COTRONE
Night hid from me the scenes that followed. Darkling, I passed again
through the station called Sybaris, and on and on by the sea-shore, the
sound of breakers often audible. From time to time I discerned black
mountain masses against a patch of grey sky, or caught a glimpse of
blanching wave, or felt my fancy thrill as a stray gleam from the
engine fire revealed for a moment another trackless wood. Often the
hollow rumbling of the train told me that we were crossing a bridge;
the stream beneath it bore, perhaps, a name in legend or in history. A
wind was rising; at the dim little stations I heard it moan and buffet,
and my carriage, where all through the journey I sat alone, seemed the
more comfortable. Rain began to fall, and when, about ten o'clock, I
alighted at Cotrone, the night was loud with storm.
There was but one vehicle at the station, a shabby, creaking,
mud-plastered sort of coach, into which I bundled together with two
travellers of the kind called commercial--almost the only species of
traveller I came across during these southern wanderings. A long time
was spent in stowing freightage which, after all, amounted to very
little; twice, thrice, four, and perhaps five times did we make a false
start, followed by uproarious vociferation, and a jerk which tumbled us
passengers all together. The gentlemen of commerce rose to wild
excitement, and roundly abused the driver; as soon as we really
started, their wrath changed to boisterous gaiety. On we rolled,
pitching and tossing, mid darkness and tempest, until, through the
broken window, a sorry illumination of oil-lamps showed us one side of
a colonnaded street. "Bologna! Bologna!" cried my companions, mocking
at this feeble reminiscence of their fat northern town. The next moment
we pulled up, our bruised bodies colliding vigorously for the last
time; it was the _Albergo Concordia_.
A dark stone staircase, yawning under the colonnade; on the first
landing an open doorway; within, a long corridor, doors of bedrooms on
either side, and in a room at the far end a glimpse of a tablecloth.
This was the hotel, the whole of it. As soon as I grasped the
situation, it was clear to me why my fellow travellers had entered with
a rush and flung themselves into rooms; there might, perchance, be only
one or two chambers vacant, and I knew already that Cotrone offered no
other decent harbourage. Happily I did not suffer for my lack of
experience; after trying one or two doors in vain, I found a
sleeping-place which seemed to be unoccupied, and straightway took
possession of it. No one appeared to receive the arriving guests.
Feeling very hungry, I went into the room at the end of the passage,
where I had seen a tablecloth; a wretched lamp burned on the wall, but
only after knocking, stamping, and calling did I attract attention;
then issued from some mysterious region a stout, slatternly, sleepy
woman, who seemed surprised at my demand for food, but at length
complied with it. I was to have better acquaintance with my hostess of
the _Concordia_ before I quitted Cotrone.
Next morning the wind still blew, but the rain was over; I could begin
my rambles. Like the old town of Taranto, Cotrone occupies the site of
the ancient acropolis, a little headland jutting into the sea; above,
and in front of the town itself, stands the castle built by Charles V.,
with immense battlements looking over the harbour. From a road skirting
the shore around the base of the fortress one views a wide bay, bounded
to the north by the dark flanks of Sila (I was in sight of the Black
Mountain once more), and southwards by a long low promontory, its level
slowly declining to the far-off point where it ends amid the waves. On
this Cape I fixed my eyes, straining them until it seemed to me that I
distinguished something, a jutting speck against the sky, at its
farthest point. Then I used my field-glass, and at once the doubtful
speck became a clearly visible projection, much like a lighthouse. It
is a Doric column, some five-and-twenty feet high; the one pillar that
remains of the great temple of Hera, renowned through all the Hellenic
world, and sacred still when the goddess had for centuries borne a
Latin name. "Colonna" is the ordinary name of the Cape; but it is also
known as _Capo di Nau_, a name which preserves the Greek word _naos_
(temple).
I planned for the morrow a visit to this spot, which is best reached by
sea. To-day great breakers were rolling upon the strand, and all the
blue of the bay was dashed with white foam; another night would, I
hoped, bring calm, and then the voyage! _Dis aliter visum_.
A little fleet of sailing vessels and coasting steamers had taken
refuge within the harbour, which is protected by a great mole. A good
haven; the only one, indeed, between Taranto and Reggio, but it grieves
one to remember that the mighty blocks built into the sea-barrier came
from that fallen temple. We are told that as late as the sixteenth
century the building remained all but perfect, with eight-and-forty
pillars, rising there above the Ionian Sea; a guide to sailors, even as
when AEneas marked it on his storm-tossed galley. Then it was assailed,
cast down, ravaged by a Bishop of Cotrone, one Antonio Lucifero, to
build his episcopal palace. Nearly three hundred years later, after the
terrible earthquake of 1783, Cotrone strengthened her harbour with the
great stones of the temple basement. It was a more legitimate pillage.
Driven inland by the gale, I wandered among low hills which overlook
the town. Their aspect is very strange, for they consist entirely--on
the surface, at all events--of a yellowish-grey mud, dried hard, and as
bare as the high road. A few yellow hawkweeds, a few camomiles, grew in
hollows here and there; but of grass not a blade. It is easy to make a
model of these Crotonian hills. Shape a solid mound of hard-pressed
sand, and then, from the height of a foot or two, let water trickle
down upon it; the perpendicular ridges and furrows thus formed upon the
miniature hill represent exactly what I saw here on a larger scale.
Moreover, all the face of the ground is minutely cracked and wrinkled;
a square foot includes an incalculable multitude of such meshes.
Evidently this is the work of hot sun on moisture; but when was it
done? For they tell me that it rains very little at Cotrone, and only a
deluge could moisten this iron soil. Here and there I came upon yet
more striking evidence of waterpower; great holes on the hillside,
generally funnel-shaped, and often deep enough to be dangerous to the
careless walker. The hills are round-topped, and parted one from
another by gully or ravine, shaped, one cannot but think, by furious
torrents. A desolate landscape, and scarcely bettered when one turned
to look over the level which spreads north of the town; one discovers
patches of foliage, indeed, the dark perennial verdure of the south;
but no kindly herb clothes the soil. In springtime, it seems, there is
a growth of grass, very brief, but luxuriant. That can only be on the
lower ground; these furrowed heights declare a perpetual sterility.
What has become of the ruins of Croton? This squalid little town of
to-day has nothing left from antiquity. Yet a city bounded with a wall
of twelve miles circumference is not easily swept from the face of the
earth. Bishop Lucifer, wanting stones for his palace, had to go as far
as the Cape Colonna; then, as now, no block of Croton remained. Nearly
two hundred years before Christ the place was forsaken. Rome colonized
it anew, and it recovered an obscure life as a place of embarkation for
Greece, its houses occupying only the rock of the ancient citadel. Were
there at that date any remnants of the great Greek city?--still great
only two centuries before. Did all go to the building of Roman
dwellings and temples and walls, which since have crumbled or been
buried?
We are told that the river AEsarus flowed through the heart of the city
at its prime. I looked over the plain, and yonder, towards the distant
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
lovely nooks, where one might lie down to rest and dream; there comes a
vision of soft turf under the golden-fruited boughs--"places of
nestling green for poets made." Alas! the soil is bare and lumpy as a
ploughed field, and all the leafage that hangs low is thick with a
clayey dust. One cannot rest or loiter or drowse; no spot in all the
groves where by any possibility one could sit down. After rambling as
long as I chose, I found that a view of the orchard from outside was
more striking than the picture amid the trees themselves. _Senza nulla
toccare_, I went my way.