THE MOUNT OF REFUGE
My thoughts turned continually to Catanzaro. It is a city set upon a
hill, overlooking the Gulf of Squillace, and I felt that if I could but
escape thither, I should regain health and strength. Here at Cotrone
the air oppressed and enfeebled me; the neighbourhood of the sea
brought no freshness. From time to time the fever seemed to be
overcome, but it lingered still in my blood and made my nights
restless. I must away to Catanzaro.
When first I spoke of this purpose to Dr. Sculco, he indulged my fancy,
saying "Presently, presently!" A few days later, when I seriously asked
him how soon I might with safety travel, his face expressed misgiving.
Why go to Catanzaro? It was on the top of a mountain, and had a most
severe climate; the winds at this season were terrible. In conscience
he could not advise me to take such a step: the results might be very
grave after my lung trouble. Far better wait at Cotrone for a week or
two longer, and then go on to Reggio, crossing perhaps to Sicily to
complete my cure. The more Dr. Sculco talked of windy altitudes, the
stronger grew my desire for such a change of climate, and the more
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
perchance he does to this day. I forced myself to believe that the food
had a savour for me, and that the wine did not taste of drugs. As I sat
over my pretended meal, I heard the sirocco moaning without, and at
times a splash of rain against the window. Near me, two military men
were exchanging severe comments on Calabria and its people. "_Che
paese_!"--"What a country!" exclaimed one of them finally in disgust.
Of course they came from the north, and I thought that their
conversation was not likely to knit closer the bond between the
extremes of Italy.
To my delight I looked forth next morning on a sunny and calm sky, such
as I had not seen during all my stay at Cotrone. I felt better, and
decided to leave for Catanzaro by train in the early afternoon. Shaking
still, but heartened by the sunshine, I took a short walk, and looked
for the last time at the Lacinian promontory. On my way back I passed a
little building from which sounded an astonishing noise, a confused
babble of shrill voices, blending now and then with a deep stentorian
shout. It was the communal school--not during playtime, or in a state
of revolt, but evidently engaged as usual upon its studies. The
school-house was small, but the volume of clamour that issued from it
would have done credit to two or three hundred children in unrestrained
uproariousness. Curiosity held me listening for ten minutes; the tumult
underwent no change of character, nor suffered the least abatement; the
mature voice occasionally heard above it struck a cheery note, by no
means one of impatience or stern command. Had I been physically capable
of any effort, I should have tried to view that educational scene. The
incident did me good, and I went on in a happier humour.
Which was not perturbed by something that fell under my eye soon
afterwards. At a shop door hung certain printed cards, bearing a notice
that "wood hay-makers," "wood binders," and "wood mowers" were "sold
here." Not in Italian this, but in plain, blunt English; and to each
announcement was added the name of an English manufacturing firm, with
an agency at Naples. I have often heard the remark that Englishmen of
business are at a disadvantage in their export trade because they pay
no heed to the special requirements of foreign countries; but such a
delightful illustration of their ineptitude had never come under my
notice. Doubtless these alluring advertisements are widely scattered
through agricultural Calabria. Who knows? they my serve as an
introduction to the study of the English tongue.
Not without cordiality was my leave-taking. The hostess confided to me
that, in the first day of my illness, she had felt sure I should die.
Everybody had thought so, she added gaily; even Dr. Sculco had shaken
his head and shrugged his shoulders; much better, was it not, to be
paying my bill? Bill more moderate, under the circumstances, no man
ever discharged; Calabrian honesty came well out of the transaction. So
I tumbled once more into the dirty, ramshackle _diligenza_, passed
along the dusty road between the barred and padlocked warehouses, and
arrived in good time at the station. No sooner had I set foot on the
platform than I felt an immense relief. Even here, it seemed to me, the
air was fresher. I lifted my eyes to the hills and seemed to feel the
breezes of Catanzaro.
The train was made up at Cotrone, and no undue haste appeared in our
departure. When we were already twenty minutes late, there stepped into
the carriage where I was sitting a good-humoured railway official, who
smiled and greeted me. I supposed he wanted my ticket, but nothing of
the kind. After looking all round the compartment with an air of
disinterested curiosity, he heaved a sigh and remarked pleasantly to
me, "_Non manca niente_"--"Nothing is amiss." Five minutes more and we
steamed away.
The railway ascended a long valley, that of the Esaro, where along the
deep watercourse trickled a scarce perceptible stream. On either hand
were hills of pleasant outline, tilled on the lower slopes, and often
set with olives. Here and there came a grassy slope, where shepherds or
goatherds idled amid their flocks. Above the ascent a long tunnel,
after which the line falls again towards the sea. The landscape took a
nobler beauty; mountains spread before us, tenderly coloured by the
autumn sun. We crossed two or three rivers--rivers of flowing water,
their banks overhung with dense green jungle. The sea was azure, and
looked very calm, but white waves broke loudly upon the strand, last
murmur of the storm which had raged and renewed itself for nearly a
fortnight.
At one of the wayside stations entered a traveller whom I could not but
regard with astonishment. He was a man at once plump and muscular, his
sturdy limbs well exhibited in a shooting costume. On his face glowed
the richest hue of health; his eyes glistened merrily. With him he
carried a basket, which, as soon as he was settled, gave forth an
abundant meal. The gusto of his eating, the satisfaction with which he
eyed his glasses of red wine, excited my appetite. But who _was_ he?
Not, I could see, a tourist; yet how account for this health and vigour
in a native of the district? I had not seen such a man since I set out
upon my travels; the contrast he made with the figures of late familiar
to me was so startling that I had much ado to avoid continuously gazing
at him. His proximity did me good; the man radiated health.
When next the train stopped he exchanged words with some one on the
platform, and I heard that he was going to Catanzaro. At once I
understood. This jovial, ruddy-cheeked personage was a man of the
hills. At Catanzaro I should see others like him; perhaps he fairly
represented its inhabitants. If so, I had reason for my suspicion that
poor fever-stricken Cotrone regarded with a sort of jealousy the breezy
health of Catanzaro, which at the same time is a much more prosperous
place. Later, I found that there did exist some acerbity of mutual
criticism between the two towns, reminding one of civic rivalry among
the Greeks. Catanzaro spoke with contempt of Cotrone. Happily I made no
medical acquaintance in the hill town; but I should have liked to
discuss with one of these gentlemen the view of their climate held by
Dr. Sculco.
In the ages that followed upon the fall of Rome, perpetual danger drove
the sea-coast population of Calabria inland and to the heights. Our own
day beholds a counter movement; the shore line of railway will create
new towns on the old deserted sites. Such a settlement is the Marina of
Catanzaro, a little port at the mouth of a wide valley, along which
runs a line to Catanzaro itself, or rather to the foot of the great
hill on which the town is situated. The sun was setting when I alighted
at the Marina, and as I waited for the branch train my eyes feasted
upon a glory of colour which made me forget aching weariness. All
around lay orchards of orange trees, the finest I had ever seen, and
over their solid masses of dark foliage, thick hung with ripening
fruit, poured the splendour of the western sky. It was a picture
unsurpassable in richness of tone; the dense leafage of deepest,
warmest green glowed and flashed, its magnificence heightened by the
blaze of the countless golden spheres adorning it. Beyond, the magic
sea, purple and crimson as the sun descended upon the vanishing
horizon. Eastward, above the slopes of Sila, stood a moon almost at its
full, the yellow of an autumn leaf, on a sky soft-flushed with rose.
In my geography it is written that between Catanzaro and the sea lie
the gardens of the Hesperides.