Page:The fairy tales of Hans Christian Andersen (c1899).djvu/277

 blue mountains. Here, where Hannibal defeated Flaminius, the tendrils of the vines were peacefully clasping each other's green fingers; while lovely, half-naked children were tending a herd of coal-black swine, under a knot of fragrant laurels. If we could but picture forth this scene correctly, every one would exclaim: "Delightful Italy!" But neither the theologian nor any of his fellow-travellers in the coach felt inclined to say anything of the kind.

Thousands of venomous flies and gnats were swarming in the coach. It was in vain they drove them away with a sprig of myrtle: the flies stung them in spite of all their efforts. There was not a person in the coach whose face was not swollen and bleeding from numerous bites, the poor horses looked like skeletons: vast armies of flies were encamped on their backs, and they only obtained a temporary relief by the coachman getting down, and rubbing their tormentors off. fhe sun now set. An icy coldness, though but of short duration, pervaded all nature: it was like the cold air of a vault after a hot summer's day; but the surrounding mountains and the clouds displayed that peculiar green tint which we find in old pictures, and which we look upon as unnatural, unless we have seen nature's own colouring in the south. It was a splendid sight, but—their stomachs were empty, and their bodies tired; and all their longings tended towards a lodging for the night, though they did not yet know where that might be. But everybody was far more eagerly on the look-out for that than inclined to admire the beauties of nature.

The road ran through a wood of olives: it was like driving through a grove of knotty willows in his own country. Here stood the lonely inn. A dozen crippled beggars were encamped in front, the most vigorous amongst whom looked, to use an expression of Marryat's, like "hunger's eldest son, just come to the years of manhood." The others were either blind, or had withered legs, that obliged them to creep about on their hands; or shrivelled arms, with fingerless hands. It was squalid poverty, peeping out from its tatters. "Eccelenza! miserabili!" sighed they, holding out their diseased limbs. The landlady herself with bare feet, uncombed hair, and huddled up in a dirty blouse, came forward to receive her guests. The doors were fastened up with twine; the rooms presented floors made of bricks, half of which were scattered about in all directions; bats were flying under the ceilings; and as to the odour—!

"Let's have dinner served up in the stable," said one of the travellers, "and then, at least, we shall know what we are breathing."

The windows were opened to let in a little fresh air; but the shrivelled arms and the monotonous whines of "Miserabili! eccelenza!" came in much faster than the breezes. On the walls were penned inscriptions, most of them railing at la bella Italia.

The meal was now served up. It consisted of water soup, seasoned with pepper and rancid oil, which latter played a conspicuous part in the salad. Addled eggs and fried cocks'-combs were the best dishes on the table: even the wine had a strong taste, for it was finely adulterated.

At night the trunks were all placed against the door. One of the travellers was to keep watch while the others slept. It fell to the lot of the theologian. Oh, how sultry it was in that stifling room! The heat was oppressive, the gnats were buzzing about and stinging, while the miserabili outside were whining even in their dreams.

"Travelling is all very fine," observed the theologian, "if one could but get rid of one's body. What a pity the body can't rest while the spirit would fly! Wherever I go, I feel a void that oppresses my heart—a longing for something better than the present moment—yes, for something better, and even for the best of all. But where is that to be found? In point of fact, I don't myself exactly know what I want; but I wish to attain a happy goal—ay, the happiest of all."

And no sooner had he spoken these words than he was transported home. The long white curtains were drawn over the windows, and in the middle of the floor stood a black coffin, in which he lay wrapped in the sleep of death. His wish was fulfilled: his body was at rest and his spirit was travelling. "Call no man happy till he is in his grave," were Solon's words; and the case in point offered a fresh proof of their truth.