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Title: The Naples Riviera
Author: Vaughan, Herbert M. (Herbert Millingchamp), 1870-1948
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Naples Riviera" ***
[Illustration: CHARCOAL CARRIERS, AMALFI]
*THE*
*NAPLES RIVIERA*
BY
HERBERT M. VAUGHAN, B.A. (OXON.)
AUTHOR OF “THE LAST OF THE ROYAL STUARTS”
WITH TWENTY-FIVE ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOUR BY
MAURICE GREIFFENHAGEN
METHUEN & CO
36 ESSEX STREET W.C.
LONDON
_First Published in 1907_
TO
G. L. L.
IN MEMORY OF
MANY PLEASANT DAYS IN THE SUNNY SOUTH
THIS BOOK IS
AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED
BY THE AUTHOR
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I PAGE
INTRODUCTORY 1
CHAPTER II
THE VESUVIAN SHORE AND MONTE SANT’ ANGELO 8
CHAPTER III
LA CITTÀ MORTA 38
CHAPTER IV
VESUVIUS 66
CHAPTER V
THE CORNICHE ROAD 100
CHAPTER VI
AMALFI AND THE FESTIVAL OF ST ANDREW 126
CHAPTER VII
RAVELLO AND THE RUFOLI 152
CHAPTER VIII
SALERNO 172
CHAPTER IX
PAESTUM AND THE GLORY THAT WAS GREECE 198
CHAPTER X
SORRENTO AND ITS POET 221
CHAPTER XI
CAPRI AND TIBERIUS THE TYRANT 249
CHAPTER XII
ISCHIA AND THE LADY OF THE ROCK 275
CHAPTER XIII
PUTEOLI AND THE GRANDEUR THAT WAS ROME 295
————
INDEX 321
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
CHARCOAL CARRIERS, AMALFI _Frontispiece_
A CAPRIOTE FISHERMAN’S WIFE 16
ROAD NEAR CASTELLAMARE 30
MONTE FAITO, CASTELLAMARE 37
THE FORUM, POMPEII 46
LA CASA DEI VETTII, POMPEII 58
VESUVIUS AND THE BAY OF NAPLES 80
POZZANO 101
EVENING AT AMALFI 124
AMALFI 132
IN THE VALLEY OF THE MILLS, AMALFI 140
AMALFI: PIAZZA AND DUOMO 148
RAVELLO: IL DUOMO 156
A STREET IN RAVELLO 163
MINORI AT SUNSET 170
ON THE ROAD TO RAVELLO 186
THE TEMPLE OF NEPTUNE, PAESTUM 204
AFTERNOON, SORRENTO 230
FARAGLIONI ROCKS, CAPRI 249
CAPRI FROM THE VILLA JOVIS 254
IN THE BLUE GROTTO, CAPRI 262
A GATEWAY, CAPRI 274
ON THE PICCOLA MARINA, CAPRI 288
ISCHIA FROM CASTELLAMARE (SUNSET) 294
ON THE BEACH 306
BIBLIOGRAPHY
A small selection out of the books I have consulted during the preparation
of this work is given below:—
E. GIBBON: _Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_.
DEAN MERIVALE: _The Romans under the Empire_.
_Pliny’s Letters_: (Church’s and Brodribb’s Translation, London, 1897).
J. PHILLIPS: _Vesuvius_ (Oxford, 1869).
C. RAMAGE: _Nooks and Byways of Italy_.
C. LENORMANT: _À Travers la Lucanie et l’Apulie_.
W. J. A. STAMER: _Dolce Napoli_ (London, 1878).
E. NEVILLE ROLFE: _Naples in 1888_.
CONSTANCE GIGLIOLI: _Naples in 1799_.
C. L. SISMONDI: _Histoire des __Républiques__ Italiennes_.
L. ALBERTI: _Descrizione di tutta l’ Italia_ (Venetia, 1596).
C. MILLS: _The Travels of Theodore Ducas_ (London, 1822).
_Les Délices d’Italie_ (Paris, 1707).
_Nuova Guida de’ Forastieri in Napoli, etc._ (1751).
COUNT STOLBERG: _Travels through Italy and Sicily in 1756_.
A. H. NORWAY: _Naples, Past and Present_ (London, 1904).
E. BUSK: _Folk-Songs of Italy_.
J. A. SYMONDS: _Sketches and Studies in Italy_.
CATHERINE PHILLIMORE: _Studies in Italian Literature_ (London, 1891).
T. A. TROLLOPE: _A Decade of Italian Women_ (London, 1859).
G. BOCCACCIO: _Il Decamerone_.
A. MAU: _Pompeii: its Life and Art_ (New York, 1899).
J. FERGUSSON: _Handbook of Architecture_ (London, 1859).
FRANZ VON REBER: _History of Ancient and Mediæval Art_ (New York, 1882).
E. JAMESON: _Sacred and Legendary Art_ (London, 1879).
J. ELWORTHY: _History of the Evil Eye_ (London, 1888).
N. VALLETTA: _Cicalata sul Fascino detto Jettatura_ (Napoli, 1819).
A. CANALE: _Storia dell’ Isola di Capri_.
G. AMALFI: _Tradizioni ed Vsi nella Penisola Sorrentina_.
THE NAPLES RIVIERA
CHAPTER I
INTRODUCTORY
“In otia natam
Parthenopen.”
That the city of Naples can prove very delightful, very amusing, and very
instructive for a week or ten days no one will attempt to dispute. There
are long mornings to be spent in inspecting the churches scattered
throughout the narrow streets of the old town,—harlequins in coloured
marble and painted stucco though they be, they are yet treasure-houses
containing some of the most precious monuments of Gothic and Renaissance
art that all Italy can display. There are afternoon hours that can be
passed pleasantly amidst the endless halls and galleries of the great
Museo Nazionale, where the antiquities of Pompeii and Herculaneum may be
studied in advance, for the wise traveller will not rush headlong into the
sacred precincts of the buried cities on the Vesuvian shore, before he has
first made himself thoroughly acquainted with the wonderful collections
preserved in the Museum. Then comes the evening drive along the gentle
winding ascent towards Posilipo with its glorious views over bay and
mountains, all tinged with the deep rose and violet of a Neapolitan
sunset; or the stroll along the fashionable sea front, named after the
luckless Caracciolo the modern hero of Naples, where in endless succession
the carriages pass backwards and forwards within the limited space between
the sea and the greenery of the Villa Reale. Or it may be that our more
active feet may entice us to mount the winding flights of stone steps
leading to the heights of Sant’ Elmo, where from the windows of the
monastery of San Martino there is spread out before us an entrancing view
that has but two possible rivals for extent and interest in all Italy:—the
panorama of the Eternal City from the hill of San Pietro in Montorio, and
that of Florence with the valley of the Arno from the lofty terrace of San
Miniato. We can while away many hours leisurely in wandering on the
bustling Chiaja or Toledo with their shops and their amusing scenes of
city life, or in the poorer quarters around the Mercato, where the
inhabitants ply their daily avocations in the open air, and eat, play,
quarrel, flirt, fight or gossip—do everything in short save go to
bed—quite unconcernedly before the critical and non-admiring eyes of
casual strangers. Pleasant it is to hunt for old prints, books and other
treasures amongst the dark unwholesome dens that lie in the shadow of the
gorgeous church of Santa Chiara or in the musty-smelling shops of the
curiosity dealers in the Strada Costantinopoli, picking up here a volume
of some _cinque-cento_ classic and there a piece of old china that may or
may not have had its birth in the famous factory of Capodimonte. All this
studying of historic sculpture in the churches and of antiquities in the
Museum, this observing the daily life of the populace, and bargain-hunting
in the Strada de’ Tribunali, are agreeable enough for a while, but of
necessity there comes a time when the mind grows weary of yelling people
and of jostling crowds, of stuffy churches and of the chilly halls of the
Museum, of steep dirty streets and of glaring boulevards, so that we begin
to sigh for fresh air and a change of scene. Nor is there any means of
escape within the precincts of the city itself from the eternal cracking
of whips, from the insulting compliments (or complimentary insults) of the
incorrigible cabmen, from the continuous babel of unmusical voices, and
from the reiterated strains of “Santa Lucia” or “Margari” howled from
raucous throats or strummed from rickety street-organs. Oh for peace, and
rest, and a whiff of pure country air! For there are no walks in or around
the City of the Siren, where there is nowhere to stroll save the narrow
strip of the much-vaunted Villa (which is either damp or dusty according
to weather) or the fatiguing ascent amidst walled gardens and newly built
houses to the heights of the Vomero, which are covered with a raw suburb.
Moreover our pristine delight in the place is beginning to flag, as we
gradually realise that the city, like the majority of great modern towns,
is being practically rebuilt to the annihilation of its old-world
features, which used to give to Naples its peculiar charm and its marked
individuality amongst large sea-ports. Long ago has disappeared Santa
Brigida, that picturesque high-coloured slum, on whose site stands the
garish domed gallery of which the Neapolitans are so proud; gone in these
latter days is classic Santa Lucia with its water-gate and its fountain,
its vendors of medicated water and _frutti di mare_, those toothsome shell
fish of the unsavoury beach; vanished for ever is many a landmark of old
Naples, and new buildings, streets and squares, blank, dreary, pretentious
and staring, have arisen in their places. This thorough _sventramento di
Napoli_, as the citizens graphically term this drastic reconstruction of
the old capital of the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies, is no doubt
beneficial, not to say necessary, and we make no protest against these
wholesale changes, which have certainly tended to destroy utterly its
ancient character and appearance. But all seems commonplace, new, smart,
and unpoetic, and we quickly grow weary of Naples now that it has been
turned into a Liverpool of the South without the local colour and the
peculiar attributes of which author and artist have so often raved. The
life of the people, picturesque enough in its old setting, now appears
mean and squalid; the toilers in the streets look jaded, oppressed and
discontented; we search in vain for the spontaneous gaiety of which we
have heard so much. We feel disappointed, cheated even, in our
expectations of Naples, and we begin to understand that its chief
attraction consists in its proximity to the scenes of beauty that mark the
course of its Riviera.
The Riviera of Naples may be said to extend from the heights of Cumae, at
the end of the Bay of Gaeta to the north, as far as Salerno in a southerly
direction, whilst, lying close to this stretch of shore, are included the
three populous islands of Capri, Procida and Ischia, which in prehistoric
times doubtless formed part and parcel of the Parthenopean coast itself.
Our pleasant task it is to write of these classic shores and islands,
where the beauties of nature contend for pre-eminence with the glorious
traditions of the past that centre round them. What spot on earth can
surpass, or even be compared with, Amalfi in the perfect lustre of its
setting? What loftier or bolder cliffs than those of Capri can the wild
bleak headlands of the North Sea exhibit? The fertile lands of France
cannot vie with the richness of the Sorrentine Plain, nor can any mountain
on the face of the globe rival in human interest the peak of Vesuvius;
Pompeii is unique, the most precious storehouse of ancient knowledge the
world possesses; whilst the Bay of Baia recalls the days of Roman power
and luxury more vividly to our minds than any place save the Eternal City
itself. And again: what illustrious names in history and in
literature—classical, medieval, modern—are for ever associated with these
smiling shores! Robert Guiscard and Hildebrand in quiet Salerno, Tasso at
health-giving Sorrento, Vittoria Colonna in her palace-fortress on the
crags of Ischia, the great Apostle of the west at Puteoli:—these are but a
few of the more eminent and gracious figures that arise before us at the
casual bidding of memory. Then there are the infamous, as well as the
virtuous and the gallant, whose misdeeds are still freshly remembered upon
these coasts or in their fertile valleys. The sinister Tiberius, the
half-crazy and wholly vicious Caligula, many a king and queen of evil
repute that ruled Naples, the vile Pier-Luigi Farnese, the adventurer
Joachim Murat, all have left the marks of their personality upon the
coveted shores of the Neapolitan Riviera. From the days of the Sibyl and
of the Trojan hero to the stirring times of Garibaldi and of King Bomba,
which were but of yesterday, Naples and its environs have played a
prominent part in the annals and development of the civilised western
world; Roman emperors, Pagan statesmen and poets, Norman, French and
Spanish princes, popes, saints and theologians, merchants and scientists
of the Middle Ages, writers of the Renaissance and heroes of the
_Risorgimento_, all have combined to shed a halo of historical romance
upon Naples and its Riviera, where there is scarcely a sea-girt town or a
crumbling fortress that is not redolent of the memory of some personage
whose name is inscribed on the roll of European history. It seems but
right, therefore, that many works should have been written concerning this
favoured corner of Italy, so replete with natural charm and with
historical interest; and in truth multitudes of books, large and small,
witty and dull, erudite and empty, light and heavy, prosaic and
rhapsodical, have poured forth from the prolific pens of generations of
authors. We feel sincerely the need of an apology for making a fresh
addition to the ever-increasing pile of Neapolitan literature, and we can
only urge in extenuation of our crime of authorship that the same scene
appeals in varied ways to different persons, and that every fresh
description is apt to shed additional light upon old familiar subjects. In
the following pages we make no profession to act the part of a guide to
the neighbourhood of Naples, for are there not the carefully prepared
pages of Murray and Baedeker, to say nothing of the works of such writers
as Augustus Hare, to lead the wanderer into every church and castle, to
show him every nook in valley and mountain, and to supply him thoroughly
with accurate dates and facts? No, our treatment of this theme may be
deemed a poor one, but it has at least the merit and the courage of
following its own peculiar lines. For we pursue our own course, and we
touch lightly here and omit there; we run to dissertation in this place,
we glide by silently in another. We take our own views of people and
places, and give them for what they are worth to our readers to approve or
to condemn, as they think fit. We offer a medley of history and of
imagination, of biography and of private comment; and we crave indulgence
for our short-comings by observing that any deficiencies in these pages
can easily be remedied by application to the abundant literature upon
Naples and its surrounding districts which every good library is presumed
to contain.
