SQUILLACE
In meditating my southern ramble I had lingered on the thought that I
should see Squillace. For Squillace (Virgil's "ship-wrecking
Scylaceum") was the ancestral home of Cassiodorus, and his retreat when
he became a monk; Cassiodorus, the delightful pedant, the liberal
statesman and patriot, who stands upon the far limit of his old Roman
world and bids a sad farewell to its glories. He had niched himself in
my imagination. Once when I was spending a silent winter upon the shore
of Devon, I had with me the two folio volumes of his works, and
patiently read the better part of them; it was more fruitful than a
study of all the modern historians who have written about his time. I
saw the man; caught many a glimpse of his mind and heart, and names
which had been to me but symbols in a period of obscure history became
things living and recognizable.
I could have travelled from Catanzaro by railway to the sea-coast
station called Squillace, but the town itself is perched upon a
mountain some miles inland, and it was simpler to perform the whole
journey by road, a drive of four hours, which, if the weather favoured
me, would be thoroughly enjoyable. On my last evening Don Pasquale gave
a good account of the sky; he thought I might hopefully set forth on
the morrow, and, though I was to leave at eight o'clock, promised to
come and see me off. Very early I looked forth, and the prospect seemed
doubtful; I had half a mind to postpone departure. But about seven came
Don Pasquale's servant, sent by his master to inquire whether I should
start or not, and, after asking the man's opinion, I decided to take
courage. The sun rose; I saw the streets of Catanzaro brighten in its
pale gleams, and the rack above interspaced with blue.
Luckily my carriage-owner was a man of prudence; at the appointed hour
he sent a covered vehicle--not the open _carozzella_ in which I should
have cheerfully set forth had it depended upon myself. Don Pasquale,
too, though unwilling to perturb me, could not altogether disguise his
misgivings. At my last sight of him, he stood on the pavement before
the hotel gazing anxiously upwards. But the sun still shone, and as we
began the descent of the mountain-side I felt annoyed at having to view
the landscape through loopholes.
Of a sudden--we were near the little station down in the valley--there
arose a mighty roaring, and all the trees of the wayside bent as if
they would break. The sky blackened, the wind howled, and presently, as
I peered through the window for some hope that this would only be a
passing storm, rain beat violently upon my face. Then the carriage
stopped, and my driver, a lad of about seventeen, jumped down to put
something right in the horses' harness.
"Is this going to last?" I shouted to him.
"No, no, signore" he answered gaily. "It will be over in a minute or
two. _Ecco il sole_!"
I beheld no sun, either then or at any moment during the rest of the
day, but the voice was so reassuring that I gladly gave ear to it. On
we drove, down the lovely vale of the Corace, through orange-groves and
pine-woods, laurels and myrtles, carobs and olive trees, with the rain
beating fiercely upon us, the wind swaying all the leafage like billows
on a stormy sea. At the Marina of Catanzaro we turned southward on the
coast road, pursued it for two or three miles, then branched upon our
inland way. The storm showed no sign of coming to an end. Several times
the carriage stopped, and the lad got down to examine his
horses--perhaps to sympathize with them; he was such a drenched,
battered, pitiable object that I reproached myself for allowing him to
pursue the journey.
"_Brutto tempo_!" he screamed above the uproar, when I again spoke to
him; but in such a cheery tone that I did not think it worth while to
make any further remark.
Through the driving rain, I studied as well as I could the features of
the country. On my left hand stretched a long fiat-topped mountain,
forming the southern slope of the valley we ascended; steep, dark, and
furrowed with innumerable torrent-beds, it frowned upon a river that
rushed along the ravine at its foot to pour into the sea where the
mountain broke as a rugged cliff. This was the Mons Moscius of old
time, which sheltered the monastery built by Cassiodorus. The headlong,
swollen flood, coloured like yellow clay, held little resemblance to
the picture I had made of that river Pellena which murmurs so musically
in the old writer's pages. Its valley was heaped with great blocks of
granite--a feature which has interest for the geologist; it marks an
abrupt change of system, from the soft stone of Catanzaro (which ends
the Apennine) to the granitic mass of Aspromonte (the toe of Italy)
which must have risen above the waters long before the Apennines came
into existence. The wild weather emphasized a natural difference
between this valley of Squillace and that which rises towards
Catanzaro; here is but scanty vegetation, little more than thin
orchards of olive, and the landscape has a bare, harsh character. Is it
changed so greatly since the sixth century of our era? Or did its
beauty lie in the eyes of Cassiodorus, who throughout his long life of
statesmanship in the north never forgot this Bruttian home, and who
sought peace at last amid the scenes of his childhood?
At windings of the way I frequently caught sight of Squillace itself,
high and far, its white houses dull-gleaming against the lurid sky. The
crag on which it stands is higher than that of Catanzaro, but of softer
ascent. As we approached I sought for signs of a road that would lead
us upward, but nothing of the sort could be discerned; presently I
became aware that we were turning into a side valley, and, to all
appearances, going quite away from the town. The explanation was that
the ascent lay on the further slope; we began at length to climb the
back of the mountain, and here I noticed with a revival of hope that
there was a lull in the tempest; rain no longer fell so heavily; the
clouds seemed to be breaking apart. A beam of sunshine would have set
me singing with joy. When half-way up, my driver rested his horses and
came to speak a word; we conversed merrily. He was to make straight for
the hotel, where shelter and food awaited us--a bottle of wine, ha! ha!
