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 a dozen” private carriages might be seen making the fashionable drive on the Strada Regina Margherita.  But it is not easy to imagine luxury or refinement in these dreary, close-packed streets.  Judging from our table at the Concordia, the town is miserably provisioned; the dishes were poor and monotonous and infamously cooked.  Almost the only palatable thing offered was an enormous radish.  Such radishes I never saw:  they were from six to eight inches long, and more than an inch thick, at the same time thoroughly crisp and sweet.  The wine of the country had nothing to recommend it.  It was very heady, and smacked of drugs rather than of grape juice.

But men must eat, and the Concordia, being the only restaurant, daily entertained several citizens, besides guests staying in the house.  One of these visitants excited my curiosity; he was a middle-aged man of austere countenance; shabby in attire, but with the bearing of one accustomed to command.  Arriving always at exactly the same moment, he seated himself in his accustomed place, drew his hat over his brows, and began to munch bread.  No word did I hear him speak.  As soon as he appeared in the doorway, the waiter called out, with respectful hurry, “Don Ferdinando!” and in a minute his first course was served.  Bent like a hunchback over the table, his hat dropping ever lower, until it almost hid his eyes, the Don ate voraciously.  His dishes seemed to be always the same, and as soon as he had finished the last mouthful, he rose and strode from the room.