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

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