THE GROTTA
About a mile beyond Squillace the line passes by a tunnel through the
promontory of Mons Moscius. At this point on the face of the sea-cliff
I was told that I should discover a _grotta_, one of the caverns which
some think are indicated by Cassiodorus when he speaks of his
fish-preserves. Arrived near the mouth of the tunnel I found a
signal-box, where several railway men were grouped in talk; to them I
addressed myself, and all immediately turned to offer me guidance. We
had to clamber down a rocky descent, and skirt the waves for a few
yards; when my cluster of companions had sufficiently shown their
good-will, all turned back but one, who made a point of giving me safe
conduct into the cave itself. He was a bronzed, bright-eyed,
happy-looking fellow of middle age, his humorous intelligence appearing
in a flow of gossip about things local. We entered a narrow opening,
some twelve feet high, which ran perhaps twenty yards into the cliff.
Lenormant supposes that this was a quarry made by the original Greek
colonists. If Cassiodorus used it for the purpose mentioned, the cave
must have been in direct communication either with the sea or the
river; at present, many yards of sloping shingle divide it from the
line of surf, and the river flows far away. Movement of the shore there
has of course been, and the Pellena may have considerably changed the
direction of its outflow; our author's description being but vague, one
can only muse on probabilities and likelihoods.
Whilst we talked, the entrance to the cave was shadowed, and there
entered one of the men who had turned back half-way; his face betrayed
the curiosity which had after all prevailed to bring him hither.
Shouting merrily, my companion hailed him as "Brigadiere." The two
friends contrasted very amusingly; for the brigadiere was a mild,
timid, simple creature, who spoke with diffidence; he kept his
foolishly good-natured eyes fixed upon me, a gaze of wonder. After
listening to all that my guide had to say--it was nothing to the point,
dealing chiefly with questions of railway engineering--I had just begun
to explain my interest in the locality, and I mentioned the name of
Cassiodorus. As it passed my lips the jovial fellow burst into a roar
of laughter. "Cassiodorio! Ha, ha! Cassiodorio! Ha, ha, ha!" I asked
him what he meant, and found that he was merely delighted to hear a
stranger unexpectedly utter a name in familiar local use. He ran out
from the cave, and pointed up the valley; yonder was a fountain which
bore the name "Fontana di Cassiodorio." (From my authors I knew of
this; it may or may not have genuine historic interest.) Thereupon, I
tried to discover whether any traditions hung to the name, but these
informants had only a vague idea that Cassiodorus was a man of times
long gone by. How, they questioned in turn, did _I_ know anything about
him? Why, from books, I replied; among them books which the ancient
himself had written more than a thousand years ago. This was too much
for the brigadiere; it moved him to stammered astonishment. Did I mean
to say that books written more than a thousand years ago still existed?
The jovial friend, good-naturedly scornful, cried out that of course
they did, and added with triumphant air that they were not in the
language of to-day but in _latino, latino_! All this came as a
revelation to the other, who stared and marvelled, never taking his
eyes from my face. At length he burst out with an emphatic question;
these same books, were they large? Why yes, I answered, some of them.
Were they--were they _as large as a missal_? A shout of jolly laughter
interrupted us. It seemed to me that my erudite companion was in the
habit of getting fun of out his friend the brigadiere, but so kindly
did he look and speak, that it must have been difficult for the
simpleton ever to take offence.
Meanwhile the sullen sky had grown blacker, and rain was descending
heavily. In any case, I should barely have had time to go further, and
had to be content with a description from my companions of a larger
cave some distance beyond this, which is known as the Grotta of San
Gregorio--with reference, no doubt, to S. Gregory the Thaumaturgist; to
him was dedicated a Greek monastery, built on the ruined site of
Vivariense. After the Byzantine conquest of the sixth century, Magna
Graecia once more justified its ancient name; the civilization of this
region became purely Greek; but for the Lombards and ecclesiastical
Rome, perhaps no Latin Italy would have survived. Greek monks, who
through the darkest age were skilful copyists, continued in Calabria
the memorable work of Cassiodorus. The ninth century saw Saracen
invasion, and then it was, no doubt, that the second religious house
under Mons Moscius perished from its place.
