By the Ionian Sea

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Edited by Charles Aldarondo (aldarondo@yahoo.com)

BY THE IONIAN SEA

NOTES OF A RAMBLE IN SOUTHERN ITALY

BY GEORGE GISSING

CHAPTER I

FROM NAPLES.

This is the third day of sirocco, heavy-clouded, sunless. All the
colour has gone out of Naples; the streets are dusty and stifling. I
long for the mountains and the sea.

To-morrow I shall leave by the Messina boat, which calls at Paola.
It is now more than a twelvemonth since I began to think of Paola,
and an image of the place has grown in my mind. I picture a little
_marina_; a yellowish little town just above; and behind, rising
grandly, the long range of mountains which guard the shore of
Calabria. Paola has no special interest that I know of, but it is
the nearest point on the coast to Cosenza, which has interest in
abundance; by landing here I make a modestly adventurous beginning
of my ramble in the South. At Paola foreigners are rare; one may
count upon new impressions, and the journey over the hills will be
delightful.

Were I to lend ear to the people with whom I am staying, here in the
Chiatamone, I should either abandon my project altogether or set
forth with dire misgivings. They are Neapolitans of the better
class; that is to say, they have known losses, and talk of their
former happiness, when they lived on the Chiaia and had everything
handsome about them. The head of the family strikes me as a typical
figure; he is an elderly man, with a fine head, a dignified
presence, and a coldly courteous demeanour. By preference he speaks
French, and his favourite subject is Paris. One observes in him
something like disdain for his own country, which in his mind is
associated only with falling fortunes and loss of self-respect. The
cordial Italian note never sounds in his talk. The _signora_ (also a
little ashamed of her own language) excites herself about taxation
--as well she may--and dwells with doleful vivacity on family
troubles. Both are astonished at my eccentricity and hardiness in
undertaking a solitary journey through the wild South. Their
geographical notions are vague; they have barely heard of Cosenza or
of Cotrone, and of Paola not at all; it would as soon occur to them
to set out for Morocco as for Calabria. How shall I get along with
people whose language is a barbarous dialect? Am I aware that the
country is in great part pestilential?--_la febbre_! Has no one
informed me that in autumn snows descend, and bury everything for
months? It is useless to explain that I only intend to visit places
easily accessible, that I shall travel mostly by railway, and that
if disagreeable weather sets in I shall quickly return northwards.
They look at me dubiously, and ask themselves (I am sure) whether I
have not some more tangible motive than a lover of classical
antiquity. It ends with a compliment to the enterprising spirit of
the English race.

I have purchases to make, business to settle, and I must go hither
and thither about the town. Sirocco, of course, dusks everything to
cheerless grey, but under any sky it is dispiriting to note the
changes in Naples. _Lo sventramento_ (the disembowelling) goes on,
and regions are transformed. It is a good thing, I suppose, that the
broad Corso Umberto I. should cut a way through the old Pendino; but
what a contrast between that native picturesqueness and the
cosmopolitan vulgarity which has usurped its place! "_Napoli se ne
va_!" I pass the Santa Lucia with downcast eyes, my memories of ten
years ago striving against the dulness of to-day. The harbour,
whence one used to start for Capri, is filled up; the sea has been
driven to a hopeless distance beyond a wilderness of dust-heaps.
They are going to make a long, straight embankment from the Castel
dell'Ovo to the Great Port, and before long the Santa Lucia will be
an ordinary street, shut in among huge houses, with no view at all.
Ah, the nights that one lingered here, watching the crimson glow
upon Vesuvius, tracing the dark line of the Sorrento promontory, or
waiting for moonlight to cast its magic upon floating Capri! The
odours remain; the stalls of sea-fruit are as yet undisturbed, and
the jars of the water-sellers; women still comb and bind each
other's hair by the wayside, and meals are cooked and eaten _al
fresco_ as of old. But one can see these things elsewhere, and Santa
Lucia was unique. It has become squalid. In the grey light of this
sad billowy sky, only its ancient foulness is manifest; there needs
the golden sunlight to bring out a suggestion of its ancient charm.

