the corsairs who occasionally landed for water.
When I led him to talk of Cotrone and its people, the Doctor could but
confirm my observations. He contrasted the present with the past; this
fever-stricken and waterless village with the great city which was
called the healthiest in the world. In his opinion the physical change
had resulted from the destruction of forests, which brought with it a
diminution of the rainfall. “At Cotrone,” he said, “we have practically
no rain. A shower now and then, but never a wholesome downpour.” He had
no doubt that, in ancient times, all the hills of the coast were
wooded, as Sila still is, and all the rivers abundantly supplied with
water. To-day there was scarce a healthy man in Cotrone: no one had
strength to resist a serious illness. This state of things he took very
philosophically; I noticed once more the frankly mediaeval spirit in
which he regarded the populace. Talking on, he interested me by
enlarging upon the difference between southern Italians and those of
the north. Beyond Rome a Calabrian never cared to go; he found himself
in a foreign country, where his tongue betrayed him, and where his
manners were too noticeably at variance with those prevailing. Italian
unity, I am sure, meant little to the good Doctor, and appealed but
coldly to his imagination.
I declared to him at length that I could endure no longer this dreary
life of the sick-room; I must get into the open air, and, if no harm
came of the experiment, I should leave for Catanzaro. “I cannot prevent
you,” was the Doctor’s reply, “but I am obliged to point out that you
act on your own responsibility. It is pericoloso, it is
pericolosissimo! The terrible climate of the mountains!” However, I
won his permission to leave the house, and acted upon it that same
afternoon. Shaking and palpitating, I slowly descended the stairs to
the colonnade; then, with a step like that of an old, old man, tottered
across the piazza, my object being to reach the chemist’s shop, where I
wished to pay for the drugs that I had had and for the tea. When I
entered, sweat was streaming from my forehead; I dropped into a chair,
and for a minute or two could do nothing but recover nerve and breath.
Never in my life had I suffered such a wretched sense of feebleness.
The pharmacist looked at me with gravely compassionate eyes; when I
told him I was the Englishman who had been ill, and that I wanted to
leave to-morrow for Catanzaro, his compassion indulged itself more
freely, and I could see quite well that he thought my plan of travel
visionary. True, he said, the climate of Cotrone was trying to a
stranger. He understood my desire to get away; but—Catanzaro! Was I
aware that at Catanzaro I should suddenly find myself in a season of
most rigorous winter? And the winds! One needed to be very strong even
to stand on one’s feet at Catanzaro. For all this I returned thanks,
and, having paid my bill, tottered back to the Concordia. It seemed
to me more than doubtful whether I should start on the morrow.
That evening I tried to dine. Don Ferdinando entered as usual, and sat
mute through his unchanging meal; the grumbler grumbled and ate, as
perchance he does to this day. I forced myself to believe that the food
had a savour for me, and that the wine did not taste of drugs. As I sat
over my pretended meal, I heard the sirocco moaning without, and at
times a splash of rain against the window. Near me, two military men
were exchanging severe comments on Calabria and its people. “_Che
paese_!”—”What a country!” exclaimed one of them finally in disgust.
Of course they came from the north, and I thought that their
conversation was not likely to knit closer the bond between the
extremes of Italy.
To my delight I looked forth next morning on a sunny and calm sky, such
as I had not seen during all my stay at Cotrone. I felt better, and
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