reconstructed, to the last perfection of intimacy, a world known to me
only in ruined fragments.
Daylight again, but no gleam of sun. I longed for the sunshine; it
seemed to me a miserable chance that I should lie ill by the Ionian Sea
and behold no better sky than the far north might have shown me. That
grey obstruction of heaven’s light always weighs upon my spirit; on a
summer’s day, there has but to pass a floating cloud, which for a
moment veils the sun, and I am touched with chill discouragement; heart
and hope fail me, until the golden radiance is restored.
About noon, when I had just laid down the newspaper bought the night
before—the Roman Tribuna, which was full of dreary politics—a
sudden clamour in the street drew my attention. I heard the angry
shouting of many voices, not in the piazza before the hotel, but at
some little distance; it was impossible to distinguish any meaning in
the tumultuous cries. This went on for a long time, swelling at moments
into a roar of frenzied rage, then sinking to an uneven growl, broken
by spasmodic yells. On asking what it meant, I was told that a crowd of
poor folk had gathered before the Municipio to demonstrate against an
oppressive tax called the fuocatico. This is simply hearth-money, an
impost on each fireplace where food is cooked; the same tax which made
trouble in old England, and was happily got rid of long ago. But the
hungry plebs of Cotrone lacked vigour for any effective self-assertion;
they merely exhausted themselves with shouting “Abbass’ ‘o sindaco!”
and dispersed to the hearths which paid for an all but imaginary
service. I wondered whether the Sindaco and his portly friend sat in
their comfortable room whilst the roaring went on; whether they smoked
their cigars as usual, and continued to chat at their ease. Very
likely. The privileged classes in Italy are slow to move, and may well
believe in the boundless endurance of those below them. Some day, no
doubt, they will have a disagreeable surprise. When Lombardy begins in
earnest to shout “Abbasso!” it will be an uneasy moment for the heavy
syndics of Calabria.
CHAPTER X
CHILDREN OF THE SOIL
Any northern person who passed a day or two at the Concordia as an
ordinary traveller would carry away a strong impression. The people of
the house would seem to him little short of savages, filthy in person
and in habits, utterly uncouth in their demeanour, perpetual wranglers
and railers, lacking every qualification for the duties they pretended
to discharge. In England their mere appearance would revolt decent
folk. With my better opportunity of judging them, I overcame the first
natural antipathy; I saw their good side, and learnt to forgive the
faults natural to a state of frank barbarism. It took two or three days
before their rough and ready behaviour softened to a really human
friendliness, but this came about at last, and when it was known that I
should not give much more trouble, that I needed only a little care in
the matter of diet, goodwill did its best to aid hopeless incapacity.
Whilst my fever was high, little groups of people often came into the
room, to stand and stare at me, exchanging, in a low voice, remarks
which they supposed I did not hear, or, hearing, could not understand;
as a matter of fact, their dialect was now intelligible enough to me,
and I knew that they discussed my chances of surviving. Their natures
were not sanguine. A result, doubtless, of the unhealthy climate, every
one at Cotrone seemed in a more or less gloomy state of mind. The
hostess went about uttering ceaseless moans and groans; when she was in
my room I heard her constantly sighing, “Ah, Signore! Ah,
Cristo!”—exclamations which, perhaps, had some reference to my
illness, but which did not cease when I recovered. Whether she had any
private reason for depression I could not learn; I fancy not; it was
only the whimpering and querulous habit due to low health. A female
servant, who occasionally brought me food (I found that she also cooked
it), bore herself in much the same way. This domestic was the most
primitive figure of the household. Picture a woman of middle age,
wrapped at all times in dirty rags (not to be called clothing), obese,
grimy, with dishevelled black hair, and hands so scarred, so deformed
by labour and neglect, as to be scarcely human. She had the darkest and
fiercest eyes I ever saw. Between her and her mistress went on an
unceasing quarrel: they quarrelled in my room, in the corridor, and, as
I knew by their shrill voices, in places remote; yet I am sure they did
not dislike each other, and probably neither of them ever thought of
parting. Unexpectedly, one evening, this woman entered, stood by the
bedside, and began to talk with such fierce energy, with such flashing
of her black eyes, and such distortion of her features, that I could
only suppose that she was attacking me for the trouble I caused her. A
minute or two passed before I could even hit the drift of her furious
speech; she was always the most difficult of the natives to understand,
and in rage she became quite unintelligible. Little by little, by dint
of questioning, I got at what she meant. There had been guai, worse
than usual; the mistress had reviled her unendurably for some fault or
other, and was it not hard that she should be used like this after
having tanto, tanto lavorato! In fact, she was appealing for my
sympathy, not abusing me at all. When she went on to say that she was
alone in the world, that all her kith and kin were freddi morti
(stone dead), a pathos in her aspect and her words took hold upon me;
it was much as if some heavy-laden beast of burden had suddenly found
tongue, and protested in the rude beginnings of articulate utterance
against its hard lot. If only one could have learnt, in intimate
detail, the life of this domestic serf! How interesting, and how
sordidly picturesque against the background of romantic landscape, of
scenic history! I looked long into her sallow, wrinkled face, trying to
imagine the thoughts that ruled its expression. In some measure my
efforts at kindly speech succeeded, and her “Ah, Cristo!” as she turned
to go away, was not without a touch of solace.