Has Naples grown less noisy, or does it only seem so to me? The men
with bullock carts are strangely quiet; their shouts have nothing
like the frequency and spirit of former days. In the narrow and
thronged Strada di Chiaia I find little tumult; it used to be
deafening. Ten years ago a foreigner could not walk here without
being assailed by the clamour of _cocchieri_; nay, he was pursued
from street to street, until the driver had spent every phrase of
importunate invitation; now, one may saunter as one will, with
little disturbance. Down on the Piliero, whither I have been to take
my passage for Paola, I catch but an echo of the jubilant uproar
which used to amaze me. Is Naples really so much quieter? If I had
time I would go out to Fuorigrotta, once, it seemed to me, the
noisiest village on earth, and see if there also I observed a
change. It would not be surprising if the modernization of the city,
together with the state of things throughout Italy, had a subduing
effect upon Neapolitan manners. In one respect the streets are
assuredly less gay. When I first knew Naples one was never,
literally never, out of hearing of a hand-organ; and these organs,
which in general had a peculiarly dulcet note, played the brightest
of melodies; trivial, vulgar if you will, but none the less
melodious, and dear to Naples. Now the sound of street music is
rare, and I understand that some police provision long since
interfered with the soft-tongued instruments. I miss them; for, in
the matter of music, it is with me as with Sir Thomas Browne. For
Italy the change is significant enough; in a few more years
spontaneous melody will be as rare at Naples or Venice as on the
banks of the Thames.

Happily, the musicians errant still strum their mandoline as you
dine. The old trattoria in the Toledo is as good as ever, as bright,
as comfortable. I have found my old corner in one of the little
rooms, and something of the old gusto for _zuppa di vongole_. The
homely wine of Posillipo smacks as in days gone by, and is commended
to one's lips by a song of the South. . . .

Last night the wind changed and the sky began to clear; this morning
I awoke in sunshine, and with a feeling of eagerness for my journey.
I shall look upon the Ionian Sea, not merely from a train or a
steamboat as before, but at long leisure: I shall see the shores
where once were Tarentum and Sybaris, Croton and Locri. Every man
has his intellectual desire; mine is to escape life as I know it and
dream myself into that old world which was the imaginative delight
of my boyhood. The names of Greece and Italy draw me as no others;
they make me young again, and restore the keen impressions of that
time when every new page of Greek or Latin was a new perception of
things beautiful. The world of the Greeks and Romans is my land of
romance; a quotation in either language thrills me strangely, and
there are passages of Greek and Latin verse which I cannot read
without a dimming of the eyes, which I cannot repeat aloud because
my voice fails me. In Magna Graecia the waters of two fountains
mingle and flow together; how exquisite will be the draught!

I drove with my luggage to the Immacolatella, and a boatman put me
aboard the steamer. Luggage, I say advisedly; it is a rather heavy
portmanteau, and I know it will be a nuisance. But the length of my
wanderings is so uncertain, its conditions are so vaguely
anticipated. I must have books if only for rainy days; I must have
clothing against a change of season. At one time I thought of taking
a mere wallet, and now I am half sorry that I altered my mind. But
----

We were not more than an hour after time in starting. Perfect
weather. I sang to myself with joy upon the sunny deck as we steamed
along the Bay, past Portici, and Torre del Greco, and into the
harbour of Torre Annunziata, where we had to take on cargo. I was
the only cabin passenger, and solitude suits me. All through the
warm and cloudless afternoon I sat looking at the mountains, trying
not to see that cluster of factory chimneys which rolled black fumes
above the many-coloured houses. They reminded me of the same
abomination on a shore more sacred; from the harbour of Piraeus one
looks to Athens through trails of coal-smoke. By a contrast pleasant
enough, Vesuvius to-day sent forth vapours of a delicate rose-tint,
floating far and breaking seaward into soft little fleeces of
cirrus. The cone, covered with sulphur, gleamed bright yellow
against cloudless blue.

The voyage was resumed at dinner-time; when I came upon deck again,
night had fallen. We were somewhere near Sorrento; behind us lay the
long curve of faint-glimmering lights on the Naples shore; ahead was
Capri. In profound gloom, though under a sky all set with stars, we
passed between the island and Cape Minerva; the haven of Capri
showed but a faint glimmer; over it towered mighty crags, an awful
blackness, a void amid constellations. From my seat near the stern
of the vessel I could discern no human form; it was as though I
voyaged quite alone in the silence of this magic sea. Silence so
all-possessing that the sound of the ship's engine could not reach
my ear, but was blended with the water-splash into a lulling murmur.
The stillness of a dead world laid its spell on all that lived.
To-day seemed an unreality, an idle impertinence; the real was that
long-buried past which gave its meaning to all around me, touching
the night with infinite pathos. Best of all, one's own being became
lost to consciousness; the mind knew only the phantasmal forms it
shaped, and was at peace in vision.

