The road from Lucca to Corellia lies at the foot of lofty mountains, over-mantled by chestnut-forests, and cleft asunder by the river Serchio—the broad, willful Serchio, sprung from the flanks of virgin fastnesses. In its course a thousand valleys open up, scoring the banks. Each valley has its tributary stream, down which, even in the dog-days, cool breezes rustle. The lower hills lying warm toward the south, and the broad glassy lands by the river, are trellised with vines. Some fling their branches in wild festoons on mulberry or aspen trees. Some trained in long arbors are held up by pillars of unbarked wood; others trail upon the earth in delicious luxuriance. The white and purple grapes peep from the already shriveled leaves, or hang in rich masses on the brown earth.
It is the vintage. The peasants, busy as bees, swarm on the hill-sides; the women pluck the fruit; the men bear it away in wooden measures. While they work, they sing those wild Tuscan melodies that linger in the air like long-drawn sighs. The donkeys, too, climb up and down, saddled with wooden panniers, crammed with grapes. These grapes are shot into large tubs, and placed in a shady outhouse. Some black-eyed boy will dance merrily on these tubs, by-and-by, with his naked feet, and squeeze out the juice. This juice is then covered and left to ferment, then bottled into flasks, covered with wicker-work, corked with tow, and finally stowed away in caves among the rocks.
The marchesa's lumbering coach, drawn by three horses harnessed abreast (another horse, smaller than the rest, put in tandem in front), creaks along the road by the river-side, on its high wheels. She sits within, a stony look upon her hard white face. Enrica, pale and silent, is beside her. No word has passed between them since they left Lucca two hours ago. They pass groups of peasants, their labors over for the day—turning out of the vineyards upon the high-road. The donkeys are driven on in front. They are braying for joy; their faces are turned homeward. Boys run at their heels, and spur them on with sticks and stones. The women lag behind talking—their white head-gear and gold ear-rings catching the low sunshine that strikes through rents of parting mountains. Every man takes off his hat to the marchesa; every woman wishes her good-day.
It is only the boys who do not fear her. They have no caps to raise; when the carriage has passed, they leave the donkeys and hang on behind like a swarm of bees. The driver is quite aware of this, and his long whip, which he has cracked at intervals all the way from Lucca—would reach the grinning, white-toothed little vagabonds well; but he—the driver—grins too, and spares them.
Together they all mount the zigzag mountain-pass, that turns short off from the right bank of the valley of the Serchio, toward Corellia. The peasants sing choruses as they trudge upward, taking short cuts among the trees at the angles of the zigzag. The evening lights come and go among the chestnut-trees and on the soft, short grass. Here a fierce flick of sunshine shoots across the road; there deep gloom darkens an angle into which the coach plunges, the peasants, grouped on the top of a bank overhead, standing out darkly in the yellow glow.
It is a lonely pass in the very bosom of the Apennines, midway between Lucca and Modena. In winter the road is clogged with snow; nothing can pass. Now, there is no sound but the singing of water-falls, and the trickle of water-courses, the chirrup of the cicala, not yet gone to its rest—and the murmur of the hot breezes rustling in the distant forest.
No sound—save when sudden thunder-pelts wake awful echoes among the great brotherhood of mountain-tops—when torrents burst forth, pouring downward, flooding the narrow garden ledges, and tearing away the patches of corn and vineyard, the people's food. Before—behind—around—arise peaks of purple Apennines, cresting upward into the blue sky—an earthen sea dashed into sudden breakers, then struck motionless. In front, in solitary state, rises the lofty summit of La Pagna, casting off its giant mountain-fellows right and left, which fade away into a golden haze toward Modena.
High up overhead, crowning a precipitous rock, stands Corellia, a knot of browned, sun-baked houses, flat-roofed, open-galleried, many-storied, nestling round a ruined castle, athwart whose rents the ardent sunshine darts. This ruined castle and the tower of an ancient Lombard church, heavily arched and galleried with stone, gleaming out upon a surface of faded brickwork, form the outline of the little town. It is inclosed by solid walls, and entered by an archway so low that the marchesa's driver has to dismount as he passes through. The heavy old carriage rumbles in with a hollow noise; the horse's hoofs strike upon the rough stones with a harsh, loud sound.
The whole town of Corellia belongs to the marchesa. It is an ancient fief of the Guinigi. Legend says that Castruccio Castracani was born here. This is enough for the marchesa. As in the palace of Lucca, she still—even at lonely Corellia—lives as it were under the shadow of that great ancestral name.
Lonely Corellia! Yes, it is lonely! The church bells, high up in the Lombard tower sound loudly the matins and the eventide. They sound louder still on the saints days and festivals. With the festivals pass summer and winter, both dreary to the poor. Children are born, and marriage-flutes wake the echoes of the mountain solitudes—and mothers weep, hearing them, remembering their young days and present pinching want. The aged groan, for joy to them comes like a fresh pang!