Did Any One Ever Compare The
Expenses With The Results?
A glance shows the situation of Cosenza.
The town is built on a
steep hillside, above the point where two rivers, flowing from the
valleys on either side, mingle their waters under one name, that of
the Crati. We drove over a bridge which spans the united current,
and entered a narrow street, climbing abruptly between houses so
high and so close together as to make a gloom amid sunshine. It was
four o'clock; I felt tired and half choked with dust; the thought of
rest and a meal was very pleasant. As I searched for the sign of my
inn, we suddenly drew up, midway in the dark street, before a darker
portal, which seemed the entrance to some dirty warehouse. The
driver jumped down - "Ecco l'albergo!"
I had seen a good many Italian hostelries, and nourished no
unreasonable expectations. The Lion at Paola would have seemed to
any untravelled Englishman a squalid and comfortless hole,
incredible as a place of public entertainment; the Two Little
Lions of Cosenza made a decidedly worse impression. Over sloppy
stones, in an atmosphere heavy with indescribable stenches, I felt
rather than saw my way to the foot of a stone staircase; this I
ascended, and on the floor above found a dusky room, where
tablecloths and an odour of frying oil afforded some suggestion of
refreshment. My arrival interested nobody; with a good deal of
trouble I persuaded an untidy fellow, who seemed to be a waiter, to
come down with me and secure my luggage. More trouble before I could
find a bedroom; hunting for keys, wandering up and down stone stairs
and along pitch-black corridors, sounds of voices in quarrel. The
room itself was utterly depressing - so bare, so grimy, so dark.
Quickly I examined the bed, and was rewarded. It is the good point
of Italian inns; be the house and the room howsoever sordid, the bed
is almost invariably clean and dry and comfortable.
I ate, not amiss; I drank copiously to the memory of Alaric, and
felt equal to any fortune. When night had fallen I walked a little
about the scarce-lighted streets and came to an open place, dark and
solitary and silent, where I could hear the voices of the two
streams as they mingled below the hill. Presently I passed an open
office of some kind, where a pleasant-looking man sat at a table
writing; on an impulse I entered, and made bold to ask whether
Cosenza had no better inn than the Due Lionetti. Great was this
gentleman's courtesy; he laid down his pen, as if for ever, and gave
himself wholly to my concerns. His discourse delighted me, so
flowing were the phrases, so rounded the periods. Yes, there were
other inns; one at the top of the town - the Vetere - in a very
good position; and they doubtless excelled my own in modern comfort.
As a matter of fact, it might be avowed that the Lionetti, from
the point of view of the great centres of civilization, left
something to be desired - something to be desired; but it was a
good old inn, a reputable old inn, and probably on further
acquaintance - -
Further acquaintance did not increase my respect for the Lionetti;
it would not be easy to describe those features in which, most
notably, it fell short of all that might be desired. But I proposed
no long stay at Cosenza, where malarial fever is endemic, and it did
not seem worth while to change my quarters. I slept very well.
I had come here to think about Alaric, and with my own eyes to
behold the place of his burial. Ever since the first boyish reading
of Gibbon, my imagination has loved to play upon that scene of
Alaric's death. Thinking to conquer Sicily, the Visigoth marched as
far as to the capital of the Bruttii, those mountain tribes which
Rome herself never really subdued; at Consentia he fell sick and
died. How often had I longed to see this river Busento, which the
"labour of a captive multitude" turned aside, that its flood might
cover and conceal for all time the tomb of the Conqueror! I saw it
in the light of sunrise, flowing amid low, brown, olive-planted
hills; at this time of the year it is a narrow, but rapid stream,
running through a wide, waste bed of yellow sand and stones. The
Crati, which here has only just started upon its long seaward way
from some glen of Sila, presents much the same appearance, the track
which it has worn in flood being many times as broad as the actual
current. They flow, these historic waters, with a pleasant sound,
overborne at moments by the clapping noise of Cosenza's washerwomen,
who cleanse their linen by beating it, then leave it to dry on the
river-bed. Along the banks stood tall poplars, each a spire of
burnished gold, blazing against the dark olive foliage on the slopes
behind them; plane trees, also, very rich of colour, and fig trees
shedding their latest leaves. Now, tradition has it that Alaric was
buried close to the confluence of the Busento and the Crati. If so,
he lay in full view of the town. But the Goths are said to have
slain all their prisoners who took part in the work, to ensure
secrecy. Are we to suppose that Consentia was depopulated? On any
other supposition the story must be incorrect, and Alaric's tomb
would have to be sought at least half a mile away, where the Busento
is hidden in its deep valley.
Gibbon, by the way, calls it Busentinus; the true Latin was
Buxentius. To make sure of the present name, I questioned some half
a dozen peasants, who all named the river Basenzio or Basenz'; a
countryman of more intelligent appearance assured me that this was
only a dialectical form, the true one being Busento.
Enter page number
PreviousNext
Page 5 of 40
Words from 4121 to 5123
of 40398