CHAPTER II

PAOLA

I slept little, and was very early on deck, scanning by the light of
dawn a mountainous coast. At sunrise I learnt that we were in sight
of Paola; as day spread gloriously over earth and sky, the vessel
hove to and prepared to land cargo. There, indeed, was the yellowish
little town which I had so long pictured; it stood at a considerable
height above the shore; harbour there was none at all, only a broad
beach of shingle on which waves were breaking, and where a cluster
of men, women and children stood gazing at the steamer. It gave me
pleasure to find the place so small and primitive. In no hurry to
land, I watched the unloading of merchandise (with a great deal of
shouting and gesticulation) into boats which had rowed out for the
purpose; speculated on the resources of Paola in the matter of food
(for I was hungry); and at moments cast an eye towards the mountain
barrier which it was probable I should cross to-day.

At last my portmanteau was dropped down on to the laden boat; I, as
best I could, managed to follow it; and on the top of a pile of rope
and empty flour-sacks we rolled landward. The surf was high; it cost
much yelling, leaping, and splashing to gain the dry beach.
Meanwhile, not without apprehension, I had eyed the group awaiting
our arrival; that they had their eyes on me was obvious, and I knew
enough of southern Italians to foresee my reception. I sprang into
the midst of a clamorous conflict; half a dozen men were quarreling
for possession of me. No sooner was my luggage on shore than they
flung themselves upon it. By what force of authority I know not, one
of the fellows triumphed; he turned to me with a satisfied smile,
and--presented his wife.

"_Mia sposa, signore_!"

Wondering, and trying to look pleased, I saw the woman seize the
portmanteau (a frightful weight), fling it on to her head, and march
away at a good speed. The crowd and I followed to the _dogana_,
close by, where as vigorous a search was made as I have ever had to
undergo. I puzzled the people; my arrival was an unwonted thing, and
they felt sure I was a trader of some sort. Dismissed under
suspicion, I allowed the lady to whom I had been introduced to guide
me townwards. Again she bore the portmanteau on her head, and
evidently thought it a trifle, but as the climbing road lengthened,
and as I myself began to perspire in the warm sunshine, I looked at
my attendant with uncomfortable feelings. It was a long and winding
way, but the woman continued to talk and laugh so cheerfully that I
tried to forget her toil. At length we reached a cabin where the
_dazio_ (town dues) officer presented himself, and this
conscientious person insisted on making a fresh examination of my
baggage; again I explained myself, again I was eyed suspiciously;
but he released me, and on we went. I had bidden my guide take me to
the best inn; it was the _Leone_, a little place which looked from
the outside like an ill-kept stable, but was decent enough within.
The room into which they showed me had a delightful prospect. Deep
beneath the window lay a wild, leafy garden, and lower on the
hillside a lemon orchard shining with yellow fruit; beyond, the
broad pebbly beach, far seen to north and south, with its white foam
edging the blue expanse of sea. There I descried the steamer from
which I had landed, just under way for Sicily. The beauty of this
view, and the calm splendour of the early morning, put me into
happiest mood. After little delay a tolerable breakfast was set
before me, with a good rough wine; I ate and drank by the window,
exulting in what I saw and all I hoped to see.

Guide-books had informed me that the _corriere_ (mail-diligence)
from Paola to Cosenza corresponded with the arrival of the Naples
steamer, and, after the combat on the beach, my first care was to
inquire about this. All and sundry made eager reply that the
_corriere_ had long since gone; that it started, in fact, at 5 A.M.,
and that the only possible mode of reaching Cosenza that day was to
hire a vehicle. Experience of Italian travel made me suspicious, but
it afterwards appeared that I had been told the truth. Clearly, if I
wished to proceed at once, I must open negotiations at my inn, and,
after a leisurely meal, I did so. Very soon a man presented himself
who was willing to drive me over the mountains--at a charge which
I saw to be absurd; the twinkle in his eye as he named the sum
sufficiently enlightened me. By the book it was no more than a
journey of four hours; my driver declared that it would take from
seven to eight. After a little discussion he accepted half the
original demand, and went off very cheerfully to put in his horses.

For an hour I rambled about the town's one street, very picturesque
and rich in colour, with rushing fountains where women drew fair
water in jugs and jars of antique beauty. Whilst I was thus
loitering in the sunshine, two well-dressed men approached me, and
with somewhat excessive courtesy began conversation. They understood
that I was about to drive to Cosenza. A delightful day, and a
magnificent country! They too thought of journeying to Cosenza, and,
in short, would I allow them to share my carriage? Now this was
annoying; I much preferred to be alone with my thoughts; but it
seemed ungracious to refuse. After a glance at their smiling faces,
I answered that whatever room remained in the vehicle was at their
service--on the natural understanding that they shared the
expense; and to this, with the best grace in the world, they at once
agreed. We took momentary leave of each other, with much bowing and
flourishing of hats, and the amusing thing was that I never beheld
those gentlemen again.

