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.
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