themselves with anything but the earning of a livelihood which for
multitudes signifies the bare appeasing of hunger.
Seeing the Sindaco’s embarrassment, his portly friend began to question
me; good-humouredly enough, but in such a fat bubbling voice (made more
indistinct by the cigar he kept in his mouth) that with difficulty I
understood him. What was I doing at Cotrone? I endeavoured to explain
that Cotrone greatly interested me. Ha! Cotrone interested me? Really?
Now what did I find interesting at Cotrone? I spoke of historic
associations. The Sindaco and his friend exchanged glances, smiled in a
puzzled, tolerant, half-pitying way, and decided that my request might
be granted. In another minute I withdrew, carrying half a sheet of
note-paper on which were scrawled in pencil a few words, followed by
the proud signature “Berlinghieri.” When I had deciphered the scrawl, I
found it was an injunction to allow me to view a certain estate “_senza
nulla toccare_”—without touching anything. So a doubt still lingered
in the dignitary’s mind.
Cotrone has no vehicle plying for hire—save that in which I arrived at
the hotel. I had to walk in search of the orange orchard, all along the
straight dusty road leading to the station. For a considerable distance
this road is bordered on both sides by warehouses of singular
appearance. They have only a ground floor, and the front wall is not
more than ten feet high, but their low roofs, sloping to the ridge at
an angle of about thirty degrees, cover a great space. The windows are
strongly barred, and the doors show immense padlocks of elaborate
construction. The goods warehoused here are chiefly wine and oil,
oranges and liquorice. (A great deal of liquorice grows around the
southern gulf.) At certain moments, indicated by the markets at home or
abroad, these stores are conveyed to the harbour, and shipped away. For
the greater part of the year the houses stand as I saw them, locked,
barred, and forsaken: a street where any sign of life is exceptional;
an odd suggestion of the English Sunday in a land that knows not such
observance.
Crossing the Esaro, I lingered on the bridge to gaze at its green,
muddy water, not visibly flowing at all. The high reeds which half
concealed it carried my thoughts back to the Galaesus. But the
comparison is all in favour of the Tarentine stream. Here one could
feel nothing but a comfortless melancholy; the scene is too squalid,
the degradation too complete.
Of course, no one looked at the
myself at the entrance to the orchard. From a tumbling house, which we
should call the lodge, came forth (after much shouting on my part) an
aged woman, who laughed at the idea that she should be asked to read
anything, and bade me walk wherever I liked. I strayed at pleasure,
meeting only a lean dog, which ran fearfully away. The plantation was
very picturesque; orange trees by no means occupied all the ground, but
mingled with pomegranates and tamarisks and many evergreen shrubs of
which I knew not the name; whilst here and there soared a magnificent
stone pine. The walks were bordered with giant cactus, now and again so
fantastic in their growth that I stood to wonder; and in an open space
