A Cloudless Sky; Broad Sunshine, Warm As In An English Summer; But
The Roaring Tramontana Was Disagreeably Chill.
No weather could be
more perilous to health.
The people of Cotrone, those few of them
who did not stay at home or shelter in the porticoes, went about
heavily cloaked, and I wondered at their ability to wear such
garments under so hot a sun. Theoretically aware of the danger I was
running, but, in fact, thinking little about it, I braved the wind
and the sunshine all day long; my sketch-book gained by it, and my
store of memories. First of all, I looked into the Cathedral, an
ugly edifice, as uninteresting within as without. Like all the
churches in Calabria, it is white-washed from door to altar, pillars
no less than walls - a cold and depressing interior. I could see no
picture of the least merit; one, a figure of Christ with hideous
wounds, was well-nigh as repulsive as painting could be. This vile
realism seems to indicate Spanish influence. There is a miniature
copy in bronze of the statue of the chief Apostle in St. Peter's at
Rome, and beneath it an inscription making known to the faithful
that, by order of Leo XIII. in 1896, an Indulgence of three hundred
days is granted to whosoever kisses the bronze toe and says a
prayer. Familiar enough this unpretentious announcement, yet it
never fails of its little shock to the heretic mind. Whilst I was
standing near, a peasant went through the mystic rite; to judge from
his poor malaria-stricken countenance, he prayed very earnestly, and
I hope his Indulgence benefited him. Probably he repeated a mere
formula learnt by heart. I wished he could have prayed spontaneously
for three hundred days of wholesome and sufficient food, and for as
many years of honest, capable government in his heavy-burdened
country.
When travelling, I always visit the burial-ground; I like to see how
a people commemorates its dead, for tombstones have much
significance. The cemetery of Cotrone lies by the sea-shore, at some
distance beyond the port, far away from habitations; a bare hillside
looks down upon its graves, and the road which goes by is that
leading to Cape Colonna. On the way I passed a little ruined church,
shattered, I was told, by an earthquake three years before; its
lonely position made it interesting, and the cupola of coloured
tiles (like that of the Cathedral at Amalfi) remained intact, a
bright spot against the grey hills behind. A high enclosing wall
signalled the cemetery; I rang a bell at the gate and was admitted
by a man of behaviour and language much more refined than is common
among the people of this region; I felt sorry, indeed, that I had
not found him seated in the Sindaco's chair that morning. But as
guide to the burial-ground he was delightful. Nine years, he told
me, he had held the post of custodian, in which time, working with
his own hands, and unaided, he had turned the enclosure from a
wretched wilderness into a beautiful garden. Unaffectedly I admired
the results of his labour, and my praise rejoiced him greatly. He
specially requested me to observe the geraniums; there were ten
species, many of them of extraordinary size and with magnificent
blossoms. Roses I saw, too, in great abundance; and tall
snapdragons, and bushes of rosemary, and many flowers unknown to me.
As our talk proceeded the gardener gave me a little light on his own
history; formerly he was valet to a gentleman of Cotrone, with whom
he had travelled far and wide over Europe; yes, even to London, of
which he spoke with expressively wide eyes, and equally expressive
shaking of the head. That any one should journey from Calabria to
England seemed to him intelligible enough; but he marvelled that I
had thought it worth while to come from England to Calabria. Very
rarely indeed could he show his garden to one from a far-off
country; no, the place was too poor, accommodation too rough; there
needed a certain courage, and he laughed, again shaking his head.
The ordinary graves were marked with a small wooden cross; where a
head-stone had been raised, it generally presented a skull and
crossed bones. Round the enclosure stood a number of mortuary
chapels, gloomy and ugly. An exception to this dull magnificence in
death was a marble slab, newly set against the wall, in memory of a
Lucifero - one of that family, still eminent, to which belonged the
sacrilegious bishop. The design was a good imitation of those noble
sepulchral tablets which abound in the museum at Athens; a figure
taking leave of others as if going on a journey. The Lucifers had
shown good taste in their choice of the old Greek symbol; no better
adornment of a tomb has ever been devised, nor one that is half so
moving. At the foot of the slab was carved a little owl (civetta), a
bird, my friend informed me, very common about here.
When I took leave, the kindly fellow gave me a large bunch of
flowers, carefully culled, with many regrets that the lateness of
the season forbade his offering choicer blossoms. His simple
good-nature and intelligence greatly won upon me. I like to think of
him as still quietly happy amid his garden walls, tending flowers
that grow over the dead at Cotrone.
On my way back again to the town, I took a nearer view of the ruined
little church, and, whilst I was so engaged, two lads driving a herd
of goats stopped to look at me. As I came out into the road again,
the younger of these modestly approached and begged me to give him a
flower - by choice, a rose. I did so, much to his satisfaction and
no less to mine; it was a pleasant thing to find a wayside lad
asking for anything but soldi.
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