their music sounds under the Italian sky. One remembers all they have
suffered, all they have achieved in spite of wrong. Brute races have
flung themselves, one after another, upon this sweet and glorious land;
conquest and slavery, from age to age, have been the people’s lot.
Tread where one will, the soil has been drenched with blood. An
immemorial woe sounds even through the lilting notes of Italian gaiety.
It is a country wearied and regretful, looking ever backward to the
things of old; trivial in its latter life, and unable to hope sincerely
for the future. Moved by these voices singing over the dust of Croton,
I asked pardon for all my foolish irritation, my impertinent
fault-finding. Why had I come hither, if it was not that I loved land
and people? And had I not richly known the recompense of my love?
Legitimately enough one may condemn the rulers of Italy, those who take
upon themselves to shape her political life, and recklessly load her
with burdens insupportable. But among the simple on Italian soil a
wandering stranger has no right to nurse national superiorities, to
indulge a contemptuous impatience. It is the touch of tourist
vulgarity. Listen to a Calabrian peasant singing as he follows his oxen
along the furrow, or as he shakes the branches of his olive tree. That
wailing voice amid the ancient silence, that long lament solacing
ill-rewarded toil, comes from the heart of Italy herself, and wakes the
memory of mankind.
CHAPTER XI
THE MOUNT OF REFUGE
My thoughts turned continually to Catanzaro. It is a city set upon a
hill, overlooking the Gulf of Squillace, and I felt that if I could but
escape thither, I should regain health and strength. Here at Cotrone
the air oppressed and enfeebled me; the neighbourhood of the sea
brought no freshness. From time to time the fever seemed to be
overcome, but it lingered still in my blood and made my nights
restless. I must away to Catanzaro.
When first I spoke of this purpose to Dr. Sculco, he indulged my fancy,
saying “Presently, presently!” A few days later, when I seriously asked
him how soon I might with safety travel, his face expressed misgiving.
Why go to Catanzaro? It was on the top of a mountain, and had a most
severe climate; the winds at this season were terrible. In conscience
he could not advise me to take such a step: the results might be very
grave after my lung trouble. Far better wait at Cotrone for a week or
two longer, and then go on to Reggio, crossing perhaps to Sicily to
complete my cure. The more Dr. Sculco talked of windy altitudes, the
stronger grew my desire for such a change of climate, and the more
intolerable seemed my state of languishment. The weather was again
stormy, but this time blew sirocco; I felt its evil breath waste my
muscles, clog my veins, set all my nerves a-tremble. If I stayed here
much longer, I should never get away at all. A superstitious fear crept
upon me; I remembered that my last visit had been to the cemetery.
One thing was certain: I should never see the column of Hera’s temple.
I made my lament on this subject to Dr. Sculco, and he did his best to
describe to me the scenery of the Cape. Certain white spots which I had
