. . . We
return home followed by carriages and mules loaded with wild boars,
roe-deer, fallow-deer, hares, pheasants, wild duck, wild geese - to say
nothing of foxes and wolves, of which we have already killed an immense
quantity."
The pheasants seem to have likewise died out, save in royal preserves.
They were introduced into Calabria by that mighty hunter Frederick II.
The parcelling out of many of these big properties has been followed by
a destruction of woodland and complete disappearance of game. It is
hailed as the beginning of a new era of prosperity; and so it well may
be, from a commercial point of view. But the traveller and lover of
nature will be glad to leave some of these wild districts in the hands
of their rich owners, who have no great interests in cultivating every
inch of ground, levelling rocky spaces, draining the land and hewing
down every tree that fails to bear fruit. Split into peasant
proprietorships, this forest would soon become a scientifically
irrigated campagna for the cultivation of tomatoes or what not, like the
"Colonia Elena," near the Pontine Marshes. The national exchequer would
profit, without a doubt. But I question whether we should all take the
economical point of view - whether it would be wise for humanity to do
so. There is a prosperity other than material. Some solitary artist or
poet, drawing inspiration from scenes like this, might have contributed
more to the happiness of mankind than a legion of narrow-minded, grimy
and litigious tomato-planters.
To all appearances, Italy is infected just now with a laudable mania for
the "exploitation of natural resources" - at the expense, of course, of
wealthy landowners, who are described as withholding from the people
their due. The programme sounds reasonable enough; but one must not
forget that what one reads on this subject in the daily papers is
largely the campaign of a class of irresponsible pressmen and
politicians, who exploit the ignorance of weak people to fill their own
pockets. How one learns to loathe, in Italy and in England, that lovely
word socialism, when one knows a little of the inner workings of the
cause and a few - just a few! - details of the private lives of these
unsavoury saviours of their country!
The lot of the southern serfs was bad enough before America was
"discovered"; and quite unendurable in earlier times. There is a village
not many hours from Naples where, in 1789, only the personal attendants
of the feudal lord lived in ordinary houses; the two thousand
inhabitants, the serfs, took refuge in caves and shelters of straw.
Conceive the conditions in remote Calabria! Such was the anguished
poverty of the country-folk that up to the eighties of last century they
used to sell their children by regular contracts, duly attested before
the local mayors. But nowadays I listen to their complaints with
comparative indifference.
"You are badly treated, my friend? I quite believe it; indeed, I can see
it. Well, go to Argentina and sell potatoes, or to the mines of
Pennsylvania. There you will grow rich, like the rest of your
compatriots. Then return and send your sons to the University; let them
become avvocati and members of Parliament, who shall harass into
their graves these wicked owners of the soil."
This, as a matter of fact, is the career of a considerable number of them.
For the rest, the domain of Policoro - it is spelt Pelicaro in older
maps like those of Magini and Rizzi-Zannone - seems to be well
administered, and would repay a careful study. I was not encouraged,
however, to undertake this study, the manager evidently suspecting some
ulterior motive to underlie my simple questions. He was not at all
responsive to friendly overtures. Restive at first, he soon waxed
ambiguous, and finally taciturn. Perhaps he thought I was a tax-gatherer
in disguise. A large structure combining the features of palace,
fortress and convent occupies an eminence, and is supposed by some to
stand on the site of old Heracleia; it was erected by the Jesuits; the
workpeople live in humble dwellings that cluster around it. Those that
are now engaged in cutting the corn receive a daily wage of two carlini
(eightpence) - the Bourbon coinage still survives in name.
You walk to this building from the station along an avenue of eucalypti
planted some forty years ago. Detesting, as I do, the whole tribe of gum
trees, I never lose an opportunity of saying exactly what I think about
this particularly odious representative of the brood, this eyesore, this
grey-haired scarecrow, this reptile of a growth with which a pack of
misguided enthusiasts have disfigured the entire Mediterranean basin.
They have now realized that it is useless as a protection against
malaria. Soon enough they will learn that instead of preventing the
disease, it actually fosters it, by harbouring clouds of mosquitoes
under its scraggy so-called foliage. These abominations may look better
on their native heath: I sincerely hope they do. Judging by the "Dead
Heart of Australia" - a book which gave me a nightmare from which I shall
never recover - I should say that a varnished hop-pole would be an
artistic godsend out there.
But from here the intruder should be expelled without mercy. A single
eucalyptus will ruin the fairest landscape. No plant on earth rustles in
such a horribly metallic fashion when the wind blows through those
everlastingly withered branches; the noise chills one to the marrow; it
is like the sibilant chattering of ghosts. Its oil is called "medicinal"
only because it happens to smell rather nasty; it is worthless as
timber, objectionable in form and hue - objectionable, above all things,
in its perverse, anti-human habits. What other tree would have the
effrontery to turn the sharp edges of its leaves - as if these were not
narrow enough already!
