When travelling, I always visit the burial-ground; I like to see how a
people commemorates its dead, for tombstones have much significance.
The cemetery of Cotrone lies by the sea-shore, at some distance beyond
the port, far away from habitations; a bare hillside looks down upon
its graves, and the road which goes by is that leading to Cape Colonna.
On the way I passed a little ruined church, shattered, I was told, by
an earthquake three years before; its lonely position made it
interesting, and the cupola of coloured tiles (like that of the
Cathedral at Amalfi) remained intact, a bright spot against the grey
hills behind. A high enclosing wall signalled the cemetery; I rang a
bell at the gate and was admitted by a man of behaviour and language
much more refined than is common among the people of this region; I
felt sorry, indeed, that I had not found him seated in the Sindaco’s
chair that morning. But as guide to the burial-ground he was
delightful. Nine years, he told me, he had held the post of custodian,
in which time, working with his own hands, and unaided, he had turned
the enclosure from a wretched wilderness into a beautiful garden.
Unaffectedly I admired the results of his labour, and my praise
rejoiced him greatly. He specially requested me to observe the
geraniums; there were ten species, many of them of extraordinary size
and with magnificent blossoms. Roses I saw, too, in great abundance;
and tall snapdragons, and bushes of rosemary, and many flowers unknown
to me. As our talk proceeded the gardener gave me a little light on his
own history; formerly he was valet to a gentleman of Cotrone, with whom
he had travelled far and wide over Europe; yes, even to London, of
which he spoke with expressively wide eyes, and equally expressive
shaking of the head. That any one should journey from Calabria to
England seemed to him intelligible enough; but he marvelled that I had
thought it worth while to come from England to Calabria. Very rarely
indeed could he show his garden to one from a far-off country; no, the
place was too poor, accommodation too rough; there needed a certain
courage, and he laughed, again shaking his head.
The ordinary graves were marked with a small wooden cross; where a
head-stone had been raised, it generally presented a skull and crossed
bones. Round the enclosure stood a number of mortuary chapels, gloomy
and ugly. An exception to this dull magnificence in death was a marble
slab, newly set against the wall, in memory of a Lucifero—one of that
family, still eminent, to which belonged the sacrilegious bishop. The
design was a good imitation of those noble sepulchral tablets which
abound in the museum at Athens; a figure taking leave of others as if
going on a journey. The Lucifers had shown good taste in their choice
of the old Greek symbol; no better adornment of a tomb has ever been
devised, nor one that is half so moving. At the foot of the slab was
carved a little owl (civetta), a bird, my friend informed me, very
common about here.
When I took leave, the kindly fellow gave me a large bunch of flowers,
carefully culled, with many regrets that the lateness of the season
forbade his offering choicer blossoms. 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. Indeed, Cotrone has as
good as no water supply. One or two wells I saw, jealously guarded: 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