Another time my hostess fell foul of the waiter, because he had brought
me goat’s milk which was very sour. There ensued the most comical
scene. In an access of fury the stout woman raged and stormed; the
waiter, a lank young fellow, with a simple, good-natured face, after
trying to explain that he had committed the fault by inadvertence,
suddenly raised his hand, like one about to exhort a congregation, and
exclaimed in a tone of injured remonstrance, “_Un po’ di calma! Un po’
di calma!_” My explosion of laughter at this inimitable utterance put
an end to the strife. The youth laughed with me; his mistress bustled
him out of the room, and then began to inform me that he was weak in
his head. Ah! she exclaimed, her life with these people! what it cost
her
to keep them in anything like order! When she retired, I heard her
expectorating violently in the corridor; a habit with every inmate of
this genial hostelry.
When the worst of my fever had subsided, the difficulty was to obtain
any nourishment suitable to my state. The good doctor, who had
suggested beefsteak and Marsala when I was incapable of taking anything
at all, ruled me severely in the matter of diet now that I really began
to feel hungry. I hope I may never again be obliged to drink goat’s
milk; in these days it became so unutterably loathsome to me that I
had, at length, to give it up altogether, and I cannot think of it now
without a qualm. The broth offered me was infamous, mere coloured water
beneath half an inch of floating grease. Once there was a promise of a
fowl, and I looked forward to it eagerly; but, alas! this miserable
bird had undergone a process of seething for the extraction of soup. I
would have defied anyone to distinguish between the substance remaining
and two or three old kid gloves boiled into a lump. With a pleased air,
the hostess one day suggested a pigeon, a roasted pigeon, and I
welcomed the idea joyously. Indeed, the appearance of the dish, when it
was borne in, had nothing to discourage my appetite—the odour was
savoury; I prepared myself for a treat. Out of pure kindness, for she
saw me tremble in my weakness, the good woman offered her aid in the
carving; she took hold of the bird by the two legs, rent it asunder,
tore off the wings in the same way, and then, with a smile of
satisfaction, wiped her hands upon her skirt. If her hands had known
water (to say nothing of soap) during the past twelve months I am much
mistaken. It was a pity, for I found that my teeth could just masticate
a portion of the flesh which hunger compelled me to assail.
Of course I suffered much from thirst, and Dr. Sculco startled me one
day by asking if I liked tea. Tea? Was it really procurable? The
Doctor assured me that it could be supplied by the chemist; though,
considering how rarely the exotic was demanded, it might have lost
something of its finer flavour whilst stored at the pharmacy. An order
was despatched. Presently the waiter brought me a very small paper
packet, such as might have contained a couple of Seidlitz powders; on
opening it I discovered something black and triturated, a crumbling
substance rather like ground charcoal. I smelt it, but there was no
perceptible odour; I put a little of it to my tongue, but the effect
was merely that of dust. Proceeding to treat it as if it were veritable
tea, I succeeded in imparting a yellowish tinge to the hot water, and,
so thirsty was I, this beverage tempted me to a long draught. There
followed no ill result that I know of, but the paper packet lay
thenceforth untouched, and, on leaving, I made a present of it to my
landlady.
To complete the domestic group, I must make mention of the
“chambermaid.” This was a lively little fellow of about twelve years
old, son of the landlady, who gave me much amusement. I don’t know
whether he performed chambermaid duty in all the rooms; probably the
fierce-eyed cook did the heavier work elsewhere, but upon me his
attendance was constant. At an uncertain hour of the evening he entered
(of course, without knocking), doffed his cap in salutation, and began
by asking how I found myself. The question could not have been more
deliberately and thoughtfully put by the Doctor himself. When I replied
that I was better, the little man expressed his satisfaction, and went
on to make a few remarks about the pessimo tempo. Finally, with a
gesture of politeness, he inquired whether I would permit him “_di fare
un po’ di pulizia_”—to clean up a little, and this he proceeded to do
with much briskness. Excepting the good Sculco, my chambermaid was
altogether the most civilized person I met at Cotrone. He had a
singular amiability of nature, and his boyish spirits were not yet
subdued by the pestilent climate. If I thanked him for anything, he
took off his cap, bowed with comical dignity, and answered “_Grazie a
voi, Signore_.” Of course these people never used the third person
feminine of polite Italian. Dr. Sculco did so, for I had begun by
addressing him in that manner, but plainly it was not familiar to his
lips. At the same time there prevailed certain forms of civility, which
seemed a trifle excessive. For instance, when the Doctor entered my
room, and I gave him “Buon giorno,” he was wont to reply, “_Troppo
gentile_!”—too kind of you!
