By the Ionian Sea: Notes of a Ramble in Southern Italy
George R. Gissing
d10:.fileguard40:C24C30C359069F390058A8909076FCF8A198F81D39:A TOWN LIKE ALICE (1956) dvdrip.torrentd8:added_oni1252609044e6:blocksle9:blocksizei16384e6:cachedi0e7:caption31:A TOWN LIKE ALICE (1956) dvdrip5:codeci0e12:completed_oni1252609893e7:corrupti0e3:dhti13e12:download_url35:http://www.mininova.org/get/215931610:downloadedi733606519e9:downspeedi0e7:episodei0e10:episode_toi0e8:feed_url0:9:hashfailsi0e4:have350:˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙4:info20:7ámX§ż1ś)towM_â 11:last_activei763e3:lsdi8e5:movedi1e5:orderi-1e21:override_seedsettingsi0e4:path86:C:Documents and SettingsE L IMy DocumentsDownloadsA TOWN LIKE ALICE (1956) dvdrip6:peers6144:˙˙Ŕ¨Ď+˙˙Ŕ¨úĚ˙˙y-ńóÄ˙˙EëŔtúĚ˙˙B$Ě4:prio2:5:prio2i1e7:qualityi3e12:resume_valid1:8:rss_name0:7:runtimei6399e9:scrambledi0e6:seasoni0e8:seedtimei5636e7:startedi2e9:superseedi0e19:superseed_cur_piecei0e4:timei1252896236e11:trackermodei3e8:trackersl41:http://inferno.demonoid.com:3403/announcee7:ulslotsi0e8:uploadedi0e7:upspeedi0e7:use_utpi1e7:visiblei1e12:wanted_ratioi1500e15:wanted_seedtimei0e5:wastei0e8:webseedslee30:Butterflies - Series 1.torrentd8:added_oni1252608948e6:blocksl20:â˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙Ď20:?˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙20:3˙˙˙˙?20:-˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙e9:blocksizei16384e6:cachedi0e7:caption22:Butterflies - Series 15:codeci0e12:completed_oni0e7:corrupti0e3:dhti15e12:download_url35:http://www.mininova.org/get/153705910:downloadedi30883840e9:downspeedi0e7:episodei0e10:episode_toi0e8:feed_url0:9:hashfailsi0e4:have114: 4:info20: &eĎxBřh$řđ°ÜCrň°11:last_activei4914e3:lsdi8e5:movedi0e5:orderi1e21:override_seedsettingsi0e4:path77:C:Documents and SettingsE L IMy DocumentsDownloadsButterflies - Series 16:peers6198:˙˙s É˙˙Ň2ríÖ˙˙V°˛Ë~˙˙ŞÉ˙˙>(žq˙˙VFPv˙˙S=r˙˙EëŔtĎ+˙˙S72 ŐǢÖ-HŠ{~šPv˙˙>žq4:prio8:5:prio2i1e7:qualityi0e12:resume_valid1:ţ8:rss_name0:7:runtimei7758e9:scrambledi0e6:seasoni0e8:seedtimei0e7:startedi2e9:superseedi0e19:superseed_cur_piecei0e4:timei1252896236e11:trackermodei1e8:trackersl41:http://inferno.demonoid.com:3418/announcee7:ulslotsi0e8:uploadedi12632064e7:upspeedi0e7:use_utpi1e7:visiblei1e12:wanted_ratioi1500e15:wanted_seedtimei0e5:wastei110284e8:webseedslee42:CORONET BLUE 101 A Time to Be Born.torrentd8:added_oni1251331945e6:blocksle9:blocksizei16384e6:cachedi0e7:caption34:CORONET BLUE 101 A Time to Be Born5:codeci0e12:completed_oni1251334204e7:corrupti0e3:dhti13e12:download_url35:http://www.mininova.org/get/155239810:downloadedi379557683e9:downspeedi0e7:episodei1e10:episode_toi0e8:feed_url0:9:hashfailsi0e4:have362:˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙4:info20:qWĐkÓęG28!Ö¸Še11:last_activei69032e3:lsdi8e5:movedi1e5:orderi-1e21:override_seedsettingsi0e4:path89:C:Documents and SettingsE L IMy DocumentsDownloadsCORONET BLUE 101 A Time to Be Born6:peers672:˙˙CTôőw˙˙Ŕ¨Ď+˙˙EëŔtĎ+˙˙žÖçĺ4:prio2:5:prio2i1e7:qualityi0e12:resume_valid1:8:rss_name0:7:runtimei71727e9:scrambledi0e6:seasoni1e8:seedtimei69470e7:startedi2e9:superseedi0e19:superseed_cur_piecei0e4:timei1252896236e11:trackermodei3e8:trackersl41:http://infernoto 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