CHAPTER II
THE VESUVIAN SHORE AND MONTE SANT’ ANGELO
That little stream the Sebeto, which is indeed, as the courtly Metastasio
observes, “scanty in depth of water though overflowing with honour,” may
be considered as the boundary line that divides the city of Naples from
its eastern environs, although it is evident that the whole stretch of
coast from Posilipo to Torre del Greco is covered with an unbroken line of
houses. Past the highly cultivated _Paduli_, the chief market-gardens on
this side of the city, with the town of La Barra on the fertile slopes to
our left, we pass by way of San Giovanni a Teduccio to Portici, once a
favourite resort of royalty. Here the dilettante Charles III., first
Bourbon King of Naples, built a palace and laid out gardens in the days of
patches and powder, constructing a royal pleasaunce that was destined to
become the chief residence of the temporary supplanter of his own family,
Joachim Murat, the citizen king of Naples and brother-in-law of the great
Napoleon. Villa and gardens still remain, but monarchs have ceased to
visit Portici since the days of Bomba, and the old royal demesne has been
turned into an agricultural college. Adjoining and practically forming
part of Portici is the town of Resina, which preserves almost intact the
old classical name of Retina that it bore in the distant days when it
served as the port of Herculaneum. Here then in the mean streets of Resina
we find ourselves standing above, though certainly not upon, historic
ground, for the temples and villas, the theatres and private houses of the
famous buried city lie far below the surface trodden by our feet. To visit
Herculaneum it is necessary for us to descend some seventy to a hundred
feet into the depths of the earth, passing more than one layer of ancient
lava, for Resina and Portici themselves are but modern editions of former
towns that have been engulfed in the course of ages. If the stranger can
derive any solid satisfaction from the descent by a gloomy underground
passage and from fleeting glimpses of ancient walls and dwellings seen
through a forest of wooden baulks, which serve to support the spaces
excavated, he must indeed be an enthusiast. But most people, perhaps all
sensible people, will be content to take the undoubted interest of
Herculaneum on trust, probably agreeing (at any rate after their visit)
that the inspection of this subterranean city is not worth the candle, by
whose flickering beams alone can objects be distinguished in the
oppressive darkness. Personally we strongly hold to the expressed opinion
of Alexandre Dumas, who declared that even the most hardened antiquary
could not desire more than one hour’s contemplation of this hidden mass of
shapeless wreckage. “Herculaneum,” writes that genial Frenchman, “but
wearies our curiosity instead of exciting it. We descend into the
excavated city as into a mine by a species of shaft; then come corridors
beneath the earth which can only be entered by the light of tapers; and
these smoke-grimed passages allow us from time to time to obtain a
momentary glimpse of the angle of a house, the colonnade of some temple,
the steps of a theatre. Everything is fragmentary, mutilated, dingy,
uncertain, confused, and therefore unsatisfactory. Well, at the end of an
hour spent in wandering amongst these abysmal recesses, the most hardened
archæologist, the most dry-as-dust antiquary, the most inquisitive of
tourists begins to experience only one feeling—an intense desire to ascend
to the light of day and to breathe once more the fresh air of the upper
world.”
Nevertheless, it was from these dismal caverns, black as Erebus, that some
of the choicest marbles and bronzes that now adorn the Museum at Naples
were originally extracted. From a villa at Herculaneum also was taken the
famous collection of 3000 rolls of papyrus, chiefly filled with the
writings of the Epicurean philosopher Philodemus, perhaps the greatest
“find” of ancient literature that has yet been made, although the contents
of this damaged library, deciphered with equal toil and ingenuity, have
not proved to be of the value originally set upon them by expectant
scholars. But much of the city itself has yet hardly been touched since
the days when it was destroyed in the reign of Titus, so that far below
the squalid lanes of Portici and Resina there must still exist acres upon
acres of undisturbed buildings, public and private, many of them perhaps
filled with priceless works of Greek and Roman art, for Herculaneum,
unlike Pompeii, was never tampered with by the ancients themselves, for
the coating of volcanic mud, which filled the whole area of the city, made
impracticable a systematic searching of its ruins by the despoiled
citizens. Then, as if nature had not already buried the city sufficiently
deep, subsequent eruptions of Vesuvius have superimposed additional layers
of lava, whilst confiding human beings have in their turn built
habitations upon the volcanic crust.
We all know the story, perhaps mythical, of the discovery of Herculaneum
at the beginning of the eighteenth century by the accidental sinking of a
well upon its long-forgotten site and of the subsequent excavations made
by the Prince d’Elbœuf. These so-called explorations were, however, made
in the most greedy and destructive spirit, for the prince’s sole object
was to obtain antique works of art for his private collection, not to make
intelligent enquiries about the dead and buried city lying beneath his
estate. Ignorant workmen were despatched to hew and hack wholesale in the
mirky depths in order to discover statuary and paintings, and since there
was no receptacle at hand to contain the _débris_, they took the simple
course of filling in each hollow made with the masses of rubbish already
excavated. Later in the same century the Bourbon king was induced by
Neapolitan savants to take some interest in the work, but, strange to
relate, the superintendent appointed, a certain Spanish officer named
Alcubier, was so ignorant and careless that half the objects found under
his supervision were broken or lost before they reached Naples; this
ignoramus, it was said, even went so far as to order whole architraves to
be smashed up and their bronze lettering to be picked out before making a
copy of the original inscription! Under these circumstances the marvel is
that anything of beauty or value should have survived at all, for this
selfish plundering of Herculaneum, in strong contrast with the reverent
treatment meted out to Pompeii, may be considered one of the greatest
pieces of vandalism ever perpetrated. In spite of this wholesale
destruction, however, there must remain untouched, as we have said, a vast
quantity of objects, beautiful, useful or curious, yet it is extremely
doubtful if we shall live to see any serious and intelligent effort made
to bring these hidden treasures forth to the light of day. The expense of
working this buried hoard would be enormous in any case, whilst the
existence of the houses of Resina and Portici overhead necessitates
special measures of precaution on the part of the excavators. The only
method of examining Herculaneum properly would be in fact to treat the
buried site like an immense mine by the construction of regular galleries
and shafts for the entrance of skilled workmen, and to remove the rubbish
displaced to the outer air. Perhaps some multi-millionaire might be found
ready to undertake so arduous, yet so fascinating a task, though we fear
that the Italian Government, which has always shown itself as tenacious of
its subterranean wealth of antiquity as it appears languid in the work of
quarrying it, would indignantly refuse to accede to any such offer. As
regards the ancient city of Hercules, therefore, we must perforce remain
content to inspect the magnificent bronzes and the other objects of
interest that are to be found in the Museum of Naples, for we are not
likely to see any further researches just at present, more’s the pity,
since there is every reason to suppose that a thorough investigation
conducted regardless of cost would yield up to the world the most
marvellous and valuable results.
Some two miles of dusty suburb lie between Resina and Torre del Greco,
which has been destroyed time after time by the lava streams descending
from “that peak of Hell rising out of Paradise,” as Goethe once named the
burning mountain overhead. Nevertheless, the Torrese continue to sit
patiently at the feet of the fire-spouting monster, trembling when he is
angry, pleased when he is quiescent, and ready to abandon meekly their
homes when he renders them insupportable by his furious outbursts. Yet
these people never fail to return and risk the ever-present chances of
death and destruction. And little can we blame them for their fatalism,
when we gaze upon the glorious views that reveal themselves at this spot,
whence Naples rising proudly from the sea, the rocky islands of Ischia and
Capri, the aerial heights of Monte Sant’ Angelo and all the features of
the placid bay are seen spread around us in a panorama of unsurpassed
loveliness. Beneath lava rocks, black and sinister, that contrast
strangely in their sombre hues with the brilliant tints of sea and sky,
lie little beaches of glittering gravel that would afford delightful
retreats for meditation, were it not for the dozens of half-naked
brown-skinned imps, children of the fisher-folk of Torre del Greco, who
wallow in the warm sand or rush with joyful screams into the tepid surf.
The population must have increased not a little since those days, nearly a
century ago, when the unhappy Shelley could find peace and solitude in his
darkest hours of unrest upon these shores, where it would be well-nigh
impossible for a twentieth-century poet to espy a retreat for soothing his
soul in verse. Yet somehow, during the drowsy noontide rest when the
active life of the South ceases, if only for an hour or so, it is still
possible to catch the spirit in which that melancholy wanderer indited one
of his most exquisite lyrics:—sunshine, clear sky, murmuring seas, the
fragrance of the Italian spring, all are present to our reverie; and how
true and perfect a picture has the poet-artist drawn for us of this
beautiful Vesuvian shore!
“The sun is warm, the sky is clear,
The waves are dancing fast and bright,
Blue isles and snowy mountains wear
The purple noon’s transparent light:
The breath of the moist earth is light
Around its unexpanded buds;
Like many a voice of one delight,
The winds, the birds, the ocean floods,
The City’s voice itself is soft, like Solitude’s.
I see the Deep’s untrampled floor
With green and purple seaweeds strown;
I see the waves upon the shore,
Like light dissolved in star-showers, thrown:
I sit upon the sands alone;
The lightning of the noontide ocean
Is flashing round me, and a tone
Arises from its measured motion,
How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion?”
But it must be admitted that the seashore by Torre del Greco does not
often lend itself as a suitable spot for romantic or solitary communings
with nature; it is a busy place where the struggle for life is keen and
practical enough, and its inhabitants have little time or inclination to
bestow on the pursuit of poetry. As in all the towns of the _Terra di
Lavoro_, as this collection of human ant-hills on the eastern side of
Naples is sometimes designated, the old command given to the first parents
of mankind—“by the sweat of thy brow shalt thou eat bread”—is scrupulously
observed in Torre del Greco. It is little enough, however, that these
frugal people demand, for a hunk of coarse bread, tempered with a handful
of beans or an orange in winter or with a slice of luscious pink
water-melon or a few figs in summer, is thought to constitute a full meal
in this climate; nor are these simple viands washed down by anything more
potent than a draught of _mezzo-vino_, the weak sour wine of the country.
A dish of maccaroni or a plateful of kid or veal garnished with vegetables
is a treat to be reserved for a marriage or some great Church festival,
whilst a chicken is regarded as a luxury in which only _gran’ signori_ of
boundless wealth can afford to indulge. Amongst the many classes of
toilers with which populous Torre del Greco abounds, that of the
coral-fishers is perhaps the most interesting. There is pure romance in
the very notion of hunting for the beautiful coloured substance lying
hidden in the crystalline depths of the Mediterranean, and its quest is
not a little suggestive of azure caverns beneath the waves, peopled by
soft-eyed mermaids and strange iridescent fishes. As a matter of fact, it
would be difficult to name a harder occupation or a more dismal monotonous
existence than that of the coral-fishers, many hundreds of whom leave this
little port every spring in order to spend the summer months on the coasts
of Tripoli, Sardinia, or Sicily. The men employed, who work under contract
during some six months of unending drudgery, are by no means all natives
of Torre del Greco, but are collected from various places of the
neighbourhood, not a few of them being thrifty youths from Capri, who are
eager to amass as quickly as possible the lump sum of money requisite to
permit of marriage. It is true that the amount actually paid by the owners
of the coral fleet sounds proportionately large, yet it is in reality poor
enough recompense when measured by the ceaseless toil, the burning heat
and the wretched food, which the venture entails. The lot of the
coral-fisher has however much improved of late years, partly by measures
of government which now compel the contractors to treat their servants
more humanely, and partly by the fact that the practice of emigration in
Southern Italy has reduced the numbers of applicants for the coral-fishing
business and has thereby, indirectly at least, raised wages and bettered
the old conditions of service. A truly pitiable account is given of these
poor creatures some thirty years ago by an English writer, whose knowledge
of the Neapolitan people and character remains probably unsurpassed; and
it is some satisfaction to reflect that even in Mr Stamer’s day the bad
old oppressive system had already been somewhat tempered for the benefit
of these white slaves, who for nearly half the round of the year were
worse treated than King Bomba’s unhappy victims in the pestilent prisons
of Naples and Gaeta.
