Don is a common title of respect in Southern Italy; it dates of course from the time of Spanish rule.  At a favourable moment I ventured to inquire of the waiter who Don Ferdinando might be; the only answer, given with extreme discretion, was “A proprietor.”  If in easy circumstances, the Don must have been miserly, his diet was wretched beyond description.  And in the manner of his feeding he differed strangely from the ordinary Italian who frequents restaurants.  Wonderful to observe, the representative diner.  He always seems to know exactly what his appetite demands; he addresses the waiter in a preliminary discourse, sketching out his meal, and then proceeds to fill in the minutiae.  If he orders a common dish, he describes with exquisite detail how it is to be prepared; in demanding something out of the way he glows with culinary enthusiasm.  An ordinary bill of fare never satisfies him; he plays variations upon the theme suggested, divides or combines, introduces novelties of the most unexpected kind.  As a rule, he eats enormously (I speak only of dinner), a piled dish of macaroni is but the prelude to his meal, a whetting of his appetite.  Throughout he grumbles, nothing is quite as it should be, and when the bill is presented he grumbles still more vigorously, seldom paying the sum as it stands.  He rarely appears content with his entertainment, and often indulges in unbounded abuse of those who serve him.  These characteristics, which I have noted more or less in every part of Italy, were strongly illustrated at the Concordia.  In general, they consist with a fundamental good humour, but at Cotrone the tone of the dining-room was decidedly morose.  One man—­he seemed to be a sort of clerk—­came only to quarrel.  I am convinced that he ordered things which he knew the people could not cook just for the sake of reviling their handiwork when it was presented.  Therewith he spent incredibly small sums; after growling and remonstrating and eating for more than an hour, his bill would amount to seventy or eighty centesimi, wine included.  Every day he threatened to withdraw his custom; every day he sent for the landlady, pointed out to her how vilely he was treated, and asked how she could expect him to recommend the Concordia to his acquaintances.  On one occasion I saw him push away a plate of something, plant his elbows on the table, and hide his face in his hands; thus he sat for ten minutes, an image of indignant misery, and when at last his countenance was again visible, it showed traces of tears.

I dwell upon the question of food because it was on this day that I began to feel a loss of appetite and found myself disgusted with the dishes set before me.  In ordinary health I have the happiest qualification of the traveller, an ability to eat and enjoy the familiar dishes of any quasi-civilized country; it was a bad sign when I grew fastidious.  After a mere pretence of dinner, I lay down in my room to rest and read.  But I could do neither; it grew plain to me that I was feverish.  Through a sleepless night, the fever manifestly increasing, I wished that illness had fallen on me anywhere rather than at Cotrone.