Fortunately--as the carriage proved to be a very small one, and
the sun was getting very hot; with two companions I should have had
an uncomfortable day. In front of the _Leone_ a considerable number
of loafers had assembled to see me off, and of these some half-dozen
were persevering mendicants. It disappointed me that I saw no
interesting costume; all wore the common, colourless garb of our
destroying age. The only vivid memory of these people which remains
with me is the cadence of their speech. Whilst I was breakfasting,
two women stood at gossip on a near balcony, and their utterance was
a curious exaggeration of the Neapolitan accent; every sentence rose
to a high note, and fell away in a long curve of sound, sometimes a
musical wail, more often a mere whining. The protraction of the last
word or two was really astonishing; again and again I fancied that
the speaker had broken into song. I cannot say that the effect was
altogether pleasant; in the end such talk would tell severely on
civilized nerves, but it harmonized with the coloured houses, the
luxuriant vegetation, the strange odours, the romantic landscape.

In front of the vehicle were three little horses; behind it was
hitched an old shabby two-wheeled thing, which we were to leave
somewhere for repairs. With whip-cracking and vociferation, amid
good-natured farewells from the crowd, we started away. It was just
ten o'clock.

At once the road began to climb, and nearly three hours were spent
in reaching the highest point of the mountain barrier. Incessantly
winding, often doubling upon itself, the road crept up the sides of
profound gorges, and skirted many a precipice; bridges innumerable
spanned the dry ravines which at another season are filled with
furious torrents. From the zone of orange and olive and cactus we
passed that of beech and oak, noble trees now shedding their
rich-hued foliage on bracken crisped and brown; here I noticed the
feathery bowers of wild clematis ("old man's beard"), and many a
spike of the great mullein, strange to me because so familiar in
English lanes. Through mists that floated far below I looked over
miles of shore, and outward to the ever-rising limit of sea and sky.
Very lovely were the effects of light, the gradations of colour;
from the blue-black abysses, where no shape could be distinguished,
to those violet hues upon the furrowed heights which had a
transparency, a softness, an indefiniteness, unlike anything to be
seen in northern landscape.

The driver was accompanied by a half-naked lad, who, at certain
points, suddenly disappeared, and came into view again after a few
minutes, having made a short cut up some rugged footway between the
loops of the road. Perspiring, even as I sat, in the blaze of the
sun, I envied the boy his breath and muscle. Now and then he slaked
his thirst at a stone fountain by the wayside, not without
reverencing the blue-hooded Madonna painted over it. A few lean,
brown peasants, bending under faggots, and one or two carts, passed
us before we gained the top, and half-way up there was a hovel where
drink could be bought; but with these exceptions nothing broke the
loneliness of the long, wild ascent. My man was not talkative, but
answered inquiries civilly; only on one subject was he very curt--
that of the two wooden crosses which we passed just before arriving
at the summit; they meant murders. At the moment when I spoke of
them I was stretching my legs in a walk beside the carriage, the
driver walking just in front of me; and something then happened
which is still a puzzle when I recall it. Whether the thought of
crimes had made the man nervous, or whether just then I wore a
peculiarly truculent face, or had made some alarming gesture, all of
a sudden he turned upon me, grasped my arm and asked sharply: "What
have you got in your hand?" I had a bit of fern, plucked a few
minutes before, and with surprise I showed it; whereupon he murmured
an apology, said something about making haste, and jumped to his
seat. An odd little incident.

At an unexpected turn of the road there spread before me a vast
prospect; I looked down upon inland Calabria. It was a valley broad
enough to be called a plain, dotted with white villages, and backed
by the mass of mountains which now, as in old time, bear the name of
Great Sila. Through this landscape flowed the river Crati--the
ancient Crathis; northward it curved, and eastward, to fall at
length into the Ionian Sea, far beyond my vision. The river Crathis,
which flowed by the walls of Sybaris. I stopped the horses to gaze
and wonder; gladly I would have stood there for hours. Less
interested, and impatient to get on, the driver pointed out to me
the direction of Cosenza, still at a great distance. He added the
information that, in summer, the well-to-do folk of Cosenza go to
Paola for sea-bathing, and that they always perform the journey by
night. I, listening carelessly amid my dream, tried to imagine the
crossing of those Calabrian hills under a summer sun! By summer
moonlight it must be wonderful.

