upon the bank of the Esaro (which stagnates through the orchard) rose a
majestic palm, its leaves stirring heavily in the wind which swept
above. Picturesque, abundantly; but these beautiful tree-names, which
waft a perfume of romance, are like to convey a false impression to
readers who have never seen the far south; it is natural to think of
lovely nooks, where one might lie down to rest and dream; there comes a
vision of soft turf under the golden-fruited boughs—”places of
nestling green for poets made.” Alas! the soil is bare and lumpy as a
ploughed field, and all the leafage that hangs low is thick with a
clayey dust. One cannot rest or loiter or drowse; no spot in all the
groves where by any possibility one could sit down. After rambling as
long as I chose, I found that a view of the orchard from outside was
more striking than the picture amid the trees themselves. _Senza nulla
toccare_, I went my way.
CHAPTER VIII
FACES BY THE WAY
The wind could not roar itself out. Through the night it kept awaking
me, and on the morrow I found a sea foamier than ever; impossible to
reach the Colonna by boat, and almost so, I was assured, to make the
journey by land in such weather as this. Perforce I waited.
A cloudless sky; broad sunshine, warm as in an English summer; but the
roaring
perilous to health. The people of Cotrone, those few of them who did
not stay at home or shelter in the porticoes, went about heavily
cloaked, and I wondered at their ability to wear such garments under so
hot a sun. Theoretically aware of the danger I was running, but, in
fact, thinking little about it, I braved the wind and the sunshine all
day long; my sketch-book gained by it, and my store of memories. First
of all, I looked into the Cathedral, an ugly edifice, as uninteresting
within as without. Like all the churches in Calabria, it is
white-washed from door to altar, pillars no less than walls—a cold and
depressing interior. I could see no picture of the least merit; one, a
figure of Christ with hideous wounds, was well-nigh as repulsive as
painting could be. This vile realism seems to indicate Spanish
influence. There is a miniature copy in bronze of the statue of the
chief Apostle in St. Peter’s at Rome, and beneath it an inscription
making known to the faithful that, by order of Leo XIII. in 1896, an
Indulgence of three hundred days is granted to whosoever kisses the
bronze toe and says a prayer. Familiar enough this unpretentious
announcement, yet it never fails of its little shock to the heretic
mind. Whilst I was standing near, a peasant went through the mystic
rite; to judge from his poor malaria-stricken countenance, he prayed
very earnestly, and I hope his Indulgence benefited him. Probably he
repeated a mere formula learnt by heart. I wished he could have prayed
spontaneously for three hundred days of wholesome and sufficient food,
and for as many years of honest, capable government in his
heavy-burdened country.
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
