The Calabrians, However, Are
Distinguished By Their Self-Respect; They Contrast Remarkedly With
The Natives Of The Neapolitan District.
Presently, I saw that the
boy's elder companion had appropriated the flower, which he kept at
his nose as
He plodded along; after useless remonstrance, the other
drew near to me again, shamefaced; would I make him another present;
not a rose this time, he would not venture to ask it, but "questo
piccolo"; and he pointed to a sprig of geranium. There was a grace
about the lad which led me to talk to him, though I found his
dialect very difficult. Seeing us on good terms, the elder boy drew
near, and at once asked a puzzling question: When was the ruined
church on the hillside to be rebuilt? I answered, of course, that I
knew nothing about it, but this reply was taken as merely evasive;
in a minute or two the lad again questioned me. Was the rebuilding
to be next year? Then I began to understand; having seen me
examining the ruins, the boy took it for granted that I was an
architect here on business, and I don't think I succeeded in setting
him right. When he had said good-bye he turned to look after me with
a mischievous smile, as much as to say that I had naturally refused
to talk to him about so important a matter as the building of a
church, but he was not to be deceived.
The common type of face at Cotrone is coarse and bumpkinish; ruder,
it seemed to me, than faces seen at any point of my journey
hitherto. A photographer had hung out a lot of portraits, and it was
a hideous exhibition; some of the visages attained an incredible
degree of vulgar ugliness. This in the town which still bears the
name of Croton. The people are all more or less unhealthy; one meets
peasants horribly disfigured with life-long malaria. There is an
agreeable cordiality in the middle classes; business men from whom I
sought casual information, even if we only exchanged a few words in
the street, shook hands with me at parting. I found no one who had
much good to say of his native place; every one complained of a lack
of water. Indeed, Cotrone has as good as no water supply. One or two
wells I saw, jealously guarded: the water they yield is not really
fit for drinking, and people who can afford it purchase water which
comes from a distance in earthenware jars. One of these jars I had
found in my bedroom; its secure corking much puzzled me until I made
inquiries. The river Esaro is all but useless for any purpose, and
as no other stream flows in the neighbourhood, Cotrone's washerwomen
take their work down to the beach; even during the gale I saw them
washing there in pools which they had made to hold the sea water;
now and then one of them ventured into the surf, wading with legs of
limitless nudity and plunging linen as the waves broke about her.
It was unfortunate that I brought no letter of introduction to
Cotrone; I should much have liked to visit one of the better houses.
Well-to-do people live here, and I was told that, in fine weather,
"at least half a dozen" private carriages might be seen making the
fashionable drive on the Strada Regina Margherita. But it is not
easy to imagine luxury or refinement in these dreary, close-packed
streets. Judging from our table at the Concordia, the town is
miserably provisioned; the dishes were poor and monotonous and
infamously cooked. Almost the only palatable thing offered was an
enormous radish. Such radishes I never saw: they were from six to
eight inches long, and more than an inch thick, at the same time
thoroughly crisp and sweet. The wine of the country had nothing to
recommend it. It was very heady, and smacked of drugs rather than of
grape juice.
But men must eat, and the Concordia, being the only restaurant,
daily entertained several citizens, besides guests staying in the
house. One of these visitants excited my curiosity; he was a
middle-aged man of austere countenance; shabby in attire, but with
the bearing of one accustomed to command. Arriving always at exactly
the same moment, he seated himself in his accustomed place, drew his
hat over his brows, and began to munch bread. No word did I hear him
speak. As soon as he appeared in the doorway, the waiter called out,
with respectful hurry, "Don Ferdinando!" and in a minute his first
course was served. Bent like a hunchback over the table, his hat
dropping ever lower, until it almost hid his eyes, the Don ate
voraciously. His dishes seemed to be always the same, and as soon as
he had finished the last mouthful, he rose and strode from the room.
Don is a common title of respect in Southern Italy; it dates of
course from the time of Spanish rule. At a favourable moment I
ventured to inquire of the waiter who Don Ferdinando might be; the
only answer, given with extreme discretion, was "A proprietor." If
in easy circumstances, the Don must have been miserly, his diet was
wretched beyond description. And in the manner of his feeding he
differed strangely from the ordinary Italian who frequents
restaurants. Wonderful to observe, the representative diner. He
always seems to know exactly what his appetite demands; he addresses
the waiter in a preliminary discourse, sketching out his meal, and
then proceeds to fill in the minutiae. If he orders a common dish,
he describes with exquisite detail how it is to be prepared; in
demanding something out of the way he glows with culinary
enthusiasm. An ordinary bill of fare never satisfies him; he plays
variations upon the theme suggested, divides or combines, introduces
novelties of the most unexpected kind. As a rule, he eats enormously
(I speak only of dinner), a piled dish of macaroni is but the
prelude to his meal, a whetting of his appetite.
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