By the Ionian Sea: Notes of a Ramble in Southern Italy Read online

sunshine, two well-dressed men approached me, and with somewhat

  excessive courtesy began conversation. They understood that I was about

  to drive to Cosenza. A delightful day, and a magnificent country! They

  too thought of journeying to Cosenza, and, in short, would I allow them

  to share my carriage? Now this was annoying; I much preferred to be

  alone with my thoughts; but it seemed ungracious to refuse. After a

  glance at their smiling faces, I answered that whatever room remained

  in the vehicle was at their service—on the natural understanding that

  they shared the expense; and to this, with the best grace in the world,

  they at once agreed. We took momentary leave of each other, with much

  bowing and flourishing of hats, and the amusing thing was that I never

  beheld those gentlemen again.

  Fortunately—as the carriage proved to be a very small one, and the sun

  was getting very hot; with two companions I should have had an

  uncomfortable day. In front of the Leone a considerable number of

  loafers had assembled to see me off, and of these some half-dozen were

  persevering mendicants. It disappointed me that I saw no interesting

  costume; all wore the common, colourless garb of our destroying age.

  The only vivid memory of these people which remains with me is the

  cadence of their speech. Whilst I was breakfasting, two women stood at

  gossip on a near balcony, and their utterance was a curious

  exaggeration of the Neapolitan accent; every sentence rose to a high

  note, and fell away in a long curve of sound, sometimes a musical wail,

  more often a mere whining. The protraction of the last word or two was

  really astonishing; again and again I fancied that the speaker had

  broken into song. I cannot say that the effect was altogether pleasant;

  in the end such talk would tell severely on civilized nerves, but it

  harmonized with the coloured houses, the luxuriant vegetation, the

  strange odours, the romantic landscape.

  In front of the vehicle were three little horses; behind it was hitched

  an old shabby two-wheeled thing, which we were to leave somewhere for

  repairs. With whip-cracking and vociferation, amid good-natured

  farewells from the crowd, we started away. It was just ten o’clock.

  At once the road began to climb, and nearly three hours were spent in

  reaching the highest point of the mountain barrier. Incessantly

  winding, often doubling upon itself, the road crept up the sides of

  profound gorges, and skirted many a precipice; bridges innumerable

  spanned the dry ravines which at another season are filled with furious

  torrents. From the zone of orange and olive and cactus we passed that

  of beech and oak, noble trees now shedding their rich-hued foliage on

  bracken crisped and brown; here I noticed the feathery bowers of wild

  clematis (“old man’s beard”), and many a spike of the great mullein,

  strange to me because so familiar in English lanes. Through mists that

  floated far below I looked over miles of shore, and outward to the

  ever-rising limit of sea and sky. Very lovely were the effects of

  light, the gradations of colour; from the blue-black abysses, where no

  shape could be distinguished, to those violet hues upon the furrowed

  heights which had a transparency, a softness, an indefiniteness, unlike

  anything to be seen in northern landscape.

  The driver was accompanied by a half-naked lad, who, at certain points,

  suddenly disappeared, and came into view again after a few minutes,

  having made a short cut up some rugged footway between the loops of the

  road. Perspiring, even as I sat, in the blaze of the sun, I envied the

  boy his breath and muscle. Now and then he slaked his thirst at a stone

  fountain by the wayside, not without reverencing the blue-hooded

  Madonna painted over it. A few lean, brown peasants, bending under

  faggots, and one or two carts, passed us before we gained the top, and

  half-way up there was a hovel where drink could be bought; but with

  these exceptions nothing broke the loneliness of the long, wild ascent.

  My man was not talkative, but answered inquiries civilly; only on one

  subject was he very curt—that of the two wooden crosses which we

  passed just before arriving at the summit; they meant murders. At the

  moment when I spoke of them I was stretching my legs in a walk beside

  the carriage, the driver walking just in front of me; and something

  then happened which is still a puzzle when I recall it. Whether the

  thought of crimes had made the man nervous, or whether just then I wore

  a peculiarly truculent face, or had made some alarming gesture, all of

  a sudden he turned upon me, grasped my arm and asked sharply: “What

  have you got in your hand?” I had a bit of fern, plucked a few minutes

  before, and with surprise I showed it; whereupon he murmured an

  apology, said something about making haste, and jumped to his seat. An

  odd little incident.

  At an unexpected turn of the road there spread before me a vast

  prospect; I looked down upon inland Calabria. It was a valley broad

  enough to be called a plain, dotted with white villages, and backed by

  the mass of mountains which now, as in old time, bear the name of Great

  Sila. Through this landscape flowed the river Crati—the ancient

  Crathis; northward it curved, and eastward, to fall at length into the

  Ionian Sea, far beyond my vision. The river Crathis, which flowed by

  the walls of Sybaris. I stopped the horses to gaze and wonder; gladly I

  would have stood there for hours. Less interested, and impatient to get

  on, the driver pointed out to me the direction of Cosenza, still at a

  great distance. He added the information that, in summer, the

  well-to-do folk of Cosenza go to Paola for sea-bathing, and that they

  always perform the journey by night. I, listening carelessly amid my

  dream, tried to imagine the crossing of those Calabrian hills under a

  summer sun! By summer moonlight it must be wonderful.