My newspaper boy came regularly for a few days, always complaining of
feverish symptoms, then ceased to appear. I made inquiry: he was down
with illness, and as no one took his place I suppose the regular
distribution of newspapers in Cotrone was suspended. When the poor
fellow again showed himself, he had a sorry visage; he sat down by my
bedside (rain dripping from his hat, and mud, very thick, upon his
boots) to give an account of his sufferings. I pictured the sort of
retreat in which he had lain during those miserable hours. My own
chamber contained merely the barest necessaries, and, as the gentleman
of Cosenza would have said, “left something to be desired” in point of
cleanliness. Conceive the places into which Cotrone’s poorest have to
crawl when they are stricken with disease. I admit, however, that the
thought was worse to me at that moment than it is now. After all, the
native of Cotrone has advantages over the native of a city slum; and it
is better to die in a hovel by the Ionian Sea than in a cellar at
Shoreditch.
The position of my room, which looked upon the piazza, enabled me to
hear a great deal of what went on in the town. The life of Cotrone
began about three in the morning; at that hour I heard the first
voices, upon which there soon followed the bleating of goats and the
tinkling of ox-bells. No doubt the greater part of the poor people were
in bed by eight o’clock every evening; only those who had dealings in
the outer world were stirring when the diligenza arrived about ten,
and I suspect that some of these snatched a nap before that late hour.
Throughout the day there sounded from the piazza a ceaseless clamour of
voices, such a noise as in England would only rise from some excited
crowd on a rare occasion; it was increased by reverberations from the
colonnade which runs all round in front of the shops. When the
north-east gale had passed over, there ensued a few days of sullen
calm, permitting the people to lead their ordinary life in open air. I
grew to recognize certain voices, those of men who seemingly had
nothing to do but to talk all day long. Only the sound reached me; I
wish I could have gathered the sense of these interminable harangues
and dialogues. In every country and every age those talk most who have
least to say that is worth saying. These tonguesters of Cotrone had
their predecessors in the public place of Croton, who began to gossip
before dawn, and gabbled unceasingly till after
nightfall; with their
voices must often have mingled the bleating of goats or the lowing of
oxen, just as I heard the sounds to-day.
One day came a street organ, accompanied by singing, and how glad I
was! The first note of music, this, that I had heard at Cotrone. The
instrument played only two or three airs, and one of them became a
great favourite with the populace; very soon, numerous voices joined
with that of the singer, and all this and the following day the melody
sounded, near or far. It had the true characteristics of southern song;
rising tremolos, and cadences that swept upon a wail of passion; high
falsetto notes, and deep tum-tum of infinite melancholy. Scorned by the
musician, yet how expressive of a people’s temper, how suggestive of
its history! At the moment when this strain broke upon my ear, I was
thinking ill of Cotrone and its inhabitants; in the first pause of the
music I reproached myself bitterly for narrowness and ingratitude. All
the faults of the Italian people are whelmed in forgiveness as soon as
their music sounds under the Italian sky. One remembers all they have
suffered, all they have achieved in spite of wrong. Brute races have
flung themselves, one after another, upon this sweet and glorious land;
conquest and slavery, from age to age, have been the people’s lot.
Tread where one will, the soil has been drenched with blood. An
immemorial woe sounds even through the lilting notes of Italian gaiety.
It is a country wearied and regretful, looking ever backward to the
things of old; trivial in its latter life, and unable to hope sincerely
for the future. Moved by these voices singing over the dust of Croton,
I asked pardon for all my foolish irritation, my impertinent
fault-finding. Why had I come hither, if it was not that I loved land
and people? And had I not richly known the recompense of my love?
Legitimately enough one may condemn the rulers of Italy, those who take
upon themselves to shape her political life, and recklessly load her
with burdens insupportable. But among the simple on Italian soil a
wandering stranger has no right to nurse national superiorities, to
indulge a contemptuous impatience. It is the touch of tourist
vulgarity. Listen to a Calabrian peasant singing as he follows his oxen
By the Ionian Sea: Notes of a Ramble in Southern Italy Page 8
