_MAY IN UMBRIA_

FROM ROME TO TERNI


We left Rome in clear sunset light. The Alban Hills defined themselves
like a cameo of amethyst upon a pale blue distance; and over the
Sabine Mountains soared immeasurable moulded domes of alabaster
thunderclouds, casting deep shadows, purple and violet, across the
slopes of Tivoli. To westward the whole sky was lucid, like some
half-transparent topaz, flooded with slowly yellowing sunbeams. The
Campagna has often been called a garden of wild-flowers. Just now
poppy and aster, gladiolus and thistle, embroider it with patterns
infinite and intricate beyond the power of art. They have already mown
the hay in part; and the billowy tracts of greyish green, where no
flowers are now in bloom, supply a restful groundwork to those
brilliant patches of diapered _fioriture_. These are like
praying-carpets spread for devotees upon the pavement of a mosque
whose roof is heaven. In the level light the scythes of the mowers
flash as we move past. From their bronzed foreheads the men toss
masses of dark curls. Their muscular flanks and shoulders sway
sideways from firm yet pliant reins. On one hill, fronting the sunset,
there stands a herd of some thirty huge grey oxen, feeding and raising
their heads to look at us, with just a flush of crimson on their
horns and dewlaps. This is the scale of Mason's and of Costa's
colouring. This is the breadth and magnitude of Rome.