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 “
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