[Illustration: A CAPRIOTE FISHERMAN’S WIFE]
“Badly paid, badly fed, and hard worked is the poor coral-fisher. Compared
with his, the life of a galley-slave is one of sybaritical indolence. His
treatment was, until very recently, not one whit better than that of the
poor oppressed negro as he existed in the vivid imagination of Mrs Harriet
Beecher Stowe; immeasurably worse than that of the real Simon Pure. The
thirty ducats for which he sold his seven months’ services once paid, he
was just as much a slave as Uncle Tom of pious memory, harder worked, more
brutally handled. His _padrone_ was a sea-monster, alongside of whom Mr
Legree would have seemed a paragon of Quaker-like gentleness and
amiability. His word was law and a rope’s end well laid on his sole reply
to any remonstrance on the part of his bondsmen. For six days out of the
seven he kept them working incessantly, not unfrequently on the seventh
into the bargain, if the weather was favourable; and that they might be
strong, hearty and able to haul away, their food consisted of dry
biscuits; a dish of maccaroni with just sufficient oil to make the sign of
the cross being served out for the Sunday’s dinner.”(1)
In those “good old days,” not so very far distant, the dredging nets were
coarse and weighty, and the capstan of the clumsiest and most primitive
description, so that the coral-seeking serfs under contract were worked
like bullocks until they were often wont to fall asleep out of sheer
exhaustion as they hauled away mechanically. We can imagine then with what
raptures of joy these ill-treated mortals must have hailed the advent of
October, the month that terminated their long spell of suffering and
semi-starvation, and with what eagerness they must have returned
homewards, the more industrious to perform odd jobs during the winter
season on farms or in factories; the lazier to enjoy a well-earned holiday
of loafing on the quay or in the piazza. And although times have changed
for the better in the eyes of the coral-fisher, his lot still remains hard
enough, even in the present days of grace; whilst any employment that saps
the workman’s strength during the hot summer months and leaves him idle or
unemployed in winter time cannot well be described as a desirable trade.
Yet the temptation to obtain a considerable sum of money in advance, as is
the case in this particular industry, often proves overwhelming to the
young man of the Torres or of Castellamare, imprudently married before he
is out of his teens and with an ever-increasing family. It is so easy to
accept the proffered gold, which will keep wife and babies in comparative
comfort throughout the long hot summer; unskilled labour is paid so
lightly on these teeming shores of the Terra di Lavoro; saddled already
with children he cannot make up his feeble mind to emigrate; in short, to
go a-coralling is his sole chance, if he wishes to keep his home together
and to stave off charity or starvation from his young wife and family.
Beyond Torre del Greco we seem to escape to a certain extent from the
enveloping network of human dwellings, so that we are at last enabled to
gain some idea of the natural features of the country. The oriental
character of the landscape, which marks more or less distinctly the whole
of the Neapolitan coast-line, will at once be noticed in the domed farm
buildings, not unlike Mahommedan _koubbas_, washed a glistening white,
that stand out sharply against the lugubrious tints of the lava beds.
Above us, crowning a bosky hillock that juts forth from the mountain
flank, stands one of the many convents of the monks of Camaldoli, whose
houses are scattered throughout the breadth of Southern Italy. The
position of their Vesuvian settlement is certainly unique, for the rising
ground on which it is perched appears like some verdant oasis amid the
arid fields of sable lava. Secure in its commanding site, the monastery
has many a time been completely surrounded by burning streams, which have
invariably left the building and its woody demesne unscathed. More than
once have the good brethren, who wear the white robe of St Romualdo of
Ravenna, looked down from their convent walls upon the work of destruction
below, and have watched the waves of liquid fire surging angrily but
uselessly round the rocky base of their retreat. Hard manual labour,
prayer, solitude and contemplation: these are the chief duties enjoined by
the famous Tuscan order, and surely no more suitable place for carrying
out such precepts could have been chosen by the pious founder of this
Vesuvian convent. For what scenes on earth could be deemed more beautiful
to contemplate, we wonder, than the wide stretches of heaven and ocean, of
fertile plain and of rugged mountain, that are ever before the eyes of the
brethren; or more instructive than the constant spectacle of disappointed
human ambition and energy, which is afforded by the barren lava beds and
the ruined cities close at hand!
Descending from the slopes of Camaldoli, we cross a tract of country
wherein black lava alternates with patches of rich cultivation and of
thriving vineyards, and gaining the high road we soon reach Torre
Annunziata. Here it is evident that the manufacture of maccaroni forms the
chief industry of its population, for on all sides are to be seen the
frames filled with the golden coloured strings of _pasta_ that have been
hung up to dry in the sunshine. Every flat roof in the place, moreover, is
covered with smooth concrete and protected by a low parapet for the
spreading of the grain, and on the beach are laid huge cloths of coarse
brown material that are heaped with masses of the crude corn, whilst men
with their naked feet from time to time turn the grain so as to dry the
whole bulk. Torre Annunziata and its inland neighbour, Gragnano, are in
fact the two chief local scenes of this industry with which the Bay of
Naples has always been so closely associated, and it is here that we can
best make ourselves acquainted with the process of manufacturing
maccaroni. By following any one of the tall brown-skinned fellows,
stripped to the waist and bare-legged, who have been breathing the fresh
air of the street for a few moments, we quickly arrive at the entrance of
one of the many small factories with which the town abounds. In spite of
open doors and windows its atmosphere feels hot and stifling, for it is
impregnated with tiny particles of flour dust, which too often, alas! are
apt to affect permanently the lungs of the workmen. The dough of maccaroni
is obtained by mixing pure wheaten flour with semolina in certain
proportions, only water being used for the purpose, whilst the task of
kneading is carried out in primitive fashion by means of a lever worked
continuously by two or more men. When the dough has at length arrived at
the required consistency after some hours of steady kneading, it is placed
in a large perforated copper cylinder, each hole having a central pin at
the bottom and a valve on top. A powerful screw is then employed to press
down upon the dough, which is thus squeezed out of the imprisoning
cylinder through the holes in the serpentine shape that is so familiar to
us. On reaching a certain length these pipes, issuing from the holes, are
twisted off and are then removed for drying to the frames in the open air.
Maccaroni has, of course, many varieties of form and quality, from the
thin fluffy vermicelli, known under the poetical name of _Capilli degli
Angeli_, to the great thick pipe-stem-like article of ordinary commerce.
There are endless means of cooking and dressing this, the national dish of
Italy, but perhaps the most popular of all is _alla Napolitana_, wherein
it is served with tomato sauce, to which a sprinkling of grated Parmesan
cheese is frequently added. A compound of eggs and maccaroni, sometimes
known as a Neapolitan omelette, likewise makes an appetising dish, though
it is one that is little known to foreigners. One circumstance is patent;
the dismal so-called “maccaroni pudding” one meets with in England seems
to have nothing in common with the delicately flavoured, sustaining dish
that can be obtained for a few pence in any Southern restaurant.
Torre Annunziata has the reputation of being a dirty malodorous town,
composed of shabby stone houses and full of quarrelsome people. Well,
perhaps there is a scintilla of truth in the sweeping observation, yet if
we can contrive to endure the smells and racket of the place for a brief
space of time, there is much of human interest to be observed in the daily
scenes of its crowded beach and its noisy streets. After all, no odours of
the South can compare in all-pervading intensity with the blended aroma of
fried fish and London fog that old Drury Lane can often produce; nor are
the Torrese more dangerous to strangers or more objectionable in their
habits than the crowds of Lambeth or Seven Dials. In strength of lungs, it
must be granted, the Italian easily surpasses the Londoner, for the
Southern voice is positively alarming in its vigour and its far-reaching
power. No one—man, woman or child—can apparently speak below a scream;
even the most amiable or trivial of conversations seems to our
unaccustomed ears to portend an imminent quarrel, to so high a pitch are
the naturally harsh voices strained. Morning, noon and night the same
hubbub of men shouting, of women screeching, and of children yelling
continues for nobody minds noise in Italy, where people are troubled with
no nerves of their own and consequently have no consideration for those of
strangers. And why, therefore, should they suspend their native habits to
please a handful of cavilling _forestieri_?
A stroll through Torre Annunziata, although it possesses not a few
drawbacks, can be made both amusing and instructive; we can even find
something attractive in the quality of the local atmosphere, which
suggests at one and the same time sunshine, garlic, incense, stale fish
and wood smoke; it is the pungent but characteristic aroma of the South,
filled “with spicy odours Time can never mar.” And what truly charming
pictures do the family groups present in the wide archways giving on the
untidy courts within, full of sun and shadow and gay with bright-coloured
garments swaying in the wind! The ebon-haired young mother with teeth like
pearls and with warm-tinted cheeks sits fondling the last helpless little
addition to her growing family, whilst toddlers of any age from two to
seven, unkempt but bright-eyed and engaging, play around the door-step,
watched over by their grandmother, or may be their great-grandam, who with
her wizened face enfolded in her yellow kerchief, her skinny neck, and her
distaff in the bony fingers, looks as if she had stepped out of some
Renaissance painting of the Three Fates in a Florentine gallery. Crimson
carnations in earthenware pots stand on the steps of the outside
staircase, giving a touch of refinement to the squalid home, and from the
balcony overhead the glossy-black, yellow-billed _passer solitario_, the
favourite cage-bird of the Neapolitan poor, chirrups with apparent
cheerfulness in his wicker-work prison. Behind, in the dim shadows of the
large room, which serves as sole habitation, we can espy the inevitable
household altar with the oil lamp glimmering before the little
crude-coloured print of the Virgin and Child, and its usual accessory, the
piece of palm or olive that was blessed by the priest last Palm Sunday;
poor and mean though the chamber be, its bed linen and simple appointments
are more cleanly than might perhaps be inferred from the appearance of the
family itself. In a shady corner close by, three or four young labourers
at their mid-day rest have finished their frugal repast of bread and
beans, and are now playing eagerly the popular game of _zecchinetto_ with
a frayed and grimy pack of cards. Wives or sweethearts watch with anxious
faces from a respectful distance, for it is not meet to disturb the lords
of creation when they happen to be engaged in a game of chance. What
possibilities of farce and tragedy can be drawn from so simple, so common
a scene upon these shores, where human life is less artificially conducted
than elsewhere in Europe, and where human passions are kept under less
restraint? Terrible are the tales of jealousy and revenge, of deliberate
treachery and of uncontrolled violence, which are related of these
quick-tempered grown-up children of the South, who seem to love and hate
with the blind intensity of untutored savages.
“Lo ’nnamorato’ mmio sse chiammo Peppo,
Lo capo jocatore de le carte;
Ss’ ha jocato ’sto core a zecchinetto,
Dice ca mo’ lo venne, e mo’ lo parte.
Che n’agg’ io a fare lo caro de carte?
Vogho lo core che tinite ’m pietto!”
(“That lover of mine is called Handsome Beppo,
The best player of cards all around this way;
He’s been playing on Hearts at _zecchinetto_,
And says now they turn up, now are sorted away.
What matters the heart in the card-pack to me?
The heart in his bosom’s the heart for me!”)
Here lies the sleeping fisherman, worn out probably with hours of hauling
at the heavy nets, who is snatching a chance hour of repose, prone upon
his chest with face buried in his crossed arms. Little he seems to reck of
the damp of the soil or the heat of the sun, nor can a noisy game of
_mora_ played by a couple of his companions beside him disturb his deep
slumber. _Mora_ has ever been the classic game of the South, and indeed,
there is abundant evidence to show that it was played by the ancestors of
these dwellers in Magna Graecia hundreds of years before Pompeii was
overthrown. The game, which requires nothing but the human fingers, bears
no little resemblance to our own humble pastime of “Up Jenkin!” which may
almost be described as a species of drawing-room _mora_; perhaps some
Italian traveller in a past age may actually have introduced this form of
the southern diversion into prosaic England. The two players, face to face
and craning forward with outstretched necks, simultaneously extend their
right hands with one or more fingers pointing upward, the aim of each man
being to guess the exact number, from two to ten, jointly displayed by
both right hands. If one of them hit upon the correct figure, then he
gains one point towards the stakes, which are usually made in _centesimi_
rather than in _soldi_. How rapidly do the lean supple brown fingers flash
backwards and forwards, and with what gusto do the two frenzied combatants
yell out their numbers! _Mora_ has been a favourite recreation with these
people almost from their cradles, and he would be a bold man indeed who
would venture to challenge a Torrese at this game, for the native’s skill
and experience are almost bound to tell eventually in his favour, and the
odds are “Lombard Street to a China orange” against the outside player.
