
sarcastically
|
|
| adv.挖苦地，讽刺地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
113
insouciant
|
|
| adj.不在意的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
114
sarcasm
|
|
| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
115
briefly
|
|
| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
116
bristled
|
|
| adj. 直立的，多刺毛的 动词bristle的过去式和过去分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
117
conspirators
|
|
| n.共谋者，阴谋家( conspirator的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
118
intensity
|
|
| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
119
spoke
|
|
| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
120
utterly
|
|
| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
121
manly
|
|
| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
122
acridly
|
|
| adj.辛辣的；刺鼻的；（性格、态度、言词等）刻薄的；尖刻的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
123
retrospect
|
|
| n.回顾，追溯；v.回顾，回想，追溯 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
124
unbearable
|
|
| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
125
maize
|
|
| n.玉米 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
126
stinted
|
|
| v.限制，节省（stint的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
127
stinting
|
|
| v.限制，节省（stint的现在分词形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
128
injustice
|
|
| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
129
ferment
|
|
| vt.使发酵；n./vt.（使）激动，（使）动乱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
130
irritation
|
|
| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
131
doled
|
|
| 救济物( dole的过去式和过去分词 )； 失业救济金 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
132
generosities
|
|
| n.慷慨( generosity的名词复数 )；大方；宽容；慷慨或宽容的行为 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
133
strictly
|
|
| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
134
bleak
|
|
| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
135
glimmered
|
|
| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
136
nostalgia
|
|
| n.怀乡病，留恋过去，怀旧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
137
granite
|
|
| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
138
glamor
|
|
| n.魅力，吸引力 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
139
bleakness
|
|
| adj. 萧瑟的, 严寒的, 阴郁的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
140
intoxication
|
|
| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
141
grassy
|
|
| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
142
withers
|
|
| 马肩隆 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
143
dwellings
|
|
| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
144
fixed
|
|
| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
145
stark
|
|
| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
146
cosiness
|
|
| n.舒适，安逸 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
147
starker
|
|
| （指区别）明显的( stark的比较级 )； 完全的； 了无修饰的； 僵硬的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
148
dreary
|
|
| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
149
furtive
|
|
| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
150
reticent
|
|
| adj.沉默寡言的；言不如意的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
151
pony
|
|
| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
152
unfamiliar
|
|
| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
153
cemetery
|
|
| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
154
slabs
|
|
| n.厚板，平板，厚片( slab的名词复数 )；厚胶片 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
155
cypresses
|
|
| n.柏属植物，柏树( cypress的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
156
cemeteries
|
|
| n.（非教堂的）墓地，公墓( cemetery的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
157
isolated
|
|
| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
158
fatten
|
|
| v.使肥，变肥 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
159
magenta
|
|
| n..紫红色（的染料）；adj.紫红色的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
160
sundry
|
|
| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
161
luncheon
|
|
| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |