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.