There are certain maxims too with regard to the game which are closely
observed by those who play it, as well as peculiar expressions, such as
_tutte_ to denote that all ten fingers are being shown, or _chiarella_ for
all but one. Five points usually make the game, and these are commonly
marked by holding up one or more fingers of the disengaged left
hand.—These are a few of the many sights to be witnessed by those who can
afford to endure the pestering attentions of small boys, and the
uncomplimentary staring of the adult population in such places as the
Torres or Castellamare; and such as wish to make themselves acquainted
with the details of southern life and manners cannot do better than pass
an idle hour in the fishmarket or the piazza of these little industrial
towns of the Vesuvian shore. For to regard Southern Italy from the
majestic isolation of a railway compartment or a hired carriage cannot
possibly give the traveller the smallest insight into the ordinary phases
of local life; for he is ever looking, as it were, into a picture from
which all trace of colour has vanished.
It is but a short quarter of an hour by train from Torre Annunziata to
Castellamare di Stabia, the ill-fated Stabiae of the Romans, which shared
the evil lot of Pompeii and Herculaneum. On our right we have the sea,
with the castle-topped islet of Revigliano, whilst on looking to the left
we can survey the fertile valley of the Sarno, and the shapeless mounds
which hide that precious goal of every traveller to these shores, the
buried city of Pompeii. Everywhere thrives sub-tropical vegetation:—cactus
and aloe draped in wreaths of smilax; tall straggling masses of scarlet
geranium that cling for protection to the Indian fig, and blossom in
security amid their spiky but safe retreats; shrubs of fragrant yellow
genista; clumps of purple-leaved _ricini_, as the Italians name the
castor-oil plant. If it were summer time, the daturas would be covered
with their great white floral trumpets, and every oleander bush would be
one blaze of the coarse carmine blossoms that are here called _Mazza di
San Giuseppe_, or St Joseph’s nosegay, and a very gaudy rank bouquet they
make. But in spring-time the oleander can but display long greyish leaves
and pods of snowy fluff, which is blown hither and thither like
thistle-down on the air; and it is only in flaming summer that these
regions are brightened by St Joseph’s flower, or by the still more
gorgeous masses of the mesembryanthemum, which clambers on all sides over
the lava rock and hangs in crimson festoons from tufa cliffs, making
impossibly splendid splashes of colour in the landscape.
* * * * * * *
So many writers have expatiated upon the sordid ugliness of Castellamare
and upon the beauty of the wooded slopes above the town, that a further
description of the place may well be dispensed with. Uninteresting,
however, as this industrial town appears, it boasts a long historical
record, to which its crumbling medieval castle bears witness. The great
Emperor Frederick the Second, the scholar-pope Pius the Second, and all
the monarchs of the Angevin, Aragonese and Bourbon dynasties have been
associated with this “castle by the sea.” The whole district was once the
property of that human monster Pier-Luigi Farnese, duke of Parma, heir of
Pope Paul the Third, of whose demoniacal cruelty and treachery the racy
pages of Cellini’s Memoirs give so vivid an account, and whose repulsive
face has grown familiar to us from Titian’s famous portraits in the
gallery of Naples. It was the evil Pier-Luigi’s descendant and
heiress-general of the family, Elizabeth Farnese, Queen of Spain, who
conveyed the beautiful villa and woods of Quisisana to the Bourbon kings,
and here the Neapolitan royal family for several generations sought health
(as the name of the place implies) and repose upon the breezy heights that
lie so conveniently near to the great city in full view to the west.
Nowadays the old royal villa, deserted by crowned heads since Ferdinand’s
days and fallen from its high estate to its present use of a hotel and
pension, forms with its park the chief attraction of Castellamare, where
English travellers are wont to congregate in winter, and Neapolitan and
Greek seekers of pleasure or drinkers of medicinal waters resort in the
hot summer months. The Southerners who come here for their _villeggiatura_
certainly enjoy a better time than the winter visitors, for the bulky form
of Monte Sant’ Angelo intercepts much of the sunshine, thereby rendering
the place damp and chilly in the cold season of the year. Nominally it is
the mineral springs that attract the Neapolitan folk, wherein they have a
fine choice of health-giving beverages, varying from the _acqua ferrata_,
a mild chalybeate that is found useful as a tonic, to the powerful _acqua
del Muraglione_, that is warranted to reduce the stoutest mortal to a mere
shadow of his former self in a trice. But though the waters may be
occasionally sipped of a morning and wry faces made, it is in reality the
warm sea-bathing on the shore, where people spend hours pickling in tepid
salt water, and also the cool rides or walks amongst the shady alleys of
sweet chestnut and ilex woods of Quisisana and Monte Coppola, which draw
hither in summer the elegant world of Naples, and even of Athens, to visit
Castellamare. The leafy groves on the zephyr-swept hill sides, once sacred
to the pleasures of Bourbon tyrants, now ring with peals of noisy
laughter, with gallant compliments, and with the harsh shouting of the
_ciucciari_, the leaders of the poor over-driven donkeys. Unhappy patient
beasts! usually covered with raws and galls, that are urged forward at a
gallop by the remorseless stick, or even by the goad, for the Neapolitan
donkey-boy is absolutely callous to the feelings of his animal. Not that
he is cruel out of sheer cussedness, for cruelty’s sake, for he can be
really kind to his dog or his cat; but the beast of burden, the helpless
uncomplaining servant of man, suffers terribly at his hands. It is useless
to remonstrate or argue with the young ruffian, who at our sharp reprimand
will merely open wide his big black eyes and stare in genuine amazement.
_Non sono Cristiani_—they have no souls, and the beasts are their property
and not yours; what does it matter then to you how they are treated,
provided they carry you properly? That is the sum total of the
donkey-boy’s argument, and he has high ecclesiastical authority to back up
his private theory, if he had the wit to enter into a discussion with us
on the subject. Almost equally hopeless is it to point to the simple fact
that a well-groomed, well-treated animal lasts longer than a half-starved,
mutilated scare-crow. “How old is your horse?” we once asked a driver in
the south. “He is very old indeed, _eccelenza_,” was the reply; “he must
be nearly twelve!” On being informed that horses often worked well up to
twenty years old and over in England, he let us infer, quite politely,
that he thought we were romancing. Tenderness towards the dumb creation is
a common, not to say a prevailing characteristic of the Anglo-Saxon race,
and it must be confessed that the thoughtless and horrible cruelty towards
animals witnessed on all sides in the Neapolitan Riviera amounts to a
serious drawback to the full enjoyment of its many beauties and amenities.
Matters are improving a little of late, it is only fair to add. There is
an Italian Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, and its
officials have done some good in the streets of Naples itself, but
naturally its new ideas have not yet penetrated far into the country
districts.
[Illustration: ROAD NEAR CASTELLAMARE]
To the healthy and energetic the most delightful excursion that
Castellamare can offer is the ascent to the summit of Monte Sant’ Angelo,
that monarch of the Bay of Naples, whose lofty crest gleams with snowy
streaks until the spring be well advanced. The lazy or the feeble can make
use of one of the poor oppressed donkeys, but it is better to engage its
ragged master, who without his four-footed drudge to whack and kick is a
harmless enough being, to act as guide over the steep ill-defined pathway
that leads ever upwards. As we slowly ascend through the sub-tropical
region of fig and vine, of olive and carouba, we question our guide, who
in spite of his bright eyes and well-knit frame seems about as intelligent
a companion as the poor ass left behind in the stall, where he is
enjoying, let us hope, an unexpected holiday. It is not easy to extract
information from our native attendant, yet with a little judicious
pressing we learn from him that the top of the mountain, which is our
bourne, was once inhabited by evil spirits, until a holy hermit took up
his abode on the peak, since when his sanctity has kept the place
tolerably clear of witches and foul incubi. Wicked sprites, however, still
haunt the spreading woods of beech and chestnut which we must presently
traverse, and our guide (whose name is Vincenzo) admits to us that he
would not care to venture there alone, even in broad daylight. There is,
he tells us, warming up at last to the subject, much gold hidden there,
which the spirits guard so jealously that they are ready to tear in pieces
any mortal who is clever enough to find and bold enough to rifle their
secret hoards. Only a priest, on account of his sacred office, is reckoned
safe from their iniquitous spells. “But has not any one dared,” we ask,
“to go in company with a holy man, to search for this hidden treasure?”
Well, yes, he had been told that men from Vico had once ventured up into
the woods to search for the gold. With a little encouragement Vincenzo is
finally prevailed upon to give us the whole story, which is evidently of
somewhat recent date.
Once upon a time there were four men, one of them being a priest, who
lived in Vico, and one of these men had often been told by his father that
in the forests near the top of Monte Sant’ Angelo there lay buried a chest
full of gold—_molto! molto!_ The father of the man had been himself in his
youth to search for the treasure, but find it he never could, for he would
never take a priest with him to avert the spells of the evil spirits of
the mountain sides, who kept the place hidden. So this time the man chose
two out of his friends, the boldest and the trustiest he could fix upon,
to accompany him, and at the same time he obtained the promise of a
cousin, who was a priest, to assist in the undertaking. All four made
their way up to the woods, and whilst the three men were digging and
searching, the priest continued to read aloud the incantations out of a
certain book he had brought with him for the purpose. In course of time
the chest was discovered to the joy of all, and sure enough it was bulging
with the desired gold pieces. They opened it without difficulty, and the
four friends divided its contents in equal shares. Scarcely had the work
of division been carried out, than there came a loud voice issuing from
the unknown, calling out the question:—“_Che ferete con questo tesoro?_”
“_Mangeremo, beveremo!_” boldly replied one of the group, to whom this
sudden accession of wealth offered dreams of unlimited platters of
maccaroni and countless flasks of ruby-red Gragnano in the future. “We
shall eat, we shall drink, but we shall also make abundant alms!” called
out another—let us hope it was the priest!—but no sooner had the word
_elemosina_ (alms) been uttered than there was heard a most terrific
rattling of chains, the gold pieces turned to dead leaves in the
affrighted mortals’ hands, and the four men took to their heels and fled
in alarm down the mountain flank.
Vincenzo believes this tale implicitly, just as it was related to him, and
he adds to combat our own incredulity that the priest and one of the men
who took part in this strange adventure were still living and ready to
confirm the story, but that of the remaining two, one was now dead, and
the other had been deaf and dumb ever since the event. It seem a pity to
criticise Vincenzo’s simple little narrative, which makes a pretty
fairy-story and points a sound moral, as it stands.
We enter the fresh scented woods that have now replaced in our climb the
rich cultivated crops and terraced gardens, and here amidst the clumps of
ancient chestnuts our guide points out to us the great snow-pits, the
contents of which are used to cool the water sold by the _acquaioli_
during hot summer nights in the sultry streets of Naples. These pits are
dug about fifty feet deep, and half as much across, being conical in shape
with a grating placed a short distance above the tapering base to allow
the melted snow to drain off into the soil. The sides of each pit are
first well-lined with straw and leafy branches, and the new-fallen snow
shovelled in and forced into a solid mass by pressure from above, whilst
on top is placed a sound thatched roof. As we wander through the silent
woods we see patches of anemones, white and blue, lying upon the
leaf-strewn ground, and beside them in many places are tufts of the pale
starry primroses; coarse spurge, and lush masses of the hellebore with its
large pale green flowers and dark leaves are common enough on all sides.
From amongst the naked trees we emerge into the bare bleak stony stretches
that lead to the summit, covered with the coarse but aromatic vegetation
that clothes the dry limestone wastes of the south. How truly marvellous
is the description of these wind-swept, weed-grown solitudes that Robert
Browning presents to us in what is perhaps the most truly Italian in
feeling of all his poems, “The Englishman in Italy!” For here with the
rich imagination, worthy of some of Shelley’s finest flights, is mingled
an accurate appreciation of Nature, of which Wordsworth might well be
proud; for the Lake poet himself could not have improved upon this
exquisite description of the various shrubs and plants of a limestone
hill-top in Italy.
