Throughout The Day There Sounded From The
Piazza A Ceaseless Clamour Of Voices, Such A Noise As In England
Would Only Rise From Some Excited Crowd On A Rare Occasion; It Was
Increased By Reverberations From The Colonnade Which Runs All Round
In Front Of The Shops.
When the north-east gale had passed over,
there ensued a few days of sullen calm, permitting the people to
lead their ordinary life in open air.
I grew to recognize certain
voices, those of men who seemingly had nothing to do but to talk all
day long. Only the sound reached me; I wish I could have gathered
the sense of these interminable harangues and dialogues. In every
country and every age those talk most who have least to say that is
worth saying. These tonguesters of Cotrone had their predecessors in
the public place of Croton, who began to gossip before dawn, and
gabbled unceasingly till after nightfall; with their voices must
often have mingled the bleating of goats or the lowing of oxen, just
as I heard the sounds to-day.
One day came a street organ, accompanied by singing, and how glad I
was! The first note of music, this, that I had heard at Cotrone. The
instrument played only two or three airs, and one of them became a
great favourite with the populace; very soon, numerous voices joined
with that of the singer, and all this and the following day the
melody sounded, near or far. It had the true characteristics of
southern song; rising tremolos, and cadences that swept upon a wail
of passion; high falsetto notes, and deep tum-tum of infinite
melancholy. Scorned by the musician, yet how expressive of a
people's temper, how suggestive of its history! At the moment when
this strain broke upon my ear, I was thinking ill of Cotrone and its
inhabitants; in the first pause of the music I reproached myself
bitterly for narrowness and ingratitude. All the faults of the
Italian people are whelmed in forgiveness as soon as their music
sounds under the Italian sky. One remembers all they have suffered,
all they have achieved in spite of wrong. Brute races have flung
themselves, one after another, upon this sweet and glorious land;
conquest and slavery, from age to age, have been the people's lot.
Tread where one will, the soil has been drenched with blood. An
immemorial woe sounds even through the lilting notes of Italian
gaiety. It is a country wearied and regretful, looking ever backward
to the things of old; trivial in its latter life, and unable to hope
sincerely for the future. Moved by these voices singing over the
dust of Croton, I asked pardon for all my foolish irritation, my
impertinent fault-finding. Why had I come hither, if it was not that
I loved land and people? And had I not richly known the recompense
of my love?
Legitimately enough one may condemn the rulers of Italy, those who
take upon themselves to shape her political life, and recklessly
load her with burdens insupportable. But among the simple on Italian
soil a wandering stranger has no right to nurse national
superiorities, to indulge a contemptuous impatience. It is the touch
of tourist vulgarity. Listen to a Calabrian peasant singing as he
follows his oxen along the furrow, or as he shakes the branches of
his olive tree. That wailing voice amid the ancient silence, that
long lament solacing ill-rewarded toil, comes from the heart of
Italy herself, and wakes the memory of mankind.
CHAPTER XI
THE MOUNT OF REFUGE
My thoughts turned continually to Catanzaro. It is a city set upon a
hill, overlooking the Gulf of Squillace, and I felt that if I could
but escape thither, I should regain health and strength. Here at
Cotrone the air oppressed and enfeebled me; the neighbourhood of the
sea brought no freshness. From time to time the fever seemed to be
overcome, but it lingered still in my blood and made my nights
restless. I must away to Catanzaro.
When first I spoke of this purpose to Dr. Sculco, he indulged my
fancy, saying "Presently, presently!" A few days later, when I
seriously asked him how soon I might with safety travel, his face
expressed misgiving. Why go to Catanzaro? It was on the top of a
mountain, and had a most severe climate; the winds at this season
were terrible. In conscience he could not advise me to take such a
step: the results might be very grave after my lung trouble. Far
better wait at Cotrone for a week or two longer, and then go on to
Reggio, crossing perhaps to Sicily to complete my cure. The more Dr.
Sculco talked of windy altitudes, the stronger grew my desire for
such a change of climate, and the more intolerable seemed my state
of languishment. The weather was again stormy, but this time blew
sirocco; I felt its evil breath waste my muscles, clog my veins, set
all my nerves a-tremble. If I stayed here much longer, I should
never get away at all. A superstitious fear crept upon me; I
remembered that my last visit had been to the cemetery.
One thing was certain: I should never see the column of Hera's
temple. I made my lament on this subject to Dr. Sculco, and he did
his best to describe to me the scenery of the Cape. Certain white
spots which I had discovered at the end of the promontory were
little villas, occupied in summer by the well-to-do citizens of
Cotrone; the Doctor himself owned one, which had belonged to his
father before him. Some of the earliest memories of his boyhood were
connected with the Cape: when he had lessons to learn by heart, he
often used to recite them walking round and round the great column.
In the garden of his villa he at times amused himself with digging,
and a very few turns of the spade sufficed to throw out some relic
of antiquity.
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