. . .
From where I sat one may trace a road that winds upwards into the Sila,
past Pallagorio. Along its sides are certain mounded heaps and the smoke
of refining works. These are mines of that dusky sulphur which I had
observed being drawn in carts through the streets of Cotrone. There are
some eight or ten of them, they tell me, discovered about thirty years
ago - this is all wrong: they are mentioned in 1571 - and employing
several hundred workmen. It had been my intention to visit these
excavations. But now, in the heat of day, I wavered; the distance, even
to the nearest of them, seemed inordinately great; and just as I had
decided to look for a carnage with a view of being driven there (that
curse of conscientiousness!) an amiable citizen snatched me up as his
guest for luncheon. He led me, weakly resisting, to a vaulted chamber
where, amid a repast of rural delicacies and the converse of his spouse,
all such fond projects were straightway forgotten. Instead of
sulphur-statistics, I learnt a little piece of local history.
"You were speaking about the emptiness of our streets of Strangoli," my
host said. "And yet, up to a short time ago, there was no emigration
from this place. Then a change came about: I'll tell you how it was.
There was a guardia di finanze here - a miserable octroi official. To
keep up the name of his family, he married an heiress; not for the sake
of having progeny, but - well! He began buying up all the land round
about - slowly, systematically, cautiously - till, by dint of threats and
intrigues, he absorbed nearly all the surrounding country. Inch by inch,
he ate it up; with his wife's money. That was his idea of perpetuating
his memory. All the small proprietors were driven from their domains and
fled to America to escape starvation; immense tracts of well-cultivated
land are now almost desert. Look at the country! But some day he will
get his reward; under the ribs, you know."
By this purposeful re-creation of those feudal conditions of olden,
days, this man has become the best-hated person in the district.
Soon it was time to leave the friendly shelter and inspect in the
glaring sunshine the remaining antiquities of Petelia. Never have I felt
less inclined for such antiquarian exploits. How much better the hours
would have passed in some cool tavern! I went forth, none the less; and
was delighted to discover that there are practically no antiquities
left - nothing save a few walls standing near a now ruined convent, which
is largely built of Roman stone-blocks and bricks. Up to a few years
ago, the municipality carried on excavations here and unearthed a few
relics which were promptly dispersed. Perhaps some of these are what one
sees in the Catanzaro Museum. The paternal government, hearing of this
enterprise, claimed the site and sat down upon it; the exposed remains
were once more covered up with soil.
A goat-boy, a sad little fellow, sprang out of the earth as I dutifully
wandered about here. He volunteered to show me not only Strongoli, but
all Calabria; in fact, his heart's desire was soon manifest: to escape
from home and find his way to America under my passport and protection.
Here was his chance - a foreigner (American) returning sooner or later to
his own country! He pressed the matter with naif forcefulness. Vainly I
told him that there were other lands on earth; that I was not going to
America. He shook his head and sagely remarked:
"I have understood. You think my journey would cost too much. But you,
also, must understand. Once I get work there, I will repay you every
farthing."
As a consolation, I offered him some cigarettes. He accepted one;
pensive, unresigned.
The goat-herds had no such cravings - in the days of Theocritus.
XL
THE COLUMN
"Two hours - three hours - four hours: according!"
The boatmen are still eager for the voyage. It all depends, as before,
upon the wind.
And day after day the Ionian lies before us - immaculate, immutable.
I determined to approach the column by land. A mule was discovered, and
starting from the "Concordia" rather late in the morning, reached the
temple-ruin in two hours to the minute. I might have been tempted to
linger by the way but for the intense sunshine and for the fact that the
muleteer was an exceptionally dull dog - a dusky youth of the taciturn
and wooden-faced Spanish variety, whose anti-Hellenic profile irked me,
in that landscape. The driving road ends at the cemetery. Thence onward
a pathway skirts the sea at the foot of the clay-hills; passes the
sunken wells; climbs up and down steepish gradients and so attains the
plateau at whose extremity stands the lighthouse, the column, and a few
white bungalows - summer-residences of Cotrone citizens.
A day of shimmering heat. . . .
The ground is parched. Altogether, it is a poor and thinly peopled
stretch of land between Cotrone and Capo Rizzuto. No wonder the wolves
are famished. Nine days ago one of them actually ventured upon the road
near the cemetery, in daylight.
Yet there is some plant-life, and I was pleased to see, emerging from
the bleak sand-dunes, the tufts of the well-known and conspicuous sea
lily in full flower. Wishful to obtain a few blossoms, I asked the boy
to descend from his mule, but he objected.
"Non si toccano questi fiori," he said. These flowers are not to be
touched.
Their odour displeased him. Like the Arab, the uncultivated Italian is
insensitive to certain smells that revolt us; while he cannot endure, on
the other hand, the scent of some flowers.
