It is an agreeable promenade from the Giadrezze rivulet to Taranto along the shore of this inland sea. Its clay banks are full of shells and potteries of every age, and the shallow waters planted with stakes indicating the places where myriads of oysters and mussels are bred—indeed, if you look at a map you will observe that the whole of this lagoon, as though to shadow forth its signification, is split up into two basins like an opened oyster.
Here and there along this beach are fishermen’s huts constructed of tree-stems which are smothered under multitudinous ropes of grass, ropes of all ages and in every stage of decomposition, some fairly fresh, others dissolving once more into amorphous bundles of hay. There is a smack of the stone ages, of primeval lake-dwellings, about these shelters on the deserted shore; two or three large fetichistic stones stand near their entrance; wickerwork objects of dark meaning strew the ground; a few stakes emerge, hard by, out of the placid and oozy waters. In such a cabin, methinks, dwelt those two old fishermen of Theocritus—here they lived and slumbered side by side on a couch of sea moss, among the rude implements of their craft.
The habits of these fisherfolk are antique, because the incidents of their calling have remained unchanged. Some people have detected traces of “Greek” in the looks and language of these of Taranto. I can detect nothing of the kind.
And the same with the rest of the population. Hellenic traits have disappeared from Taranto, as well they may have done, when one remembers its history. It was completely latinized under Augustus, and though Byzantines came hither under Nicephorus Phocas—Benjamin of Tudela says the inhabitants are “Greeks”—they have long ago become merged into the Italian element. Only the barbers seem to have preserved something of the old traditions: grandiloquent and terrible talkers, like the cooks in Athenæus.
I witnessed an Aristophanic scene in one of their shops lately, when a simple-minded stranger, a north Italian—some arsenal official—brought a little boy to have his hair cut “not too short” and, on returning from a brief visit to the tobacconist next door, found it cropped much closer than he liked.
“But, damn it,” he said (or words to that effect), “I told you not to cut the hair too short.”
The barber, immaculate and imperturbable, gave a preliminary bow. He was collecting his thoughts, and his breath.
“I say, I told you not to cut it too short. It looks horrible——” “Horrible? That, sir—pardon my frankness!—is a matter of opinion. I fully admit that you desired the child’s hair to be cut not too short. Those, in fact, were your very words. Notwithstanding, I venture to think you will come round to my point of view, on due reflection, like most of my esteemed customers. In the first place, there is the ethnological aspect of the question. You are doubtless sufficiently versed in history to know that under the late regime it was considered improper, if not criminal, to wear a moustache. Well, nowadays we think differently. Which proves that fashions change; yes, they change, sir; and the wise man bends to them—up to a certain point, of course; up to a certain reasonable point——” “But, damn it——”
“And in favour of my contention that hair should be worn short nowadays, I need only cite the case of His Majesty the King, whose august head, we all know, is clipped like that of a racehorse. Horrible (as you call it) or not, the system has momentarily the approval of royalty, and that alone should suffice for all loyal subjects to deem it not unworthy of imitation. Next, there are what one might describe as hygienic and climatic considerations. Summer is approaching, sir, and apart from certain unpleasant risks which I need not specify, you will surely agree with me that the solstitial heat is a needlessly severe trial for a boy with long hair. My own children are all cropped close, and I have reason to think they are grateful for it. Why not yours? Boys may differ in strength or complexion, in moral character and mental attainments, but they are remarkably unanimous as to what constitutes personal comfort. And it is obviously the duty of parents to consult the personal comfort of their offspring—within certain reasonable limits, of course——”
“But——”