The Halicti: the Portress 



come dovecotes. A steep path takes you up 

 to this open space. From my house on, it is 

 more like a precipice than a slope. Gardens 

 buttressed by walls are staged in terraces on 

 the sides of the funnel-shaped valley. Ours 

 is the highest; It is also the smallest. 



There are no trees. Even a solitary apple- 

 tree would crowd It. There is a patch of cab- 

 bages, with a border of sorrel, a patch of tur- 

 nips and another of lettuces. That is all we 

 have in the way of garden-stuff; there is no 

 room for more. Against the upper support- 

 ing-wall, facing due south, is a vine-arbour 

 which, at intervals, when the sun is generous, 

 provides half a basketful of white muscatel 

 grapes. These are a luxury of our own, 

 greatly envied by the neighbours, for the vine 

 is unknown outside this corner, the warmest 

 in the village. 



A hedge of currant-bushes, the only safe- 

 guard against a terrible fall, forms a parapet 

 above the next terrace. When our parents' 

 watchful eyes are off us, we lie flat on our 

 stomachs, my brother and I, and look into the 

 abyss at the foot of the wall bulging under 



was born in 1823. Cf. The Life of the Fly: chaps, vi. 

 and vii. — Translalor's Note. 



395 



