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

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