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. 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.
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