“The wild path grew wilder each instant,
And place was e’en grudged
’Mid the rock-chasms and piles of loose stones,
Like the loose broken teeth
Of some monster which climbed there to die
From the ocean beneath—
Place was grudged to the silver-grey fume-weed
That clung to the path,
And dark rosemary ever a-dying,
That, spite the wind’s wrath,
So loves the salt rock’s face to seaward,
And lentisks as staunch
To the stone where they root and bear berries,
And ... what shows a branch
Coral-coloured, transparent, with circlets
Of pale sea-green leaves.”
Above our heads hovers a kite, performing graceful circles in the keen
clear air and breaking the oppressive silence of the place with his shrill
screams, for his mate must have her nest hidden in some cleft of yon grey
towering cliff. A pair of crested hoopoes with brown plumage and ruddy
breasts keep fluttering a little way before us, uttering from time to time
their curious notes of alarm. Mercifully these handsome birds have escaped
the fowler, who lays his snares even amongst the spirit-haunted crags of
this desolate region. The hoopoe, though a very rare visitor to our
northern shores, is fairly common on the Mediterranean coast, and he would
be still more frequently encountered, were it not for his hereditary
enemy, Man. There is a venerable legend concerning this interesting
bird—_bubbola_, the Italians call him—which relates how ages ago on the
scorching plains of Palestine a number of hoopoes once followed King
Solomon as he was riding, and in order to protect the great king from the
fierce rays of the sun, they formed themselves into a living screen to
shelter the royal head. Grateful for this welcome attention, Solomon Ben
David at eventide sent for the king of the Hoopoes to ask him what reward
he would like to receive for this service, and the answer was promptly
made that a crown of pure gold on the head would be acceptable. The Jewish
monarch smiled grimly as he granted the request, whereupon immediately
each bird found his poll decorated with a tuft of pure golden feathers,
and mightily pleased with their new magnificence were the conceited
hoopoes. But alas! the news was quickly spread abroad that there were to
be seen strange birds with plumes of real gold, and the eternal lust of
gain at once set men in quest of the hoopoes, whom they began to slay
wholesale with stones, arrows, and traps in order to obtain the coveted
precious metal they bore on their heads. In despair, the king of the
hoopoes then flew to the monarch sitting on his ivory throne at Jerusalem,
and begged him to change their golden crowns for crests of feathers.
Solomon the Wise smilingly gave the order; at once lovely red and black
feathers took the place of the golden plumes, and the slaughter of the
hoopoes in Palestine forthwith ceased. And the story, argues the recorder
of this lesson upon the folly of personal adornment, must of necessity be
true, for it is certain that the hoopoes bear a crown of feathers upon
their heads unto this day.
Slowly we toil up the last portion of the peak, until we reach the ruined
chapel of St Michael upon its summit, which is still a resort of local
pilgrims, although in these days of doubt and avarice, when “sins are so
many and saints so few,” the statue of the Archangel since its removal
from this spot no longer perspires with the sacred dew, which the priests
used to collect with cotton wool on the first day of August and distribute
to the peasants of the district. Like the oil that was once wont to exude
from the blessed relics of St Andrew in the Cathedral of Amalfi, _non c’è
più_; we may possess motor cars and radium, but we must contrive to exist
without these precious exhibitions of the miraculous.
It would be sheer folly to attempt a full description of that glorious
view, comprising the bays of Gaeta, Naples, and Salerno; of Vesuvius with
his ascending smoky clouds; of the endless chain of the snow-tipped
Abruzzi Mountains that bound the vision to the east; of the vast expanse
of the Mediterranean, stretching in one unbroken sheet of turquoise to the
west, varied by violet patches of reflected cloud, and studded by
innumerable ships, from the vast liners to the tiny fishing craft with
their glistening sails, like snow-white sea-swallows resting on the calm
waters. Again we turn to Robert Browning, most human of poets and most
kindly of philosophers, to find adequate expression for the thoughts we
dare not, cannot utter.
“Oh, heaven and the terrible crystal!
No rampart excludes
Your eye from the life to be lived
In the blue solitudes.
Oh, those mountains, their infinite movement!
Still moving with you;
For ever some new head and breast of them
Thrusts into view
To observe the intruder; you see it
If quickly you turn,
And before they escape you surprise them.
They grudge you should learn
How the soft plains they look on, lean over
And love (they pretend)
—Cower beneath them, the flat sea-pine crouches,
The wild fruit-trees bend;
E’en the myrtle leaves curl, shrink and shut,
All is silent and grave:
’Tis a sensual and timorous beauty.
How fair! but a slave.”
[Illustration: MONTE FAITO, CASTELLAMARE]
We descend by the slopes of Monte Faito in the quiet of the evening,
facing the distant headland of Posilipo and the sunset, where above the
horizon we see collecting thick masses of dark purple cloud, which augur a
stormy morrow. Above us the peak of the Archangel is already wreathed in
garlands of white mist, a sure sign of coming tempest, and it is amid a
lurid light from the sinking sun that we hasten downwards, bending our
steps in the direction of Pozzano, where the form of its convent stands
out sharply defined against the background of the Bay. Night is rapidly
approaching, and in the gathering darkness as we strike the road below the
convent, we can already hear the ominous roaring and seething of the
waters under the cliff, lashed to fury by the first deep breaths of the
coming squall. Hurrying along the broad smooth roadway it is not long
before we reach our hotel door, where we bid good night to Vincenzo, just
as the first heavy drops of rain have begun to fall; pleasantly exhausted
after our long excursion, we are ready to appreciate to the full the
warmth and good cheer of the hospitable Hotel Quisisana.
CHAPTER III
LA CITTÀ MORTA
Pompeii can never be visited without the same haunting conviction, the
same oppressive thought: how terribly difficult it is to understand the
City of the Dead which holds in so small a space the whole secret of the
antique world! There are far more grandiose and impressive ruins to be
seen in Rome; the city of Timgad in Northern Africa is more complete as a
specimen of a Roman settlement than the half-excavated town near Vesuvius;
yet here, and here only, can the men of the past stretch hands, as it
were, across the barrier of eighteen intervening centuries to the dweller
of to-day, and the dead-and-gone spirits of a highly organized
civilization can whisper into the living ears of the twentieth century.
For Pompeii will speak to us, if we will take the trouble to learn the
tongue in which alone she can convey the secret of her story. It is
needless to say that this language is not obtainable by one or two cursory
visits to the Naples Museum, and a few hurried half-hours given to the
contents of the guide-book; no, the language of Pompeii, which constitutes
the key of access to the hidden chambers of the Roman world, can only be
acquired with much expenditure of precious time and with infinite trouble.
But “life is short and time is fleeting,” and our bustling age expects to
seize its required knowledge in the twinkling of an eye; well, in that
case the story of Pompeii must remain a sealed volume to the traveller,
who is conveyed to the City of the Dead in a train crammed with
fellow-tourists; who eats a heavy unwholesome luncheon to the sound of
mandoline-players twanging sprightly Neapolitan airs; and who is finally
piloted round the sacred area by a chattering guide in the oppressive heat
and glare of a sunny afternoon. Fatigued in mind and body, such an one
will sink with ill-concealed relief upon the dusty velvet cushions of the
returning train, thoroughly disappointed in the vaunted marvels of
Pompeii, which his imagination had led him to expect. A vague impression
of low broken walls, of narrow—to his eyes absurdly narrow—streets, of
broken columns and of peeling frescoes fills his tired brain, as he is
borne back to his hotel in Naples. But this disenchantment is his own
fault, for no one who sets foot within the Sea Gate of the buried city in
the proper spirit of knowledge and appreciation can possibly fail to enjoy
the privilege which has thus been afforded him—
“to stand within the City Disinterred;
And hear the autumnal leaves like light footfalls
Of spirits passing through the streets; and hear
The Mountain’s slumberous voice at intervals
Thrill through those roofless halls.”
Before passing through the Porta Marina into the purlieus of the city, let
us first of all instil into our minds the essential difference that exists
between the ruins of Pompeii and the historic fragments of Rome or Athens.
When we gaze upon the well-known sites of the vanished glories of the
Palatine or the Acropolis, we experience no effort in looking backward
through the vista of the past and in conjuring up some vague
representation of the scenes that were once enacted in these places; the
more imaginative feel the very air vibrating with the unseen spirits of
men and women famous in the world’s history. He must be indeed a
Philistine or a dullard who cannot contrive to arouse a passing exaltation
at the thought of treading in the footsteps of Cicero and the Caesars in
Rome, of Pericles and Socrates in Athens, for the very soil of the Forum
and the stones of the citadel of Pallas seem impregnated with the very
essence of history. But this is far from being the case at Pompeii, where
long careful study of details and a grasp of hard facts are really of more
avail than a poetic imagination in reclothing with flesh the dry bones of
the past, for the importance of the Campanian city is almost purely
social. The _names_ of many of its prominent citizens are certainly
familiar to us from inscriptions found, yet who were these persons that we
should take so deep an interest in their lives and fates? Who were Pansa
the ædile, Eumachia the priestess, Caecilius Jucundus, Aulus Vettius and
Epidius Rufus, and a score of other Pompeian worthies? The answer is, they
were officials or simple dwellers in a flourishing provincial town; they
had no especial literary or public reputation; their names were probably
little known beyond the walls of their own city. Imagine an English
country town, such as Exeter or Shrewsbury, suddenly overwhelmed by some
unforeseen freak of Nature and afterwards embalmed in the manner of
Pompeii as a curiosity for the edification of future ages. To what extent,
we ask, would the discovery of a place of this size and population supply
the existing dweller with a complete impression of our national life and
civilization in the opening years of the twentieth century? The reply will
be that it would give a very good idea of the average provincial town, but
that it would hardly serve as a fair criterion to judge of the life
pursued in the capital, or in the really large cities. Such a comparison
will afford us a certain clue to the unveiling of the mysteries of
Pompeii.
For the city at the mouth of the Sarno was an ancient Campanian
settlement, founded long before the days wherein Greek adventurers beached
their triremes on the shores of the Siren. It was a native community of
Oscans, deriving its name from the Oscan word _pompe_ (five), and, unlike
Paestum, it appears to have retained its original appellation under all
its successive masters. Its primitive inhabitants seem to have
intermingled with their Hellenic victors, and to have grown civilized by
intercourse with them. Temples of heavy Doric architecture were raised;
walls and watch-towers were built; and by the time the city fell into the
hands of the encroaching Romans, it had become a flourishing place with
some twenty to thirty thousand inhabitants, owing its prosperity to its
excellent situation at the mouth of the river, which made Pompeii a
convenient port to serve the rich district of Campania that lies eastward
of Vesuvius. Nuceria (the modern Nocera) and the larger city of Nola were
both dependent on it, for the Sarno was in those days navigable, so that
ships bringing Egyptian corn and Eastern merchandise frequently left the
Pompeian harbour and sailed up stream to unload their cargoes at these
cities. Let us picture then to ourselves a compact town, an irregular oval
in form, surrounded by walls pierced by eight gates and embellished with
twelve towers; its eastern extremity towards Nocera containing the
Amphitheatre, and its most westerly point marked by the Herculaneum gate
leading to the Street of Tombs. Southward, we must imagine the sea much
closer to its walls than at the present day, for the alluvial deposits
have in the course of nearly two thousand years added many acres of solid
ground to the shores of the Bay. Behind the city to the north rose the
mountain side, not seared with the traces of lava as in these days, nor
surmounted by a smoking cone, but radiant with vineyards and gardens which
extended unbroken up to the very rim of the ancient crater. Amidst the
greenery of the luxuriant slopes peeped forth innumerable farms and villas
of wealthy Romans, for this exquisite spot had long become an abode of
cultured leisure. Within the closely packed streets of the town itself
there were to be found few open spaces except the Forum, and perhaps a
small park in front of the amphitheatre, for the place was prosperous,
though not wealthy, and its chief citizens were forced to remain content
with the tiny gardens enclosed within the walls of their own dwellings.
