life—thronged streets, processions triumphal or religious, halls of
feasting, fields of battle. What most impressed me at the time was the
marvellously bright yet delicate colouring of everything I saw. I can
give no idea in words of the pure radiance which shone from every
object, which illumined every scene. More remarkable, when I thought of
it next day, was the minute finish of these pictures, the definiteness
of every point on which my eye fell. Things which I could not know,
which my imagination, working in the service of the will, could never
have bodied forth, were before me as in life itself. I consciously
wondered at peculiarities of costume such as I had never read of; at
features of architecture entirely new to me; at insignificant
characteristics of that by-gone world, which by no possibility could
have been gathered from books. I recall a succession of faces, the
loveliest conceivable; and I remember, I feel to this moment the pang
of regret with which I lost sight of each when it faded into darkness.
As an example of the more elaborate visions that passed before me, I
will mention the only one which I clearly recollect. It was a glimpse
of history. When Hannibal, at the end of the second Punic War, was
confined to the south of Italy, he made Croton his head-quarters, and
when, in reluctant obedience to Carthage, he withdrew from Roman soil,
it was at Croton that he embarked. He then had with him a contingent of
Italian mercenaries, and, unwilling that these soldiers should go over
to the enemy, he bade them accompany him to Africa. The Italians
refused. Thereupon Hannibal had them led down to the shore of the sea,
where he slaughtered one and all. This event I beheld. I saw the strand
by Croton; the promontory with its temple; not as I know the scene
to-day, but as it must have looked to those eyes more than two thousand
years ago. The soldiers of Hannibal doing massacre, the perishing
mercenaries, supported my closest gaze, and left no curiosity
unsatisfied. (Alas! could I but see it again, or remember clearly what
was shown tome!) And over all lay a glory of sunshine, an indescribable
brilliancy which puts light and warmth into my mind whenever I try to
recall it. The delight of these phantasms was well worth the ten days’
illness which paid for them. After this night they never returned; I
hoped for their renewal, but in vain. When I spoke of the experience to
Dr. Sculco, he was much amused, and afterwards he often asked me
whether I had had any more visioni. That gate of dreams was closed,
but I shall always feel that, for an hour, it was granted to me to see
the vanished life so dear to my imagination. If the picture
corresponded to nothing real, tell me who can, by what power I
reconstructed, to the last perfection of intimacy, a world known to me
only in ruined fragments.
Daylight again, but no gleam of sun. I longed for the sunshine; it
seemed to me a miserable chance that I should lie ill by the Ionian Sea
and behold no better sky than the far north might have shown me. That
grey obstruction of heaven’s light always weighs upon my spirit; on a
summer’s day, there has but to pass a floating cloud, which for a
moment veils the sun, and I am touched with chill discouragement; heart
and hope fail me, until the golden radiance is restored.
About noon, when I had just laid down the newspaper bought the night
before—the Roman Tribuna, which was full of dreary politics—a
sudden clamour in the street drew my attention. I heard the angry
shouting of many voices, not in the piazza before the hotel, but at
some little distance; it was impossible to distinguish any meaning in
the tumultuous cries. This went on for a long time, swelling at moments
into a roar of frenzied rage, then sinking to an uneven growl, broken
by spasmodic yells. On asking what it meant, I was told that a crowd of
poor folk had gathered before the Municipio to demonstrate against an
oppressive tax called the fuocatico. This is simply hearth-money, an
impost on each fireplace where food is cooked; the same tax which made
trouble in old England, and was happily got rid of long ago. But the
hungry plebs of Cotrone lacked vigour for any effective self-assertion;
they merely exhausted themselves with shouting “Abbass’ ‘o sindaco!”
and dispersed to the hearths which paid for an all but imaginary
service. I wondered whether the Sindaco and his portly friend sat in
their comfortable room whilst the roaring went on; whether they smoked
their cigars as usual, and continued to chat at their ease. Very
likely. The privileged classes in Italy are slow to move, and may well
believe in the boundless endurance of those below them. Some day, no
doubt, they will have a disagreeable surprise. When Lombardy begins in
earnest to shout “Abbasso!” it will be an uneasy moment for the heavy
syndics of Calabria.
CHAPTER X
CHILDREN OF THE SOIL
Any northern person who passed a day or two at the Concordia as an
ordinary traveller would carry away a strong impression. The people of
the house would seem to him little short of savages, filthy in person
and in habits, utterly uncouth in their demeanour, perpetual wranglers
and railers, lacking every qualification for the duties they pretended
to discharge. In England their mere appearance would revolt decent
folk. With my better opportunity of judging them, I overcame the first
natural antipathy; I saw their good side, and learnt to forgive the
faults natural to a state of frank barbarism. It took two or three days
before their rough and ready behaviour softened to a really human
friendliness, but this came about at last, and when it was known that I
should not give much more trouble, that I needed only a little care in
the matter of diet, goodwill did its best to aid hopeless incapacity.
Whilst my fever was high, little groups of people often came into the
room, to stand and stare at me, exchanging, in a low voice, remarks
which they supposed I did not hear, or, hearing, could not understand;
as a matter of fact, their dialect was now intelligible enough to me,
and I knew that they discussed my chances of surviving. Their natures
were not sanguine. A result, doubtless, of the unhealthy climate, every
one at Cotrone seemed in a more or less gloomy state of mind. The
hostess went about uttering ceaseless moans and groans; when she was in
my room I heard her constantly sighing, “Ah, Signore! Ah,
Cristo!”—exclamations which, perhaps, had some reference to my
illness, but which did not cease when I recovered. Whether she had any
private reason for depression I could not learn; I fancy not; it was
only the whimpering and querulous habit due to low health. A female
servant, who occasionally brought me food (I found that she also cooked
it), bore herself in much the same way. This domestic was the most
primitive figure of the household. Picture a woman of middle age,
wrapped at all times in dirty rags (not to be called clothing), obese,
grimy, with dishevelled black hair, and hands so scarred, so deformed
by labour and neglect, as to be scarcely human. She had the darkest and
fiercest eyes I ever saw. Between her and her mistress went on an
unceasing quarreclass="underline" they quarrelled in my room, in the corridor, and, as
I knew by their shrill voices, in places remote; yet I am sure they did
not dislike each other, and probably neither of them ever thought of