I Shall Never See It; But The Desire Often Comes To Me Under
Northern Skies, When I Am Weary Of Labour And Seek In Fancy A
Paradise Of Idleness.
In the public gardens is a little museum, noticeable mostly for a
fine collection of ancient coins.
There are Greek pots, too, and
weapons, found at Tiriolo, a village high up on the mountain above
Catanzaro. As at Taranto, a stranger who cares for this kind of
thing can be sure of having the museum all to himself. On my first
visit Don Pasquale accompanied me, and through him I made the
acquaintance of the custodian. But I was not in the museum mood;
reviving health inclined me to the open air, and the life of to-day;
I saw these musty relics with only a vague eye.
After living amid a malaria-stricken population, I rejoiced in the
healthy aspect of the mountain folk. Even a deformed beggar, who
dragged himself painfully along the pavement, had so ruddy a face
that it was hard to feel compassion for him. And the wayside
children - it was a pleasure to watch them at their games. Such
children in Italy do not, as a rule, seem happy; too often they look
ill, cheerless, burdened before their time; at Catanzaro they are as
robust and lively as heart could wish, and their voices ring
delightfully upon the ear. It is not only, I imagine, a result of
the fine air they breathe; no doubt they are exceptional among the
poor children of the south in getting enough to eat. The town has
certain industries, especially the manufacture of silk; one feels an
atmosphere of well-being; mendicancy is a rare thing.
Fruits abounded, and were very cheap; if one purchased from a stall
the difficulty was to carry away the abundance offered for one's
smallest coin. Excellent oranges cost about a penny the half-dozen.
Any one who is fond of the prickly fig should go to Catanzaro. I
asked a man sitting with a basket of them at a street corner to give
me the worth of a soldo (a half-penny); he began to fill my pocket,
and when I cried that it was enough, that I could carry no more, he
held up one particularly fine fruit, smiled as only an Italian can,
and said, with admirable politeness, "Questo per complimento!" I
ought to have shaken hands with him.
Even when I had grown accustomed to the place, its singular
appearance of incompleteness kept exciting my attention. I had never
seen a town so ragged at the edges. If there had recently been a
great conflagration and almost all the whole city were being
rebuilt, it would have looked much as it did at the time of my
visit. To enter the post-office one had to clamber over heaps of
stone and plaster, to stride over tumbled beams and jump across
great puddles, entering at last by shaky stairs a place which looked
like the waiting-room of an unfinished railway station. The style of
building is peculiar, and looks so temporary as to keep one
constantly in mind of the threatening earthquake. Most of the
edifices, large and small, public and private, are constructed of
rubble set in cement, with an occasional big, rough-squared stone to
give an appearance of solidity, and perhaps a few courses of bricks
in the old Roman style. If the building is of importance, this work
is hidden beneath stucco; otherwise it remains like the mere shell
of a house, and is disfigured over all its surface with great holes
left by the scaffolding. Religion supplies something of adornment;
above many portals is a rudely painted Virgin and Child, often,
plainly enough, the effort of a hand accustomed to any tool rather
than that of the artist. On the dwellings of the very poor a great
Cross is scrawled in whitewash. These rickety houses often exhibit
another feature more picturesque and, to the earthly imagination,
more consoling; on the balcony one sees a great gourd, some three
feet long, so placed that its yellow plumpness may ripen in sun and
air. It is a sign of plenty: the warm spot of colour against the
rough masonry does good to eye and heart.
My hotel afforded me little amusement after the Concordia at
Cotrone, yet it did not lack its characteristic features. I found,
for instance, in my bedroom a printed notice, making appeal in
remarkable terms to all who occupied the chamber. The proprietor -
thus it ran - had learnt with extreme regret that certain
travellers who slept under his roof were in the habit of taking
their meals at other places of entertainment. This practice, he
desired it to be known, not only hurt his personal feelings -
tocca il suo morale - but did harm to the reputation of his
establishment. Assuring all and sundry that he would do his utmost
to maintain a high standard of culinary excellence, the proprietor
ended by begging his honourable clients that they would bestow their
kind favours on the restaurant of the house - signora pregare i
suoi respettabili clienti perche vogliano benignarsi il ristorante;
and therewith signed himself - Coriolano Paparazzo.
For my own part I was not tempted to such a breach of decorum; the
fare provided by Signor Paparazzo suited me well enough, and the
wine of the country was so good that it would have covered many
defects of cookery. Of my fellow-guests in the spacious dining-room
I can recall only two. They were military men of a certain age,
grizzled officers, who walked rather stiffly and seated themselves
with circumspection. Evidently old friends, they always dined at the
same time, entering one a few minutes after the other; but by some
freak of habit they took places at different tables, so that the
conversation which they kept up all through the meal had to be
carried on by an exchange of shouts.
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