Internally Pompeii presented, like many another Roman town, marks of its
six hundred years of existence. There was at least one perfect Doric
temple; there were Oscan-Grecian buildings, notably the so-called “House
of the Surgeon,” with its air of old-fashioned simplicity; there were
houses of the Republican period; there were numberless dwellings of the
Imperial era; there were unfinished structures that were being completed
at the time of the city’s overthrow. For, sixteen years before Vesuvius
suddenly awoke from its long sleep, the neighbourhood had been visited by
the severe earthquake shock of 63, and the effects produced by this
disaster had not nearly been effaced, when the great event of 79
transformed the town into a huge museum for the delight and instruction of
future generations. Pompeii therefore preserves the marks of more than
half a thousand years of civilization, so that those who will take the
necessary trouble can trace within its area the gradual progress of its
social and political life from the far-off days of Greeks and Oscans to
the reign of the Emperor Titus. The case of a ruined Exeter or Shrewsbury
could not be widely different. The students of ensuing ages would be able
to find in the dead town one or two churches of Norman or Plantagenet
times; portions of medieval city walls and gateways, perhaps even some
undoubted traces of Roman baths or fortifications; some few public
buildings erected under Tudor or Stuart sovereigns; a large number of the
plain roomy mansions of the Georgian period; and, last of all, a
preponderating quantity of nineteenth century structures of every
description—churches, warehouses, factories, inns, barracks, shops,
dwelling-houses. Many would be the inscriptions and monuments we should
find in such a town, alluding to private and public persons utterly
unknown to English history, but more or less noteworthy in local annals:
grandees of civic life, soldiers, philanthropists, clergymen, _et hoc
genus omne_. Future generations of scholars would doubtless strive eagerly
to obtain details of the careers of these provincial worthies, who filled
municipal offices in the reigns of Queen Victoria and King Edward, in
order to throw more light upon the period wherein they flourished. Let us
apply then the same principles to the study of Pompeii _mutatis mutandis_,
for in our quest of better knowledge of the old Roman life we fix
anxiously upon every detail concerning the leading personages of the dead
city. Nevertheless, it is its existence in the aggregate that proves of
surpassing interest to us; we desire to learn of the daily tasks and
occupations of the mass of its population, rather than to become
acquainted with the private histories of its leading individuals; we study
the former, in fact, only as a means to a definite end. We cry for
information, which to a certain extent we can secure, as to how an average
Roman city was administered, provisioned, drained; how its inhabitants
passed their time both in leisure and in business; how they amused
themselves in their homes and in the theatre; what they ate and what they
drank—the endless trifles of human life, in short, which like the
_tesseræ_, the tiny cubes of their own mosaic pavements, go to make up a
complete picture out of a thousand fragments. Not a few of the cubes in
this case are missing, it is true, nor are they ever likely to be found;
nevertheless, we own an abundant supply wherewith we can piece together a
tolerably accurate picture of the life of a Roman provincial city during
the first century of the Christian era.
It is of course quite outside our province to attempt any detailed account
of the wonders of Pompeii. The reader who desires full information must
turn to the elaborate works of Mau and Helbig, of Gell and Overbeck, to
say nothing of the descriptive pages, full of condensed knowledge,
contained in Murray’s and Baedeker’s guide-books in order to obtain a
clear impression of all he wishes to inspect. We can but dwell on a point
here and there, and even then but lightly and superficially, for any
endeavour on our part to add to the statements and theories of the great
archaeologists already cited would be indeed a matter of supererogation
and presumption.
Entering then by the Marine Gate, and pursuing our course eastwards along
the lines of naked broken house-fronts, we reach the great rectangular
space of the Forum. Here at its southern extremity let us select a shady
corner, for the sun beats down fiercely upon the bare ruins at every
season of the year, and even on a winter’s afternoon the air often
shimmers with the heat haze, so that in no place on earth is the use of an
umbrella so necessary or desirable as at Pompeii.
What an ideal spot for the founding of a city! That is our first
impression, as we glance across the broad sunlit enclosure on to the
empurpled slopes of Vesuvius rising grandly above the broken columns of
the great temple of the Capitoline Jove; behind us, we know, is the azure
Bay with Capri and the Sorrentine cape lying on its unruffled bosom, so
that we stand between sea and mountain to north and south, whilst we have
the luxuriant slopes of Vesuvius to westward, and to the east the rich
valley of the Sarno, thickly dotted with groves and hamlets. One element
alone is wanting in the glorious scene before us—Life; it will be our duty
and pleasure to re-invest as far as possible this empty space before us
with the semblance of the busy crowds that once flitted in and out of its
colonnades and porticoes; to rebuild in imagination its shapeless ruins,
so that we may obtain a fleeting picture of the Pompeian Forum in early
Imperial days.
[Illustration: THE FORUM, POMPEII]
Conceive, then, in front of us, instead of this long bare stretch flanked
by broken walls and strewn with shapeless fragments of brick and stone, an
immense double arcade, two stories in height, affording ample protection
against sun or rain and enclosing an oblong pavement whereon are set
numerous statues of emperors or private citizens, occupying lofty
positions of honour above the heads of the surging throng below. Imagine
that group of shattered pillars, which obstructs our full view of the
distant cone of Vesuvius, transformed into an imposing temple, covered
with polychrome decoration, not in the best of taste according to our
modern ideas of art, but gorgeous and cheerful in the clear atmosphere of
the south. Rebuild, in the mind’s eye, the Basilica and the temple of
Apollo on the left, and straight before us, as we look forward from our
coign of vantage at the narrow southern end of the colonnade, let us plant
the three dominant statues of Augustus, Claudius and Agrippina to form our
foreground. If we can construct by stress of fancy some such setting of
classical architecture, gay with primary colours and gilding and graceful
in design, it is easier to people the Pompeian Forum with the masses of
humanity that once mingled here. For we have the knowledge of modern
Italian life to guide us to a certain extent; we have seen the swarms of
citizens who to-day fill the main piazzas of the towns, especially those
of the provincial type, where the morning market is held and the chief
cafés and shops are situated. But if the general use of the piazza is
characteristic of the modern second-class Italian city, this concentration
of life was far more marked in the ancient Roman town, wherein the Forum
must have appeared as the very heart of the whole body social and politic.
Roman city life indeed displayed two strongly antagonistic phases:—the
utmost privacy in the home, the most public exhibition in the Forum, where
every trade and form of business were carried on in the open air, and
whither pursuit of gain, or pleasure, or religious duty led all the
citizens to direct their steps. For, as we have already shown, almost all
the public life of the place was concentrated within this space and its
surroundings; temples, markets, shops, law courts, municipal offices, all
abutted on the Forum; it was not merely the chief, but the only place that
drew together the daily crowd, bent alike on business or amusement. No
chariots were permitted to cross the area sacred to the claims of
money-making, of gossip, and of worship; so that we must picture to
ourselves a great mass of people undisturbed by the passing of vehicles,
or by the shouts and whip-crackings of the noisy charioteers—was ever such
a thing as a quiet Italian coachman, ancient or modern, we digress to
wonder! All was orderly and decorous when compared with the quarrelling,
screaming groups of citizens that block the congested streets of modern
Naples. Happily for us various paintings of the Forum of Pompeii have been
discovered, and these are naturally of immense value in helping us to a
proper understanding of the habits and methods of the people, and of the
general appearance of the Forum itself during its busiest hours. The
costumes of men, women and children; the articles of clothing and of food
ready for sale; the little knots of loiterers or gossips; the citizens
intent on reading the municipal notices that are herein portrayed, all
combine to present us with an authentic picture of Pompeian and therefore
of Roman civic life. “There is nothing new under the sun,” grumbled the
Preacher many centuries before the city under Vesuvius had reached its
zenith of civilization, and it must be confessed that the general
impression conveyed after studying the contemporary pictures of antique
life does not differ very widely from that which we obtain by observing
present Italian conditions. For the frescoes in the Naples Museum and in
certain of the Pompeian houses seem to recall strongly the scenes of the
piazza, where all the elements of society, irrespective of rank or
station, are still wont to congregate. Differences of dress, of manner, of
custom are doubtless evident enough, yet somehow we perceive an essential
sameness in these two representations of classical and modern Italy.
Nevertheless, these simple and often rude wall-paintings furnish us with
many pieces of information that we search for in vain amidst the ancient
authors, who naturally considered the commonplace everyday scenes of life
beneath the notice of contemporary record. We are enabled to learn, for
instance, how the citizens were usually dressed in the Forum, and how, in
an age when hats and umbrellas were practically non-existent, the pointed
hood, like that of the Arab burnous, was often used to cover the head in
cold or wet weather. Again, it is easy to perceive from the same source
that the diet of the Pompeians must have resembled closely that of their
present descendants; even the shape of the loaves has in most cases
continued unchanged to the present day. And one curious coincidence is
certainly worth mentioning, in that a peculiar method of preparing figs
with caraway seeds, which was long supposed to be a local speciality of a
remote town in Central Italy, has now been recognized as a common method
of dressing this fruit for the table at Pompeii, for large quantities of
figs so treated have been unearthed in shops and kitchens. Such grains of
information as the wearing of hoods and the preserving of figs may appear
trifling enough at first sight, yet it is from a number of petty details
such as these that we are assisted to an intimate understanding of a state
of society extinct nearly two thousand years ago.
Close beside us on the eastern side of the Forum is set the Chalcidicum,
the large building of the priestess Eumachia, one of the most gracious
personalities of Pompeii with which the modern world has become
acquainted. It was this lady who generously presented this structure, one
of the handsomest and most solid of the public buildings of the city, to
the fullers to serve as their exchange, wherein goods might be exposed
upon benches and tables for the convenience alike of sellers and
purchasers. “Priestess Eumachia,” remarks a modern critic, “has done the
thing well; no expense has been spared in the building and its
decorations. The columns of the portico are of white marble; the statues
of Piety and Concord, works of art; and the flower-borders along the
panelled walls, prettily conceived and carefully executed. After so much
plaster and stucco, it is a relief to see something so solid and genuine.
When a third-rate city apes the capital, there must needs be a certain
amount of sham. But at Pompeii it is all sham, or next door to it. In the
entire city are not more than half a dozen edifices whose columns are of
real marble, the bas-reliefs and cornices of anything more solid than
stucco; and of these half-dozen, the Exchange heads the list.”
We feel tolerably secure in assigning this fine building to the early
years of the Emperor Tiberius, and in naming the Emperor’s mother, Livia,
as the divinity to whom it was dedicated. The statue of Concord with the
golden horn of plenty doubtless once adorned the large pedestal which
still stands in the eastern apse of the Exchange, but though the figure
and emblem were those of Concordia, the face bore certainly the features
of Imperial Livia. Yet more interesting than the various speculations as
to the actual uses of this edifice and the different names of the statues
which once embellished its alcoves, is the circumstance that the marble
portrait of the foundress herself has been discovered. It is true that
only a copy in plaster now occupies the pedestal at the back of the apse
where Eumachia’s statue once stood, for the original has been removed for
safety to Naples, but it is not difficult to call to mind the calm gentle
face of this Pompeian Lady Bountiful, and her graceful figure in its
flowing robes. The existence of this statue adds undoubtedly a touch of
special human interest to the whole building, and we find our minds
excited by the brief inscription which still informs the curious that the
fullers of Pompeii erected this portrait in marble in grateful
appreciation “to Eumachia, a city-priestess, daughter of Lucius
Eumachius.”
Outside the Chalcidicum, at the corner of the lane usually termed Via
dell’ Abbondanza, is to be seen a pathetic little memorial of the working
life of the city: the fountain of Concordia Augusta, the divinity of
Eumachia’s noble building hard by. Dusty and heating is the business of
fulling cloth, and it generates thirst, so that it is but natural to find
a fountain close at hand, whereat the labourers could refresh their
parched throats. With what eagerness must the exhausted toilers during
those long summers of centuries past have leaned forward to press their
human lips to the cool mouth of the sculptured goddess that ejected with
pleasing gurgles a volume of water into the basin below! That this
fountain proved a boon to weary citizens is evident enough, for the
features of water-spouting Concordia are half worn away by thirsty human
kisses, and her suppliants’ hands have left deep smooth furrows in the
stone-work of the basin, whereon they were wont to support their bodies,
so as to direct the cooling draught into the dry and dusty gullet. In
Italian cities to-day we can frequently observe some exhausted labourer
bend deftly downwards to snatch a drink of water from the mouth of some
fantastic figure in a public fountain. Who has not paused, for instance,
beside Tacca’s famous bronze boar in the Florentine market-place without
noting an incident of this kind? If we ourselves are too dainty to place
our own aristocratic lips where our fellow-mortals have pressed theirs,
not so are the abstemious descendants of the ancient Romans, the Italians,
whose minds remain untroubled by any nasty-nice qualms of possible
infection.
Here then is the setting of the picture, and we must ourselves endeavour
to repeople the empty space with the crowds of high and low that once
collected here.
