along the furrow, or as he shakes the branches of his olive tree. That
wailing voice amid the ancient silence, that long lament solacing
ill-rewarded toil, comes from the heart of Italy herself, and wakes the
memory of mankind.
CHAPTER XI
THE MOUNT OF REFUGE
My thoughts turned continually to Catanzaro. It is a city set upon a
hill, overlooking the Gulf of Squillace, and I felt that if I could but
escape thither, I should regain health and strength. Here at Cotrone
the air oppressed and enfeebled me; the neighbourhood of the sea
brought no freshness. From time to time the fever seemed to be
overcome, but it lingered still in my blood and made my nights
restless. I must away to Catanzaro.
When first I spoke of this purpose to Dr. Sculco, he indulged my fancy,
saying “Presently, presently!” A few days later, when I seriously asked
him how soon I might with safety travel, his face expressed misgiving.
Why go to Catanzaro? It was on the top of a mountain, and had a most
severe climate; the winds at this season were terrible. In conscience
he could not advise me to take such a step: the results might be very
grave after my lung trouble. Far better wait at Cotrone for a week or
two longer, and then go on to Reggio, crossing perhaps to Sicily to
complete my cure. The more Dr. Sculco talked of windy altitudes, the
stronger grew my desire for such a change of climate, and the more
intolerable seemed my state of languishment. The weather was again
stormy, but this time blew sirocco; I felt its evil breath waste my
muscles, clog my veins, set all my nerves a-tremble. If I stayed here
much longer, I should never get away at all. A superstitious fear crept
upon me; I remembered that my last visit had been to the cemetery.
One thing was certain: I should never see the column of Hera’s temple.
I made my lament on this subject to Dr. Sculco, and he did his best to
describe to me the scenery of the Cape. Certain white spots which I had
discovered at the end of the promontory were little villas, occupied in
summer by the well-to-do citizens of Cotrone; the Doctor himself owned
one, which had belonged to his father before him. Some of the earliest
memories of his boyhood were connected with the Cape: when he had
lessons to learn by heart, he often used to recite them walking round
and round the great column. In the garden of his villa he at times
amused himself with digging, and a very few turns of the spade sufficed
to throw out some relic of antiquity. Certain Americans, he said,
obtained permission not long ago from the proprietor of the ground on
which the temple stood to make serious excavations, but as soon as the
Italians heard of it, they claimed the site as a national monument; the
work was forbidden, and the soil had to be returned to its former
state. Hard by the ancient sanctuary is a chapel, consecrated to the
Madonna del Capo; thither the people of Cotrone make pilgrimages, and
hold upon the Cape a rude festival, which often ends in orgiastic riot.
All the surface of the promontory is bare; not a tree, not a bush, save
for a little wooded hollow called Fossa del Lupo—the wolf’s den.
There, says legend, armed folk of Cotrone used to lie in wait to attack
the corsairs who occasionally landed for water.
When I led him to talk of Cotrone and its people, the Doctor could but
confirm my observations. He contrasted the present with the past; this
fever-stricken and waterless village with the great city which was
called the healthiest in the world. In his opinion the physical change
had resulted from the destruction of forests, which brought with it a
diminution of the rainfall. “At Cotrone,” he said, “we have practically
no rain. A shower now and then, but never a wholesome downpour.” He had
no doubt that, in ancient times, all the hills of the coast were
wooded, as Sila still is, and all the rivers abundantly supplied with
water. To-day there was scarce a healthy man in Cotrone: no one had
strength to resist a serious illness. This state of things he took very
philosophically; I noticed once more the frankly mediaeval spirit in
which he regarded the populace. Talking on, he interested me by
enlarging upon the difference between southern Italians and those of
the north. Beyond Rome a Calabrian never cared to go; he found himself
in a foreign country, where his tongue betrayed him, and where his
manners were too noticeably at variance with those prevailing. Italian
unity, I am sure, meant little to the good Doctor, and appealed but
coldly to his imagination.
I declared to him at length that I could endure no longer this dreary
life of the sick-room; I must get into the open air, and, if no harm
came of the experiment, I should leave for Catanzaro. “I cannot prevent
you,” was the Doctor’s reply, “but I am obliged to point out that you
act on your own responsibility. It is pericoloso, it is
pericolosissimo! The terrible climate of the mountains!” However, I
won his permission to leave the house, and acted upon it that same
afternoon. Shaking and palpitating, I slowly descended the stairs to
the colonnade; then, with a step like that of an old, old man, tottered
across the piazza, my object being to reach the chemist’s shop, where I
wished to pay for the drugs that I had had and for the tea. When I
entered, sweat was streaming from my forehead; I dropped into a chair,
and for a minute or two could do nothing but recover nerve and breath.
Never in my life had I suffered such a wretched sense of feebleness.
The pharmacist looked at me with gravely compassionate eyes; when I
told him I was the Englishman who had been ill, and that I wanted to
leave to-morrow for Catanzaro, his compassion indulged itself more
freely, and I could see quite well that he thought my plan of travel
visionary. True, he said, the climate of Cotrone was trying to a
stranger. He understood my desire to get away; but—Catanzaro! Was I
aware that at Catanzaro I should suddenly find myself in a season of
most rigorous winter? And the winds! One needed to be very strong even
to stand on one’s feet at Catanzaro. For all this I returned thanks,
and, having paid my bill, tottered back to the Concordia. It seemed
to me more than doubtful whether I should start on the morrow.
That evening I tried to dine. Don Ferdinando entered as usual, and sat
mute through his unchanging meal; the grumbler grumbled and ate, as
perchance he does to this day. I forced myself to believe that the food
had a savour for me, and that the wine did not taste of drugs. As I sat
over my pretended meal, I heard the sirocco moaning without, and at
times a splash of rain against the window. Near me, two military men
were exchanging severe comments on Calabria and its people. “_Che
paese_!”—”What a country!” exclaimed one of them finally in disgust.
Of course they came from the north, and I thought that their
conversation was not likely to knit closer the bond between the
extremes of Italy.
To m
y delight I looked forth next morning on a sunny and calm sky, such
as I had not seen during all my stay at Cotrone. I felt better, and
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By the Ionian Sea: Notes of a Ramble in Southern Italy Page 9
