CATANZARO
For half an hour the train slowly ascends. The carriages are of special
construction, light and many-windowed, so that one has good views of
the landscape. Very beautiful was this long, broad, climbing valley,
everywhere richly wooded; oranges and olives, carob and lentisk and
myrtle, interspersed with cactus (its fruit, the prickly fig, all
gathered) and with the sword-like agave. Glow of sunset lingered upon
the hills: in the green hollow a golden twilight faded to dusk. The
valley narrowed; it became a gorge between dark slopes which closed
together and seemed to bar advance. Here the train stopped, and all the
passengers (some half-dozen) alighted.
The sky was still clear enough to show the broad features of the scene
before me. I looked up to a mountain side, so steep that towards the
summit it appeared precipitous, and there upon the height, dimly
illumined with a last reflex of after-glow, my eyes distinguished
something which might be the outline of walls and houses. This, I knew,
was the situation of Catanzaro, but one could not easily imagine by
what sort of approach the city would be gained; in the thickening
twilight, no trace of a road was discernible, and the flanks of the
mountain, a ravine yawning on either hand, looked even more abrupt than
the ascent immediately before me.
There, however, stood the _diligenza_ which was somehow to convey me to
Catanzaro; I watched its loading with luggage-merchandise and
mail-bags--whilst the exquisite evening melted into night. When I had
thus been occupied for a few minutes, my look once more turned to the
mountain, where a surprise awaited me: the summit was now encircled
with little points of radiance, as though a starry diadem had fallen
upon it from the sky. "_Pronti_!" cried our driver. I climbed to my
seat, and we began our journey towards the crowning lights.
By help of long loops the road ascended at a tolerably easy angle; the
horse-bells tinkled, the driver shouted encouragement to his beasts,
and within the vehicle went on a lively gossiping, with much laughter.
Meanwhile the great moon had risen high enough to illumine the valley
below us; silvery grey and green, the lovely hollow seemed of
immeasurable length, and beyond it one imagined, rather than discerned,
a glimmer of the sea. By the wayside I now and then caught sight of a
huge cactus, trailing its heavy knotted length upon the face of a rock;
and at times we brushed beneath overhanging branches of some tree that
could not be distinguished. All the way up we seemed to skirt a sheer
precipice, which at moments was alarming in its gloomy depth. Deeper
and deeper below shone the lights of the railway station and of the few
houses about it; it seemed as though a false step would drop us down
into their midst.
The fatigue of the day's journey passed away during this ascent, which
lasted nearly an hour; when, after a drive through dark but wide
streets, I was set down before the hotel, I felt that I had shaken off
the last traces of my illness. A keen appetite sent me as soon as
possible in search of the dining-room, where I ate with extreme gusto;
everything seemed excellent after the sorry table of the _Concordia_. I
poured my wine with a free hand, rejoicing to find it was wine once
more, and not (at all events to my palate) a concoction of drugs. The
albergo was decent and well found; a cheerful prosperity declared
itself in all I had yet seen. After dinner I stepped out on to the
balcony of my room to view the city's main street; but there was very
scant illumination, and the moonlight only showed me high houses of
modern build. Few people passed, and never a vehicle; the shops were
all closed. I needed no invitation to sleep, but this shadowed
stillness, and the fresh mountain air, happily lulled my thoughts. Even
the subject of earthquakes proved soporific.
Impossible to find oneself at Catanzaro without thinking of
earthquakes; I wonder that the good people of Coltrone did not include
this among deterrents whereby they sought to prejudice me against the
mountain town. Over and over again Catanzaro has been shaken to its
foundations. The worst calamity recorded was towards the end of the
eighteenth century, when scarce a house remained standing, and many
thousands of the people perished. This explains a peculiarity in the
aspect of the place, noticeable as soon as one begins to walk about; it
is like a town either half built or half destroyed, one knows not
which; everywhere one comes upon ragged walls, tottering houses, yet
there is no appearance of antiquity. One ancient building, a castle
built by Robert Guiscard when he captured Catanzaro in the eleventh
century, remained until of late years, its Norman solidity defying
earthquakes; but this has been pulled down, deliberately got rid of for
the sake of widening a road. Lament over such a proceeding would be
idle enough; Catanzaro is the one progressive town of Calabria, and has
learnt too thoroughly the spirit of the time to suffer a blocking of
its highway by middle-age obstructions.
If a Hellenic or Roman city occupied this breezy summit, it has left no
name, and no relics of the old civilization have been discovered here.