“It is high change, and the Forum is crowded. All Pompeii is here, and his
wife. _Patres conscripti_, inclined to corpulence, taking their
constitutional, exquisites lazily sauntering up and down the pavements;
decurions discussing the affairs of the nation, and the last news from
Rome; city magnates fussing, merchants chaffering, clients petitioning,
parasites fawning, soldiers swaggering, and Belisarius begging at the
gate.... It is a bright and animated scene. Beneath, the crowded Forum,
with its colonnades and statues, at one end a broad flight of steps
leading to the Temple of Jupiter, at the other a triumphal arch; on one
side the Temple of Venus and the Basilica; on the other the Macellum, the
Temple of Mercury, the Chalcidicum; overhead the deep blue sky. Mingled
with the hum of many voices and the patter of feet on the travertine
pavement are the ringing sounds of the stonemasons’ chisels and hammers,
for the Forum is undergoing a complete restoration. Although fifteen years
have elapsed since the city was last visited by earthquake, the damage
then done to the public buildings has not been entirely repaired. First
the Gods, then the people. The temples of Jupiter, Venus, and Mercury are
completed, but the Forum and Chalcidicum are still in the workmen’s
hands.”(2)
With this fleeting glimpse at the public life of the city, let us now turn
our attention to its domestic arrangements. Of the many houses which have
been excavated of recent years under the truly admirable superintendence
of Signor Fiorelli, none is better calculated to give us a striking
impression of the working details of an upper-class Roman household than
the private dwelling which is known equally under the two names of the
Casa Nuova and the House of the Vettii;—perhaps the former name has now
ceased to own any significance, since the buildings were laid bare as far
back as the winter of 1894-5. An hour or two spent in a careful inspection
of this house and its contents is to most persons worth four times the
same amount of time occupied in aimless wandering amongst the hot glaring
streets of the city, peeping into this courtyard and that, and listening
to the interminable tales of guide or custodian. If we study the Casa
Nuova intelligently, lovingly and minutely, it will not be long before we
obtain a tolerable grasp of Roman life and manners, which will prove of
immense service and of genuine delight. What then is it, the question will
be asked, that makes the House of the Vettii so valuable as an example of
antique architecture and decoration, in preference to other mansions which
can boast an equal and often a greater distinction? The answer is simple
enough: it is because this particular group of buildings has been allowed
to remain as far as practicable in the exact condition wherein it was
originally unearthed, when its various rooms and courts were once more
exposed to the light of day. For until the clearing of this “new house” a
decade or so ago, no proper opportunity had so far been afforded to the
amateur of our own times of judging for himself the interior of a Roman
dwelling in full working order, and with all its furniture, paintings, and
utensils complete. Up to this, almost every object of value had been
removed at once for safety, every fresco even of importance had been cut
bodily out of its setting and placed in one of those immense halls on the
ground floor of the Museum in Naples. How well do we remember those gaunt
chilly chambers, filled from pavement to ceiling with painted fragments of
all sizes, a medley of domestic subjects and of classical myths! Torn from
the walls they were specially executed to adorn, divorced from their
proper scheme of surrounding ornament, these wan dejected ghosts stare at
us like faces out of a mist. The uninitiated cannot find pleasure in them,
for they have no pretention to be called works of art; on the contrary
they form an inherent part of a conventional system of house decoration.
The classical student can of course find many points of interest in the
incidents portrayed, but all charm of local environment is absent;—it is,
in short, impossible to judge of Roman decoration from this collection of
crumbling, fading pieces of painted stucco. It would be as easy to imagine
the effect of a rose-bush in full bloom from the sight of a few withered
rose-buds, pressed until every vestige of colour had left their petals, as
to understand the significance of antique domestic art from the contents
of the Museo Nazionale.
But here, in the House of the Vettii, the public was for the first time
initiated into the mysteries of true Roman life; here it was admitted to
gaze upon the fruits of classical taste and refinement, and to contrast
them, favourably or unfavourably, with prevailing modern standards. The
Casa Nuova has been left as an object lesson, a complete museum in itself,
wherein every daily incident of Pompeian life, every domestic secret,
reveal themselves to our inquisitive eyes. Here in the roofless halls we
can be taken from entrance to dining-hall, from _atrium_ to sleeping
rooms, spying into the minutest detail of shape, size and colour, as
though we were seriously intending to rent the house for our own
habitation. The last tenant has even left his money-chest in his hall, his
pots and pans in the kitchen, and as we inspect his utensils, we wonder if
they would suit our own requirements to-day. Of portable objects of
value—plate, jewels, statuettes of precious metals and the like—belonging
to the late owner, there is certainly no trace, for Signor Fiorelli’s
labourers were not the first to break the deep silence of this buried
mansion. For it was the survivors of the stricken town, the citizens of
Pompeii themselves, who were the foremost pioneers to excavate, and they
carried off every work of art they could conveniently remove. Cutting from
above into the deposit of ashes that filled the streets, they managed to
reach in course of time the level of the ground, after which they
tunnelled from room to room, from house to house, collecting every object
they thought worth the trouble of transporting. Perhaps the owners of the
house, the Vettii themselves, presuming they escaped in the general
catastrophe, may have returned with skilled workmen to recover some of
their treasures; perhaps some “man of three letters”—the colloquial Roman
term for thief (_fur_)—may have forestalled the masters’ efforts—who
knows? And at this distance of time, who cares?
The house once occupied by Aulus Vettius Restitutus and Aulus Vettius
Corvina stands in a quiet district not far from the Capuan Gate, and
consequently at some distance from the Forum. Like all Roman habitations
it was essentially Oriental in its outward aspect, and must have resembled
closely any one of those mysterious dwellings of wealthy Arab citizens
which we constantly encounter in the native quarters of Algiers or Tunis.
The gateway giving on the street was wide, certainly, but it was well
defended both by human and canine porters; its windows were few and small,
and were probably closely latticed like those of the nunneries which we
sometimes perceive overhead in the crowded streets of Naples. There must
have been something austere, even suspicious, in the external appearance
of the Casa de’ Vettii, but snarling dog and grim janitor have long since
disappeared, and we pass unmolested through the _atrium_ and thence into
the Great Peristyle, which is perhaps the most remarkable feature of this
house. The peristyle, as its name implies, is a Greek importation in a
Roman city, and its use would have been scorned by the old-fashioned
citizens, such as the master of the “House of the Surgeon”; yet it was in
truth admirably suited to the character of Southern Italy, where it
afforded shelter from sun and wind, and its arcades protected from the
rainfall. The peristyle of the Vettii, with its gaudily tinted pillars of
stucco, is highly ornate; perhaps it passes the limits of good taste in
certain points of colour and æsthetic decoration, yet the general effect
is undoubtedly pleasing to the eye. This courtyard is at once a lounge
open to the sky; it is a garden; it is an art-gallery; for the cheerful
court of Greek domestic architecture had nothing in common with its
successor of the Middle Ages, the monastic cloister of religious
meditation. Cannot we imagine to ourselves the goodman of the house
proudly leading his guests after a sumptuous meal in the adjacent
dining-room into the cool corridors of his peristyle, in order to point
out to them his statues and vases of bronze or porphyry, and to expatiate
upon their value or elegance of form? On such a festive occasion these
great shallow basins of pure white marble before us would be heaped high
with fragrant pyramids of red and white roses, roses that were perhaps
plucked all dewy in the famous gardens of Paestum on the other side of
Mons Gaurus. For the flowering shrubs in the tiny pleasaunce itself are
far too precious to be stripped of their blossoms in so lavish a manner,
and perhaps if Vettius be anything of an amateur gardener, he may comment
to his visitors upon the rare plants that fill his diminutive flower-beds.
Careful and reverent hands have restored the little garden as near as
possible to its pristine plan and appearance. There are still standing the
two bronze statues of urchins holding in their chubby arms ducks from
whose bills once gushed the limpid water, making a soothing sound amidst
the alleys of the peristyle; corroded and injured they certainly appear,
yet here they hold their original positions in Vettius’ domain long after
temple and tower have fallen to the ground. The marble chairs and tripod
tables likewise remain, and around them still thrive the very plants that
the servants of the house were wont to tend in the days of Titus. For, by
a rare chance, we find depicted on the walls of the excavated house the
actual flowers and herbs that were popular during Vettius’ lifetime, and
these have been replanted by modern hands in the garden of the peristyle.
There are clumps of papyrus, the strange mop-headed rush from the banks of
the Nile, introduced into Italy as a botanical novelty after the conquest
of Egypt; there are rose-bushes, of course; and also masses of shining ivy
trained in the ancient Roman manner upon a cage of wicker-work fixed into
the soil. As we watch the verdure-clad sunlit space there descends,
delicately fluttering, one of those splendid pale yellow brimstone
butterflies of the South with flame-coloured blushes on its wings, and
after some moments of graceful hesitation, this new visitor settles upon
the purple head of an iris bloom. With its vivid colouring and its quick
movements the butterfly brings an atmosphere of life into the courtyard
that was hitherto lacking. Its appearance too suggests the famous
allegory, the unsolved riddle of human existence which so puzzled the
divine Plato and the ancient philosophers of Athens and Syracuse. Here are
we, the living men of to-day, watching the corpse of a departed world upon
which the mystic symbol of Psyche has just alighted. _Tempus breve est_ is
the simple little truism that rises to our reflecting minds. Eighteen
centuries between the Vettii and ourselves! They are gone like a flash,
and we are amazed to note how little has our nature altered either for the
better or the worse within that space of time, long enough if we measure
its limit by the standard of history, trivial if we reckon it by the
progress made in human ethics and human understanding. Surely there are
lessons to be learned in the silent city; Pompeii, we realize, is not
merely a heap of antique dross whence we can pick up precious grains of
knowledge, but it is an oracle in itself, which, if properly consulted,
will give us plain answers to our modern speculations, and will possibly
reprove us for our conceited assumption of omniscience.
[Illustration: LA CASA DEI VETTII, POMPEII]
Still brilliant in their strong prevailing tints of black, yellow and
vermilion are the decorative schemes which make a visit to the house of
the Vettii of such supreme importance for those who wish to understand
fully the artistic tastes of the Romans, and also their artistic
limitations. If the contents of the Museum seem colourless and cold, and
prove unsatisfying and disappointing, here the eye of the artist can feast
upon the classical ornamentation which remains fairly fresh in spite of a
dozen years of exposure to daylight. For this province of art is
peculiarly associated with the opening years of the Empire, and Pompeii is
naturally the chief place for its study, and in Pompeii the untouched Casa
Nuova is all important for the student. According to Pliny, the inventor
of this pleasing style of decoration was a certain Ludius, who flourished
in the reign of Augustus, and first persuaded the Romans to embellish
their flat wall-surfaces with designs of “villas and halls, artificial
gardens, hedges, woods, hills, water basins, tombs, rivers, shores, in as
great a variety as could be desired; figures sitting at ease, mariners,
and those who, riding upon donkeys or in waggons, look after their farms;
fishermen, snarers of birds, hunters and vine-dressers; also swampy
passages before beautiful villas, and women borne by men who stagger under
their burdens, and other witty things of this nature; finally, views of
sea-ports, everything charming and suitable”:—a fairly long and
comprehensive list of subjects, truly, from which a patron might pick and
choose, or an artist might execute!
Although the great architect Vitruvius strongly denounced this new
striving after scenic effect and characterized it as petty and false, yet
none can deny that these cheerful scenes with their bright colours and
their agreeable if trivial subjects were singularly well adapted to
improve the appearance of the bare narrow rooms, the meagre proportions of
which seem to us absolutely incompatible with plain comfort, to say
nothing of luxury. Space may be increased, so far as the eye is concerned,
by an architectural or landscape painting ingeniously conceived, and thus
the restricted rooms seem to obtain by means of this new system of
decoration a wider expansion, and with it an increased sense of ease and
lightness. The invention of Ludius became at once the fashion, the rage;
and all Rome began to cover the walls of its narrow chambers with these
novel designs, which had already found favour in Imperial circles.
Campania, where the old Greek love for polychrome still lingered, was not
slow in imitating the new taste of the Capital, so that Pompeii bears
undoubted testimony to the popularity of this revolution in artistic
ideas, which substituted a lighter freer method for the old conventional
severity of treatment. Experts profess to trace—and none will endeavour to
gainsay them—a marked difference between the frescoes executed before the
earthquake of 63 and those undertaken subsequent to that date. The wall
paintings of the first group, carried out when the art was comparatively
novel, are superior in harmony of colour, in choice of themes and in
technical finish to those which belong to the latter period, the sixteen
years that intervened between the earthquake and the eruption of Vesuvius.
From this circumstance it has been inferred, not without reason, that this
particular house must have passed some time before the year 63 out of the
possession of people of good taste into the hands of vulgarians, ignorant
of the fundamental principles of art and anxious only to obtain what was
startling and garish. As freedmen, the two Vettii would naturally belong
to a class which was not remarkable for culture; nevertheless, they seem
to have had the good sense to leave intact some of their predecessor’s
most cherished works of decoration, and for this exhibition of restraint
we must feel duly grateful towards our dead-and-gone hosts, the maligned
Vettii.
