True, he said, the climate of Cotrone was trying to a stranger. He
understood my desire to get away; but--Catanzaro! Was I aware that
at Catanzaro I should suddenly find myself in a season of most
rigorous winter? And the winds! One needed to be very strong even to
stand on one's feet at Catanzaro. For all this I returned thanks,
and, having paid my bill, tottered back to the _Concordia_. It
seemed to me more than doubtful whether I should start on the
morrow.
That evening I tried to dine. Don Ferdinando entered as usual, and
sat mute through his unchanging meal; the grumbler grumbled and ate,
as perchance he does to this day. I forced myself to believe that
the food had a savour for me, and that the wine did not taste of
drugs. As I sat over my pretended meal, I heard the sirocco moaning
without, and at times a splash of rain against the window. Near me,
two military men were exchanging severe comments on Calabria and its
people. "_Che paese_!"--"What a country!" exclaimed one of them
finally in disgust. Of course they came from the north, and I
thought that their conversation was not likely to knit closer the
bond between the extremes of Italy.
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