  We descended at a sharp pace, all the way through a forest of

  chestnuts, the fruit already gathered, the golden leaves rustling in

  their fall. At the foot lies the village of San Fili, and here we left

  the crazy old cart which we had dragged so far. A little further, and

  before us lay a long, level road, a true Roman highway, straight for

  mile after mile. By this road the Visigoths must have marched after the

  sack of Rome. In approaching Cosenza I was drawing near to the grave of

  Alaric. Along this road the barbarian bore in triumph those spoils of

  the Eternal City which were to enrich his tomb.

  By this road, six hundred years before the Goth, marched Hannibal on

  his sullen retreat from Italy, passing through Cosentia to embark at

  Croton.

  CHAPTER III

  THE GRAVE OF ALARIC

  It would have been prudent to consult with my driver as to the inns of

  Cosenza. But, with a pardonable desire not to seem helpless in his

  hands, I had from the first directed him to the Due Lionetti, relying

  upon my guide-book. Even at Cosenza there is progress, and guide-books

  to little-known parts of Europe are easily allowed to fall out of date.
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  On my arrival----

  But, first of all, the dazio. This time it was a serious business;

  impossible to convince the rather surly officer that certain of the

  contents of my portmanteau were not for sale. What in the world was I

  doing with tanti libri? Of course I was a commercial traveller;

  ridiculous to pretend anything else. After much strain of courtesy, I

  clapped to my luggage, locked it up, and with a resolute face cried

  “Avanti!” And there was an end of it. In this case, as so often, I have

  no doubt that simple curiosity went for much in the man’s pertinacious

  questioning. Of course the whole dazio business is ludicrous and

  contemptible; I scarce know a baser spectacle than that of uniformed

  officials groping in the poor little bundles of starved peasant women,

  mauling a handful of onions, or prodding with long irons a cartload of

  straw. 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. At a bookseller’s shop (Cosenza had

  one, a very little one) I found the same opinion to prevail.

  It is difficult to walk much in this climate; lassitude and feverish

  symptoms follow on the slightest exertion; but—if one can disregard

  the evil smells which everywhere catch one’s breath—Cosenza has

  wonders and delights which tempt to day-long rambling. To call the town

  picturesque is to use an inadequate word; at every step, from the

  opening of the main street at the hill-foot up to the stern mediaeval

  castle crowning its height, one marvels and admires.
So narrow are the

  ways that a cart drives the pedestrian into shop or alley; two vehicles

  (but perhaps the thing never happened) would with difficulty pass each

  other. As in all towns of Southern Italy, the number of hair-dressers

  is astonishing, and they hang out the barber’s basin—the very basin

  (of shining brass and with a semicircle cut out of the rim) which the

  Knight of La Mancha took as substitute for his damaged helmet. Through

  the gloom of high balconied houses, one climbs to a sunny piazza, where

  there are several fine buildings; beyond it lies the public garden, a

  lovely spot, set with alleys of acacia and groups of palm and

  flower-beds and fountains; marble busts of Garibaldi, Mazzini, and

  Cavour gleam among the trees. Here one looks down upon the yellow gorge

  of the Crati, and sees it widen northward into a vast green plain, in

  which the track of the river is soon lost. On the other side of the

  Crati valley, in full view of this garden, begins the mountain region

  of many-folded Sila—a noble sight at any time of the day, but most of

  all when the mists of morning cling about its summits, or when the

  sunset clothes its broad flanks with purple. Turn westward, and you

  behold the long range which hides the Mediterranean so high and wild

  from this distance, that I could scarce believe I had driven over it.

  Sila—locally the Black Mountain, because dark with climbing

  forests—held my gaze through a long afternoon. From the grassy

  table-land of its heights, pasturage for numberless flocks and herds

  when the long snows have melted, one might look over the shore of the

  Ionian Sea where Greek craftsmen built ships of timber cut upon the

  mountain’s side. Not so long ago it was a haunt of brigands; now there

  is no risk for the rare traveller who penetrates that wilderness; but

  he must needs depend upon the hospitality of labourers and shepherds. I

  dream of sunny glades, never touched, perhaps, by the foot of man since

  the Greek herdsman wandered there with his sheep or goats. Somewhere on

  Sila rises the Neaithos (now Neto) mentioned by Theocritus; one would

  like to sit by its source in the woodland solitude, and let fancy have

  her way.

  In these garden walks I met a group of peasants, evidently strange to

  Cosenza, and wondering at all they saw. The women wore a very striking