For the rest - the
old, old story; a simple, physical explanation of what used to be an
enigma brimful of moral significance.
That Mr. Jones's facts and arguments will be found applicable to
other decayed races in the old and new worlds is highly probable.
Meanwhile, it takes one's breath away quite sufficiently to realize that
they apply to Hellas and her old colonies on these shores.
"'AUTOS. Strange! My interest waxes. Tell me then, what affliction, God
or Devil, wiped away the fair life upon the globe, the beasts, the
birds, the delectable plantations, and all the blithe millions of the
human race? What calamity fell upon them?'
"'ESCHATA. A gnat.'
"'AUTOS. A gnat?'
"'ESCHATA. Even so.'"
Thus I wrote, while yet unaware that such pests as anophelines existed
upon earth. . . .
At the same time, I think we must be cautious in following certain
deductions of our author; that theory of brutality, for example, as
resulting from malaria. Speaking of Calabria, I would almost undertake
to prove, from the archives of law-courts, that certain of the most
malarial tracts are precisely those in which there is least brutality of
any kind. Cotrone, for instance. . . . The delegato (head of the
police) of that town is so young - a mere boy - that I marvelled how he
could possibly have obtained a position which is usually filled by
seasoned and experienced officers. He was a "son of the white hen," they
told me; that is, a socially favoured individual, who was given this job
for the simple reason that there was hardly any serious work for him to
do. Cosenza, on the other hand, has a very different reputation
nowadays. And it is perfectly easy to explain how malaria might have
contributed to this end. For the disease - and herein lies its
curse - lowers both the physical and social standard of a people; it
breeds misery, poverty and ignorance - fit soil for callous rapacity.
But how about his theory of "pessimism" infecting the outlook of
generations of malaria-weakened sages? I find no trace of pessimism
here, not even in its mild Buddhistic form. The most salient mental
trait of cultured Calabrians is a subtle detachment and contempt of
illusions - whence their time-honoured renown as abstract thinkers and
speculators. This derives from a philosophic view of life and entails,
naturally enough, the outward semblance of gravity - a Spanish gravity,
due not so much to a strong graft of Spanish blood and customs during
the viceregal period, as to actual affinities with the race of Spain.
But this gravity has nothing in common with pessimism, antagonistic
though it be to those outbursts of irresponsible optimism engendered
under northern skies by copious food, or beer.
To reach the uplands of Fabbrizia and Serra, whither I was now bound, I
might have utilized the driving road from Gioioso, on the Reggio side of
Caulonia. But that was everybody's route. Or I might have gone via
Stilo, on the other side. But Stilo with its memories of Campanella - a
Spanish type, this! - and of Otho II, its winding track into the
beech-clad heights of Ferdinandea, was already familiar to me. I elected
to penetrate straight inland by the shortest way; a capable muleteer at
once presented himself.
We passed through one single village, Ragona; leaving those of S. Nicola
and Nardo di Pace on the right. The first of them is celebrated for its
annual miracle of the burning olive, when, armed to the teeth (for some
ancient reason), the populace repairs to the walls of a certain convent
out of which there grows an olive tree: at its foot is kindled a fire
whose flames are sufficient to scorch all the leaves, but behold! next
day the foliage is seen to glow more bravely green than ever. Perhaps
the roots of the tree are near some cistern. These mountain villages,
hidden under oaks and vines, with waters trickling through their lanes,
a fine climate and a soil that bears everything needful for life, must
be ideal habitations for simple folks. In some of them, the death-rate
is as low as 7: 1000. Malaria is unknown here: they seem to fulfil all
the conditions of a terrestrial paradise.
There is a note of joyous vigour in this landscape. The mule-track winds
in and out among the heights, through flowery meadows grazed by cattle
and full of buzzing insects and butterflies, and along hill-sides
cunningly irrigated; it climbs up to heathery summits and down again
through glades of chestnut and ilex with mossy trunks, whose shadow
fosters strange sensations of chill and gloom. Then out again, into the
sunshine of waving corn and poppies.
For a short while we stumbled along a torrent-bed, and I grew rather sad
to think that it might be the last I should see for some time to come,
my days in this country being now numbered. This one was narrow. But
there are others, interminable in length and breadth. Interminable! No
breeze stirs in those deep depressions through which the merest thread
of milky water trickles disconsolately. The sun blazes overhead and
hours pass, while you trudge through the fiery inferno; scintillations
of heat rise from the stones and still you crawl onwards, breathless and
footsore, till eyes are dazed and senses reel. One may well say bad
things of these torrid deserts of pebbles which, up till lately, were
the only highways from the lowlands into the mountainous parts. But they
are sweet in memory. One calls to mind the wild savours that hang in
the stagnant air; the cloven hill-sides, seamed with gorgeous patches of
russet and purple and green; the spectral tamarisks, and the glory of
coral-tinted oleanders rising in solitary tufts of beauty, or flaming
congregations, out of the pallid waste of boulders.