We descended at a sharp pace, all the way through a forest of
chestnuts, the fruit already gathered, the golden leaves rustling in
their fall. At the foot lies the village of San Fili, and here we
left the crazy old cart which we had dragged so far. A little
further, and before us lay a long, level road, a true Roman highway,
straight for mile after mile. By this road the Visigoths must have
marched after the sack of Rome. In approaching Cosenza I was drawing
near to the grave of Alaric. Along this road the barbarian bore in
triumph those spoils of the Eternal City which were to enrich his
tomb.

By this road, six hundred years before the Goth, marched Hannibal on
his sullen retreat from Italy, passing through Cosentia to embark at
Croton.

CHAPTER III

THE GRAVE OF ALARIC

It would have been prudent to consult with my driver as to the inns
of Cosenza. But, with a pardonable desire not to seem helpless in
his hands, I had from the first directed him to the _Due Lionetti_,
relying upon my guide-book. Even at Cosenza there is progress, and
guide-beooks to little-known parts of Europe are easily allowed to
fall out of date. On my arrival----

But, first of all, the _dazio_. This time it was a serious business;
impossible to convince the rather surly officer that certain of the
contents of my portmanteau were not for sale. What in the world was
I doing with _tanti libri_? Of course I was a commercial traveller;
ridiculous to pretend anything else. After much strain of courtesy,
I clapped to my luggage, locked it up, and with a resolute face
cried "Avanti!" And there was an end of it. In this case, as so
often, I have no doubt that simple curiosity went for much in the
man's pertinacious questioning. Of course the whole _dazio_ business
is ludicrous and contemptible; I scarce know a baser spectacle than
that of uniformed officials groping in the poor little bundles of
starved peasant women, mauling a handful of onions, or prodding with
long irons a cartload of straw. Did any one ever compare the
expenses with the results?

A glance shows the situation of Cosenza. The town is built on a
steep hillside, above the point where two rivers, flowing from the
valleys on either side, mingle their waters under one name, that of
the Crati. We drove over a bridge which spans the united current,
and entered a narrow street, climbing abruptly between houses so
high and so close together as to make a gloom amid sunshine. It was
four o'clock; I felt tired and half choked with dust; the thought of
rest and a meal was very pleasant. As I searched for the sign of my
inn, we suddenly drew up, midway in the dark street, before a darker
portal, which seemed the entrance to some dirty warehouse. The
driver jumped down--"Ecco l'albergo!"

I had seen a good many Italian hostelries, and nourished no
unreasonable expectations. The Lion at Paola would have seemed to
any untravelled Englishman a squalid and comfortless hole,
incredible as a place of public entertainment; the _Two Little
Lions_ of Cosenza made a decidedly worse impression. Over sloppy
stones, in an atmosphere heavy with indescribable stenches, I felt
rather than saw my way to the foot of a stone staircase; this I
ascended, and on the floor above found a dusky room, where
tablecloths and an odour of frying oil afforded some suggestion of
refreshment. My arrival interested nobody; with a good deal of
trouble I persuaded an untidy fellow, who seemed to be a waiter, to
come down with me and secure my luggage. More trouble before I could
find a bedroom; hunting for keys, wandering up and down stone stairs
and along pitch-black corridors, sounds of voices in quarrel. The
room itself was utterly depressing--so bare, so grimy, so dark.
Quickly I examined the bed, and was rewarded. It is the good point
of Italian inns; be the house and the room howsoever sordid, the bed
is almost invariably clean and dry and comfortable.

I ate, not amiss; I drank copiously to the memory of Alaric, and
felt equal to any fortune. When night had fallen I walked a little
about the scarce-lighted streets and came to an open place, dark and
solitary and silent, where I could hear the voices of the two
streams as they mingled below the hill. Presently I passed an open
office of some kind, where a pleasant-looking man sat at a table
writing; on an impulse I entered, and made bold to ask whether
Cosenza had no better inn than the _Due Lionetti_. Great was this
gentleman's courtesy; he laid down his pen, as if for ever, and gave
himself wholly to my concerns. His discourse delighted me, so
flowing were the phrases, so rounded the periods. Yes, there were
other inns; one at the top of the town--the _Vetere_--in a very
good position; and they doubtless excelled my own in modern comfort.
As a matter of fact, it might be avowed that the _Lionetti_, from
the point of view of the great centres of civilization, left
something to be desired--something to be desired; but it was a
good old inn, a reputable old inn, and probably on further
acquaintance----

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