He knew the hotel, of course? Oh yes, he knew the hotel; it stood just
at the entrance to the town; we should arrive in half an hour.
Looking upwards I saw nothing but a mass of ancient ruins, high
fragments of shattered wall, a crumbling tower, and great windows
through which the clouds were visible. Inhabited Squillace lay, no
doubt, behind. I knew that it was a very small place, without any
present importance; but at all events there was an albergo, and the
mere name of albergo had a delightful sound of welcome after such a
journey. Here I would stay for the night, at all events; if the weather
cleared, I might be glad to remain for two or three days. Certainly the
rain was stopping; the wind no longer howled. Up we went towards those
ragged walls and great, vacant windows. We reached the summit; for two
minutes the horses trotted; then a sudden halt, and my lad's face at
the carriage door.
"_Ecco l'albergo, Signore_!"
I jumped out. We were at the entrance to an unpaved street of squalid
hovels, a street which the rain had converted into a muddy river, so
that, on quitting the vehicle, I stepped into running water up to my
ankles. Before me was a long low cabin, with a row of four or five
windows and no upper storey; a miserable hut of rubble and plaster,
stained with ancient dirt and, at this moment, looking soaked with
moisture. Above the doorway I read "Osteria Centrale"; on the bare end
of the house was the prouder inscription, "Albergo Nazionale"--the
National Hotel. I am sorry to say that at the time this touch of humour
made no appeal to me; my position was no laughing matter. Faint with
hunger, I saw at once that I should have to browse on fearsome food. I
saw, too, that there was scarce a possibility of passing the night in
this place; I must drive down to the sea-shore, and take my chance of a
train which would bring me at some time to Reggio. While I thus
reflected--the water rushing over my boots--a very ill-looking man came
forth and began to stare curiously at me. I met his eye, but he offered
no greeting. A woman joined him, and the two, quite passive, waited to
discover my intentions.
Eat I must, so I stepped forward and asked if I could have a meal.
Without stirring, the man gave a sullen assent. Could I have food at
once? Yes, in a few minutes. Would they show me--the dining room? Man
and woman turned upon their heels, and I followed. The entrance led
into a filthy kitchen; out of this I turned to the right, went along a
passage upon which opened certain chamber doors, and was conducted into
a room at the end--for the nonce, a dining-room, but at ordinary times
a bedroom. Evidently the kitchen served for native guests; as a
foreigner I was treated with more ceremony. Left alone till my meal
should be ready, I examined the surroundings. The floor was of worn
stone, which looked to me like the natural foundation of the house; the
walls were rudely plastered, cracked, grimed, and with many a deep
chink; as for the window, it admitted light, but, owing to the aged
dirt which had gathered upon it, refused any view of things without
save in two or three places where the glass was broken; by these
apertures, and at every point of the framework, entered a sharp wind.
In one corner stood an iron bedstead, with mattress and bedding in a
great roll upon it; a shaky deal table and primitive chair completed
the furniture. Ornament did not wholly lack; round the walls hung a
number of those coloured political caricatures (several indecent) which
are published by some Italian newspapers, and a large advertisement of
a line of emigrant ships between Naples and New York. Moreover, there
was suspended in a corner a large wooden crucifix, very quaint, very
hideous, and black with grime.
Spite of all this, I still debated with myself whether to engage the
room for the night. I should have liked to stay; the thought of a sunny
morning here on the height strongly allured me, and it seemed a shame
to confess myself beaten by an Italian inn. On the other hand, the look
of the people did not please me; they had surly, forbidding faces. I
glanced at the door--no lock. Fears, no doubt, were ridiculous; yet I
felt ill at ease. I would decide after seeing the sort of fare that was
set before me.
The meal came with no delay. First, a dish of great _peperoni_ cut up
in oil. This gorgeous fruit is never much to my taste, but I had as yet
eaten no such _peperoni_ as those of Squillace; an hour or two
afterwards my mouth was still burning from the heat of a few morsels to
which I was constrained by hunger. Next appeared a dish for which I had
covenanted--the only food, indeed, which the people had been able to
offer at short notice--a stew of pork and potatoes. Pork (_maiale_) is
the staple meat of all this region; viewing it as Homeric diet, I had
often battened upon such flesh with moderate satisfaction. But the pork
of Squillace defeated me; it smelt abominably, and it was tough as
leather. No eggs were to be had no macaroni; cheese, yes--the familiar
_cacci cavallo_ Bread appeared in the form of a fiat circular cake, a
foot in diameter, with a hole through the middle; its consistency
resembled that of cold pancake. And the drink! At least I might hope to
solace myself with an honest draught of red wine. I poured from the
thick decanter (dirtier vessel was never seen on table) and tasted. The
stuff was poison. Assuredly I am far from fastidious; this, I believe,
was the only occasion when wine has been offered me in Italy which I
could not drink. After desperately trying to persuade myself that the
liquor was merely "rough," that its nauseating flavour meant only a
certain coarse quality of the local grape, I began to suspect that it
was largely mixed with water--the water of Squillace! Notwithstanding a
severe thirst, I could not and durst not drink.
Very soon I made my way to the kitchen, where my driver, who had
stabled his horses, sat feeding heartily; he looked up with his merry
smile, surprised at the rapidity with which I had finished. How I
envied his sturdy stomach! With the remark that I was going to have a
stroll round the town and should be back to settle things in half an
hour, I hastened into the open.