Thinking over this, I walked away from the cave and climbed again to
the railway; my friends also were silent and ruminative. Not
unnaturally, I suspected that a desire for substantial thanks had some
part in their Silence, and at a convenient spot I made suitable
offering. It was done, I trust, with all decency, for I knew that I had
the better kind of Calabrian to deal with; but neither the jovially
intelligent man nor the pleasant simpleton would for a moment entertain
this suggestion. They refused with entire dignity--grave, courteous,
firm-and as soon as I had apologized, which I did not without emphasis,
we were on the same terms as before; with handshaking, we took kindly
leave of each other. Such self-respect is the rarest thing in Italy
south of Rome, but in Calabria I found it more than once.
By when I had walked back to the station, hunger exhausted me. There
was no buffet, and seemingly no place in the neighbourhood where food
could be purchased, but on my appealing to the porter I learnt that he
was accustomed to entertain stray travellers in his house hard by,
whither he at once led me. To describe the room where my meal was
provided would be sheer ingratitude: in my recollection it compares
favourably with the _Albergo Nazionale_ of Squillace. I had bread,
salame, cheese, and, heaven be thanked, wine that I could swallow--nay,
for here sounds the note of thanklessness, it was honest wine, of which
I drank freely. Honest, too, the charge that was made; I should have
felt cheap at ten times the price that sudden accession of bodily and
mental vigour. Luck be with him, serviceable _facchino_ of Squillace! I
remember his human face, and his smile of pleasure when I declared all
he modestly set before me good and good again. His hospitality sent me
on my way rejoicing--glad that I had seen the unspeakable little
mountain town, thrice glad that I had looked upon Mons Moscius and
trodden by the river Pellena. Rain fell in torrents, but I no longer
cared. When presently the train arrived, I found a comfortable corner,
and looked forward with a restful sigh to the seven hours' travel which
would bring me into view of Sicily.
In the carriage sat a school-boy, a book open upon his knee. When our
eyes had met twice or thrice, and an ingenuous smile rose to his
handsome face, I opened conversation, and he told me that he came every
day to school from a little place called San Sostene to Catanzaro,
there being no nearer instruction above the elementary; a journey of
some sixteen miles each way, and not to be reckoned by English
standards, for it meant changing at the Marina for the valley train,
and finally going up the mountain side by _diligenza_. The lad flushed
with delight in his adventure--a real adventure for him to meet with
some one from far-off England. Just before we stopped at San Sostene,
he presented me with his card--why had he a card?--which bore the name,
De Luca Fedele. A bright and spirited lad, who seemed to have the best
qualities of his nation; I wish I might live to hear him spoken of as a
man doing honour to Italy.
At this station another travelling companion took the school-boy's
place; a priest, who soon addressed me in courteous talk. He journeyed
only for a short way, and, when alighting, pointed skyward through the
dark (night had fallen) to indicate his mountain parish miles inland.
He, too, offered me his card, adding a genial invitation; I found he
was Parroco (parish priest) of San Nicola at Badolato. I would ask
nothing better than to visit him, some autumn-tide, when grapes are
ripening above the Ionian Sea.
It was a wild night. When the rain at length ceased, lightning flashed
ceaselessly about the dark heights of Aspromonte; later, the moon rose,
and, sailing amid grandly illumined clouds, showed white waves rolling
in upon the beach. Wherever the train stopped, that sea-music was in my
ears--now seeming to echo a verse of Homer, now the softer rhythm of
Theocritus. Think of what one may in day-time on this far southern
shore, its nights are sacred to the poets of Hellas. In rounding Cape
Spartivento, I strained my eyes through the moonlight--unhappily a
waning moon, which had shone with full orb the evening I ascended to
Catanzaro--to see the Sicilian mountains; at length they stood up
darkly against the paler night. There came back to my memory a voyage
at glorious sunrise, years ago, when I passed through the Straits of
Messina, and all day long gazed at Etna, until its cone, solitary upon
the horizon, shone faint and far in the glow of evening--the morrow to
bring me a first sight of Greece.