Catanzaro was founded in the tenth century, at the same time that
Taranto was rebuilt after the Saracen destruction; an epoch of revival
for Southern Italy under the vigorous Byzantine rule of Nicephorus
Phocas. From my point of view, the interest of the place suffered
because I could attach to it no classic memory. Robert Guiscard, to be
sure, is a figure picturesque enough, and might give play to the
imagination, but I care little for him after all; he does not belong to
my world. I had to see Catanzaro merely as an Italian town amid
wonderful surroundings. The natural beauty of the spot amply sufficed
to me during the days I spent there, and gratitude for health recovered
gave me a kindly feeling to all its inhabitants.
Daylight brought no disillusion as regards natural features. I made the
circuit of the little town, and found that it everywhere overlooks a
steep, often a sheer, descent, save at one point, where an isthmus
unites it to the mountains that rise behind. In places the bounding
wall runs on the very edge of a precipice, and many a crazy house,
overhanging, seems ready to topple into the abyss. The views are
magnificent, whether one looks down the valley to the leafy shore, or,
in an opposite direction, up to the grand heights which, at this
narrowest point of Calabria, separate the Ionian from the Tyrrhene Sea.
I could now survey the ravines which, in twilight, had dimly shown
themselves on either side of the mountain; they are deep and narrow,
craggy, wild, bare. Each, when the snows are melting, becomes the bed
of a furious torrent; the watercourses uniting below to form the river
of the valley. At this season there was a mere trickling of water over
a dry brown waste. Where the abruptness of the descent does not render
it impossible, olives have been planted on the mountain sides; the
cactus clings everywhere, making picturesque many a wall and hovel,
luxuriating on the hard, dry soil; fig trees and vines occupy more
favoured spots, and the gardens of the better houses are often graced
by a noble palm.
After my morning's walk I sought the residence of Signor Pasquale
Cricelli, to whom I carried a note of introduction. This gentleman
holds the position of English Vice-Consul at Catanzaro, but it is
seldom that he has the opportunity of conversing with English
travellers; the courtesy and kindness with which he received me have a
great part in my pleasant memory of the mountain town. Signor Cricelli
took me to see many interesting things, and brought me into touch with
the every-day life of Catanzaro. I knew from Lenormant's book that the
town had a singular reputation for hospitality. The French
archaeologist tells amusing stories in illustration of this
characteristic. Once, when he had taken casual refreshment at a
restaurant, a gentleman sitting at another table came forward and, with
grave politeness, begged permission to pay for what Lenormant had
consumed. This was a trifle in comparison with what happened when the
traveller, desirous of making some return for much kindness,
entertained certain of his acquaintances at dinner, the meal,
naturally, as good a one as his hotel could provide. The festival went
off joyously, but, to Lenormant's surprise, nothing was charged for it
in his bill. On making inquiry he learnt that the cost of the
entertainment had already been discharged by one of his guests! Well,
that took place years ago, long before a railway had been thought of in
the valley of the Corace; such heroic virtues ill consist with the life
of to-day. Nevertheless, Don Pasquale (Signor Cricelli's name when
greeted by his fellow-citizens) several times reminded me, without
knowing it, of what I had read. For instance, we entered a shop which
he thought might interest me; the salesman during our talk
unobtrusively made up a little parcel of goods, and asked, at length,
whether I would take this with me or have it sent to the hotel. That
point I easily decided, but by no persistence could I succeed in paying
for the things. Smiling behind his counter, the shopkeeper declined to
name a price; Don Pasquale declared that a payment under such
circumstances was a thing unknown in Catanzaro, and I saw that to say
anything more would be to run the risk of offending him. The same day
he invited me to dinner, and explained that we must needs dine at the
hotel where I was staying, this being the best place of entertainment
in the town. I found that my friend had a second reason for the choice;
he wished to ascertain whether I was comfortably lodged, and as a
result of his friendly offices, various little changes came about. Once
more I make my grateful acknowledgements to the excellent Don Pasquale.
Speaking of shops, I must describe in detail the wonderful pharmacy.
Signor Cricelli held it among the sights of Catanzaro; this chemist's
in the main street was one of the first places to which he guided me.
And, indeed, the interior came as a surprise. Imagine a spacious shop,
well proportioned, perfectly contrived, and throughout fitted with
woodwork copies from the best examples of old Italian carving. Seeking
pill or potion, one finds oneself in a museum of art, where it would be
easy to spend an hour in studying the counter, the shelves, the
ceiling. The chemists (two brothers, if I remember rightly) pointed out
to me with legitimate pride all that they had done for the beautifying
of their place of business; I shall not easily forget the glowing
countenance, the moved voice, which betrayed their feelings as they led
me hither and thither; for them and their enterprise I felt a hearty
respect. When we had surveyed everything within doors I was asked to
look at the _mostra_--the sign that hung over the entrance; a sort of
griffin in wrought iron, this, too, copied from an old masterpiece, and
reminding one of the fine ironwork which adorns the streets of Siena.
