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

Capri. In profound gloom, though under a sky all set with stars, we

passed between the island and Cape Minerva; the haven of Capri showed

but a faint glimmer; over it towered mighty crags, an awful blackness,

a void amid constellations. From my seat near the stern of the vessel I

could discern no human form; it was as though I voyaged quite alone in

the silence of this magic sea. Silence so all-possessing that the sound

of the ship’s engine could not reach my ear, but was blended with the

water-splash into a lulling murmur. The stillness of a dead world laid

its spell on all that lived. To-day seemed an unreality, an idle

impertinence; the real was that long-buried past which gave its meaning

to all around me, touching the night with infinite pathos. Best of all,

one’s own being became lost to consciousness; the mind knew only the

phantasmal forms it shaped, and was at peace in vision.

CHAPTER II

PAOLA

I slept little, and was very early on deck, scanning by the light of

dawn a mountainous coast. At sunrise I learnt that we were in sight of

Paola; as day spread gloriously over earth and sky, the vessel hove to

and prepared to land cargo. There, indeed, was the yellowish little

town which I had so long pictured; it stood at a considerable height

above the shore; harbour there was none at all, only a broad beach of

shingle on which waves were breaking, and where a cluster of men, women

and children stood gazing at the steamer. It gave me pleasure to find

the place so small and primitive. In no hurry to land, I watched the

unloading of merchandise (with a great deal of shouting and

gesticulation) into boats which had rowed out for the purpose;

speculated on the resources of Paola in the matter of food (for I was

hungry); and at moments cast an eye towards the mountain barrier which

it was probable I should cross to-day.

At last my portmanteau was dropped down on to the laden boat; I, as

best I could, managed to follow it; and on the top of a pile of rope

and empty flour-sacks we rolled landward. The surf was high; it cost

much yelling, leaping, and splashing to gain the dry beach. Meanwhile,

not without apprehension, I had eyed the group awaiting our arrival;

that they had their eyes on me was obvious, and I knew enough of

southern Italians to foresee my reception. I sprang into the midst of a

clamorous conflict; half a dozen men were quarreling for possession of

me. No sooner was my luggage on shore than they flung themselves upon

it. By what force of authority I know not, one of the fellows

triumphed; he turned to me with a satisfied smile, and—presented his

wife.

“Mia sposa, signore!”

Wondering, and trying to look pleased, I saw the woman seize the

portmanteau (a frightful weight), fling it on to her head, and march

away at a good speed. The crowd and I followed to the dogana, close

by, where as vigorous a search was made as I have ever had to undergo.

I puzzled the people; my arrival was an unwonted thing, and they felt

sure I was a trader of some sort. Dismissed under suspicion, I allowed

the lady to whom I had been introduced to guide me townwards. Again she

bore the portmanteau on her head, and evidently thought it a trifle,

but as the climbing road lengthened, and as I myself began to perspire

in the warm sunshine, I looked at my attendant with uncomfortable

feelings. It was a long and winding way, but the woman continued to

talk and laugh so cheerfully that I tried to forget her toil. At length

we reached a cabin where the dazio (town dues) officer presented

himself, and this conscientious person insisted on making a fresh

examination of my baggage; again I explained myself, again I was eyed

suspiciously; but he released me, and on we went. I had bidden my guide

take me to the best inn; it was the Leone, a little place which

looked from the outside like an ill-kept stable, but was decent enough

within. The room into which they showed me had a delightful prospect.

Deep beneath the window lay a wild, leafy garden, and lower on the

hillside a lemon orchard shining with yellow fruit; beyond, the broad

pebbly beach, far seen to north and south, with its white foam edging

the blue expanse of sea. There I descried the steamer from which I had

landed, just under way for Sicily. The beauty of this view, and the

calm splendour of the early morning, put me into happiest mood. After

little delay a tolerable breakfast was set before me, with a good rough

wine; I ate and drank by the window, exulting in what I saw and all I

hoped to see.

Guide-books had informed me that the corriere (mail-diligence) from

Paola to Cosenza corresponded with the arrival of the Naples steamer,

and, after the combat on the beach, my first care was to inquire about

this. All and sundry made eager reply that the corriere had long

since gone; that it started, in fact, at 5 A.M., and that the only

possible mode of reaching Cosenza that day was to hire a vehicle.

Experience of Italian travel made me suspicious, but it afterwards