By the Ionian Sea: Notes of a Ramble in Southern Italy

railway station, I descried a green track, the course of the all but

stagnant and wholly pestilential stream, still called Esaro. Near its

marshy mouth are wide orange orchards. Could one but see in vision the

harbour, the streets, the vast encompassing wall! From the eminence

where I stood, how many a friend and foe of Croton has looked down upon

its shining ways, peopled with strength and beauty and wisdom! Here

Pythagoras may have walked, glancing afar at the Lacinian sanctuary,

then new built.

Lenormant is eloquent on the orange groves of Cotrone. In order to

visit them, permission was necessary, and presently I made my way to

the town hall, to speak with the Sindaco (Mayor) and request his aid in

this matter. Without difficulty I was admitted. In a well-furnished

office sat two stout gentlemen, smoking cigars, very much at their

ease; the Sindaco bade me take a chair, and scrutinized me with

doubtful curiosity as I declared my business. Yes, to be sure he could

admit me to see his own orchard; but why did I wish to see it? My reply

that I had no interest save in the natural beauty of the place did not

convince him; he saw in me a speculator of some kind. That was natural

enough. In all the south of Italy, money is the one subject of men’s

thoughts; intellectual life does not exist; there is little even of

what we should call common education. Those who have wealth cling to it

fiercely; the majority have neither time nor inclination to occupy

themselves with anything but the earning of a livelihood which for

multitudes signifies the bare appeasing of hunger.

Seeing the Sindaco’s embarrassment, his portly friend began to question

me; good-humouredly enough, but in such a fat bubbling voice (made more

indistinct by the cigar he kept in his mouth) that with difficulty I

understood him. What was I doing at Cotrone? I endeavoured to explain

that Cotrone greatly interested me. Ha! Cotrone interested me? Really?

Now what did I find interesting at Cotrone? I spoke of historic

associations. The Sindaco and his friend exchanged glances, smiled in a

puzzled, tolerant, half-pitying way, and decided that my request might

be granted. In another minute I withdrew, carrying half a sheet of

note-paper on which were scrawled in pencil a few words, followed by

the proud signature “Berlinghieri.” When I had deciphered the scrawl, I

found it was an injunction to allow me to view a certain estate “_senza

nulla toccare_”—without touching anything. So a doubt still lingered

in the dignitary’s mind.

Cotrone has no vehicle plying for hire—save that in which I arrived at

the hotel. I had to walk in search of the orange orchard, all along the

straight dusty road leading to the station. For a considerable distance

this road is bordered on both sides by warehouses of singular

appearance. They have only a ground floor, and the front wall is not

more than ten feet high, but their low roofs, sloping to the ridge at

an angle of about thirty degrees, cover a great space. The windows are

strongly barred, and the doors show immense padlocks of elaborate

construction. The goods warehoused here are chiefly wine and oil,

oranges and liquorice. (A great deal of liquorice grows around the

southern gulf.) At certain moments, indicated by the markets at home or

abroad, these stores are conveyed to the harbour, and shipped away. For

the greater part of the year the houses stand as I saw them, locked,

barred, and forsaken: a street where any sign of life is exceptional;

an odd suggestion of the English Sunday in a land that knows not such

observance.

Crossing the Esaro, I lingered on the bridge to gaze at its green,

muddy water, not visibly flowing at all. The high reeds which half

concealed it carried my thoughts back to the Galaesus. But the

comparison is all in favour of the Tarentine stream. Here one could

feel nothing but a comfortless melancholy; the scene is too squalid,

the degradation too complete.

Of course, no one looked at the permesso with which I presented

myself at the entrance to the orchard. From a tumbling house, which we

should call the lodge, came forth (after much shouting on my part) an

aged woman, who laughed at the idea that she should be asked to read

anything, and bade me walk wherever I liked. I strayed at pleasure,

meeting only a lean dog, which ran fearfully away. The plantation was

very picturesque; orange trees by no means occupied all the ground, but

mingled with pomegranates and tamarisks and many evergreen shrubs of

which I knew not the name; whilst here and there soared a magnificent

stone pine. The walks were bordered with giant cactus, now and again so

fantastic in their growth that I stood to wonder; and in an open space

upon the bank of the Esaro (which stagnates through the orchard) rose a

majestic palm, its leaves stirring heavily in the wind which swept

above. Picturesque, abundantly; but these beautiful tree-names, which

waft a perfume of romance, are like to convey a false impression to

readers who have never seen the far south; it is natural to think of