Don Pasquale could not be satisfied until I had privately assured him
of my genuine admiration. Was it, he asked, at all like a chemist's
shop in London? My reply certainly gratified him, but I am afraid it
did not increase his desire to visit England.
Whilst I was at the chemist's, there entered a number of peasants,
whose appearance was so striking that I sought information about them.
Don Pasquale called them "_Greci_"; they came from a mountain village
where the dialect of the people is still a corrupt Greek. One would
like to imagine that their origin dates back to the early Hellenic
days, but it is assuredly much later. These villages may be a relic of
the Byzantine conquest in the sixth century, when Southern Italy was,
to a great extent, re peopled from the Eastern Empire, though another
theory suggests that they were formed by immigrants from Greece at the
time of the Turkish invasion. Each of the women had a baby hanging at
her back, together with miscellaneous goods which she had purchased in
the town: though so heavily burdened, they walked erect, and with the
free step of mountaineers.
I could not have had a better opportunity than was afforded me on this
day of observing the peasantry of the Catanzaro district. It was the
feast of the Immaculate Conception, and from all around the
country-folk thronged in pilgrimage to the church of the Immaculate;
since earliest morning I had heard the note of bagpipes, which
continued to sound before the street shrines all day long. Don Pasquale
assured me that the festival had an importance in this region scarcely
less than that of Christmas. At the hour of high mass I entered the
sanctuary whither all were turning their steps; it was not easy to make
a way beyond the portico, but when I had slowly pressed forward through
the dense crowd, I found that the musical part of the service was being
performed by a lively string-band, up in a gallery. For seats there was
no room; a standing multitude filled the whole church before the altar,
and the sound of gossiping voices at moments all but overcame that of
the music. I know not at what point of the worship I chanced to be
present; heat and intolerable odours soon drove me forth again, but I
retained an impression of jollity, rather than of reverence. Those
screaming and twanging instruments sounded much like an invitation to
the dance, and all the faces about me were radiant with cheerfulness.
Just such a throng, of course, attended upon the festival of god or
goddess ere the old religion was transformed. Most of the Christian
anniversaries have their origin in heathendom; the names have changed,
but amid the unlettered worshippers there is little change of spirit; a
tradition older than they can conceive rules their piety, and gives it
whatever significance it may have in their simple lives.
Many came from a great distance; at the entrance to the town were
tethered innumerable mules and asses, awaiting the hour of return.
Modern Catanzaro, which long ago lost its proper costume, was enlivened
with brilliant colours; the country women, of course, adorned
themselves, and their garb was that which had so much interested me
when I first saw it in the public garden at Cosenza. Brilliant blue and
scarlet were the prevailing tones; a good deal of fine embroidery
caught the eye. In a few instances I noticed men wearing the true
Calabrian hat--peaked, brigandesque--which is rapidly falling out of
use. These people were, in general, good-looking; frequently I observed
a very handsome face, and occasionally a countenance, male or female,
of really heroic beauty. Though crowds wandered through the streets,
there sounded no tumult; voices never rose above an ordinary pitch of
conversation; the general bearing was dignified, and tended to gravity.
One woman in particular held my attention, not because of any
exceptional beauty, for, indeed, she had a hard, stern face, but owing
to her demeanour. Unlike most of the peasant folk, she was bent on
business; carrying upon her head a heavy pile of some ornamented
fabric--shawls or something of the kind--she entered shops, and paused
at house doors, in the endeavour to find purchasers. I watched her for
a long time, hoping she might make a sale, but ever she was
unsuccessful; for all that she bore herself with a dignity not easily
surpassed. Each offer of her wares was made as if she conferred a
graceful favour, and after each rejection she withdrew unabashed,
outwardly unperturbed, seeming to take stately leave. Only her
persistence showed how anxious she was to earn money; neither on her
features nor in her voice appeared the least sign of peddling
solicitude. I shall always remember that tall, hard-visaged woman, as
she passed with firm step and nobly balanced figure about the streets
of Catanzaro. To pity her would have been an insult. The glimpse I
caught of her laborious life revealed to me something worthy of
admiration; never had I seen a harassing form of discouragement so
silently and strongly borne.