But it is not only for purposes of examining Roman internal decoration _in
situ_ that this art gallery of the Casa Nuova is available. Below the
painted panels of the dining-room runs a long string of ornament, whereon
are represented Cupids and Psyches engaged in the various occupations of
Pompeian daily life. Full of dainty grace and of lively expression, these
little winged figures initiate us into a number of the trades and customs
of the ancients. For they are made to appear before us as goldsmiths,
vine-dressers, makers and sellers of olive oil, dealers in wine, fullers
of cloth, and as partakers in a dozen other scenes of town or country
life. Where learned antiquaries had hitherto doubted and disputed, the
discovery of the paintings of these celestial little mechanics and
merchants helped to solve many a difficulty, for the secret of half the
arts and crafts of Pompeii is revealed to us in this playful guise. Nor
are the designs themselves contemptible from an artistic point of view;
look how intent, for example, is the pose of the tiny jeweller working
with a graver’s tool upon the gold vessel before him; how steadily he
bears himself at a task which requires at once strength of hand and
delicacy of workmanship. Look again at the nervous pose of the pretty elf
who is gingerly pouring wine out of a huge amphora, which he holds in his
arms, into a shallow tasting cup offered by a brother Cupid. How
thoroughly must the unknown artist have enjoyed the task of painting this
frieze! How unfettered his fancy, as his brush glided smoothly and deftly
over the carefully prepared wall-surface! Excellent, no doubt, he thought
his work at the time of execution, but even the most conceited of
Campanian artists could hardly have dreamed that these creations of his
brush would still at the end of two thousand years be admired, commented
upon and even reproduced in thousands, by a process he never dreamed of,
for the benefit of citizens of nations as yet unborn or unforeseen.
As the spring evening softly steals over the city and the shadows of the
colonnades lengthen, let us leave the silent halls and chambers of the
Casa dei Vettii and turn our footsteps westward; and issuing out of the
Gate of Herculaneum, let us traverse the famous Street of Tombs, that
extends along the road leading to the sister buried city. In ancient times
this was the Via Domitiana, a branch road of the Appian Way, and it formed
the most frequented entrance into Pompeii. To Roman ideas, therefore, it
was but natural that tombs should be erected alongside its borders, whilst
the spirits of the passing and repassing crowds were in no wise affected
by the memorials of death attending their exits and entrances. And with
the surging human tide that was ever flowing in this thoroughfare the
funeral processions must constantly have mingled, the wailing of the hired
mourners rising sharply above the din of harsh voices, the creaking of
clumsy wooden wheels and the braying of the heavily laden asses. Now over
all reigns a decorous silence, such as we moderns deem fitting for a
cemetery; only the hum of insects breaks the deep quiet of the atmosphere,
nor are there any living creatures visible at this late hour save the bats
which flit restlessly in and out of the weed-grown piles of brick or stone
that once were stately monuments of wealth or piety. Above our heads the
tall sombre cypresses shoot upward like gigantic spear-heads into the
crystal-clear air, pointing heavenward like our own church spires in a
rural English landscape. This Street of the Dead in the City of the Dead
is in truth a solemn and a soothing spot; nor can we find its precincts
melancholy, when we stand in the midst of such glorious scenery. For Monte
Sant’ Angelo towers to our left against the mellow evening sky, flecked
with lines of peach-blossom cloud, whilst in front of us the dark form of
Capri seems to float in a golden haze between firmament and ocean. Behind
us the dark mass of the Mountain with its breath of ascending smoke seems
like an eternal funeral pyre in honour of the Dead, who were spared the
horrors of that fearful disaster which overwhelmed the living. Upon the
broken tombs and altars the light from the setting sun falls with warm
cheerful radiance, flushing stone and brick-work with a ruddy glow like
jasper; whilst, high in the heavens above the cypress tops, the crescent
moon prepares to turn to gold from silver.
_Beati sunt mortui_: here rest, we know, the priestess Mammia, the
decemvir Aricius, Libella the aedile, and a host of other citizens with
whose names the student or the lover of Pompeii is familiar. How many a
time has this line of roadway rung with the sound of the last sad appeal,
the thrice repeated valediction: “_Vale, vale, vale!_ farewell until the
day when Nature will allow us to follow thee!” How often have the wooden
pyres flung up in these precincts their clouds of perfumed smoke into the
clear air, now redolent with the aroma of yellow broom, of dewy thyme and
of sweet marigolds! Perhaps it was amidst these lines of cypress-set tombs
by the Herculaneum Gate that the poetic genius, whose verses were spurned
by his own generation, composed his famous Ode to Naples, for in its
opening lines Shelley tells us it was the aspect of the “city disinterred”
that gave him inspiration:—
“Around me gleamed many a bright sepulchre
Of whose pure beauty, Time, as if his pleasure
Were to spare Death, had never made erasure;
But every living lineament was clear
As in the sculptor’s thought; and there
The wreaths of stony myrtle, ivy and pine,
Like winter-leaves o’ergrown by moulded snow,
Seemed only not to move and grow,
Because the crystal silence of the air
Weighed on their life....”
Tranquilly and slowly descends night upon the untenanted city, as one by
one the stars begin to peep forth like chrysolites in the heavens, which
have changed from azure to a deep indigo during the sunset hour. Amid
chilly dews, to the sound of the evening bell from the distant church of
Santa Maria di Pompeii, we hasten in the growing darkness from the Street
of the Tombs towards our modest inn outside the Marine Gate, anticipating
with delight a ramble in the city in the freshness of the coming morning.
CHAPTER IV
VESUVIUS: THE STORY OF THE MOUNTAIN
The first appearance of Vesuvius, whether viewed from the deck of a
steamer entering the Bay of Naples or espied from the window of a railway
carriage on the main line running southward from Rome, makes an impression
that will linger for ever in the memory. It is open to argument which is
the more striking of the two experiences: the Mountain rising proudly from
the deep blue waters into the paler shade of the upper air, or its
graceful broken contour seen from the landward side to the north across
the green fertile plains of the Campagna Felice. From a long acquaintance
with both ways of approaching Naples, we are inclined to prefer the latter
view. Travelling in an express train from Rome we find ourselves whirled
suddenly, by magic as it were, into the atmosphere of the South, when with
the sight of the domes and towers of Capua, the ancient capital of
Campania the Prosperous, we first note the presence of orange trees and
hedges of aloe, of white lupin crops and clumps of prickly pear, and we
feel we are nearing Naples with “its burning mountain and its tideless
sea,” so that we eagerly strain our eyes in a southerly direction to catch
our first glimpse of Vesuvius, with whose shape and history we have been
so familiar since our childhood’s days. At length we perceive its double
summit, with smoke tranquilly issuing from the cone and obscuring the
clarity of the air, and as we hurry forward towards our destination,
through the plains studded with elm-trees festooned with vines, we have
the satisfaction of observing its form grow larger and more distinct in
outline.
On our arrival at Naples, in course of time we grow more intimately
acquainted with the peculiar attractions of “the Mountain,” as the
Neapolitans always designate their treacherous but fascinating neighbour,
of whose near existence they have every reason to be proud, for certainly
Vesuvius, though barely as lofty as Ben Nevis, _is_ to us westerns the
most famous mountain upon earth. Regarding Vesuvius both from the land and
the sea, we note that it rises in solitary majesty from an extended base
some thirty miles in circumference, and that it sweeps upwards in graceful
curving lines until at a distance of about 3000 feet from sea level its
summit is cleft into two peaks; that to the north being a rocky ridge
which catches our eye as we gaze eastward from the heights of Sant’ Elmo
or the Corso at Naples, the other point being the actual cone of the
volcano itself. The upper part of the Mountain has in fact two aspects; in
other words, Vesuvius is double, being composed of the ridge of Monte
Somma to the north, 3760 feet in height, which is pre-historic; and the
ever-shifting modern dome of Vesuvius to the south, which is _about_ 4000
feet high. We say “about” purposely, for Vesuvius proper sometimes
over-tops, sometimes equals, and sometimes even crouches under its
immovable sister-peak, according to the effect produced by volcanic
action. Monte Somma, which is one of the everlasting hills, is the parent,
and Vesuvius is the child, born but yesterday from a geological point of
view, for it is not so old as the Christian era;—“it is a variable heap
thrown up from time to time, and again, not seldom, by a greater effort of
the same force, tossed away into the air, and scattered in clouds of dust
over far-away countries. Thus it has happened often, in the course of
these variations of energy, that Vesuvius has risen to a conical height
exceeding that of Somma by 500 or 600 feet, and again, the top has been
truncated to a level as low as Somma, or even as much below that mountain
as we now behold it above.”(3)
To understand the story of the Mountain, therefore, it is necessary for us
to travel back in retrospect to ancient Roman days. In the first place,
however, one word as to its present name that we use to-day, for all are
familiar with Vesuvius, but comparatively few, until they visit Naples,
have heard mention made of Monte Somma. The name of Vesuvius, then, though
strictly applicable only to the volcanic and modern portion of the
Mountain, is not a recent appellation; on the contrary, it is probably of
far more ancient origin than _Mons Summanus_ by which the whole was known
to the Romans. The point is by no means unimportant, for etymologists
derive Vesuvius from the Syriac “Vo Seevev, the abode of flame,” thereby
proving to us that whatever opinions may have been held as to the nature
of the Mountain in the century preceding the Christian era, its volcanic
nature must have been perfectly well understood by those who gave it this
suggestive title in a more remote age. But the secret locked up in Mons
Summanus was not altogether unsuspected by the Roman scientists. Strabo,
the geographer, writing about thirty years before the birth of Christ,
made a careful examination of the crest of Mons Summanus, then a
saucer-shaped hollow surrounded by a steep rocky edge and occupied by a
flat plain covered with cinders and void of grass, although the flanks of
the Mountain were extraordinarily fertile. From what he saw during his
visit, Strabo conjectured the Mountain to be an extinct volcano, in which
surmise he was destined to be proved partly in the right and partly in the
wrong; whilst Vitruvius, the famous architect of the Emperor Augustus,
“who found Rome of brick and left it of marble,” as well as Tacitus the
historian, shared the same opinion. About a century and a half before the
first recorded eruption in 79, Mons Summanus figures prominently in Roman
history as the scene of a curious incident during the Servile War, so that
in the pages of the old chronicler Florus we obtain an interesting
description—especially interesting because it was not given for scientific
purposes—of the condition of the mountain top at that period. The brave
gladiator Spartacus and his intrepid band of revolted slaves, seeking a
place of safety from the pursuing Roman legions, not very wisely selected
the top of this isolated peak, which, although affording a good position
of defence and possessing a wide outlook over the Campanian plain, had
only one narrow passage in its rocky rim to serve as entrance or outlet.
Followed hither by the Roman forces and caught like rats in a trap,
Spartacus and his men were doomed either to be reduced by starvation, or
else to run the gauntlet of the sole narrow exit, which the Senate’s
commander, Clodius Glabrus, was already guarding. The story of Spartacus’
escape from his terrible dilemma is told in the history of Florus, and
repeated with further details by Plutarch in his Life of Crassus.
“Clodius the Prætor, with three thousand men, besieged them in a mountain,
having but one narrow and difficult passage, which Clodius kept guarded;
all the rest was encompassed with broken and slippery precipices, but upon
the top grew a great many wild vines: they cast down as many of these
boughs as they had need of, and twisted them into ladders long enough to
reach from thence to the bottom, by which, without any danger, all got
down save one, who stayed behind to throw them their arms, after which he
saved himself with the rest.”
A dozen learned statements of a scientific nature as to the ancient
appearance and slumbering condition of the Mountain could not impress our
imagination more vividly with its subsequent natural changes than the
account of this episode of Spartacus and his handful of rebels,
beleaguered by Clodius within the very crater of the volcano. We can see
the Mountain in the last years of the Roman Republic before us, with its
truncated cone encircled by a low rampart of rock half hidden by wild
vine, ivy, eglantine, honeysuckle and all the creeping plants whose tough
trailing stems enabled the besieged gladiators to effect their escape from
the snare into which they had unwittingly fallen. We can understand from
this event how utterly remote was the idea of any upheaval of nature to
the dwellers on these shores, whose ancestors remembered the crest of the
mountain as the scene of a military operation.
The first warning of a coming eruption after unnumbered centuries of quiet
was given by a series of earthquakes which did an immense amount of damage
at Herculaneum and Pompeii; yet in a district which had from time
immemorial been subject to similar convulsions of nature, the shocks,
though unusually distressing and destructive to life and property, were
evidently unconnected in the popular mind with their true cause: the
reawakening to life of the mountain overhead. The mischief done by the
earthquakes was accordingly repaired as quickly as possible, and the
normal course of life was resumed until the terrific and wholly unexpected
outbreak of August 24th 79, during the reign of the Emperor Titus. Of
this, the first recorded eruption of Vesuvius, we are exceptionally
fortunate in possessing the testimony of a credible eye-witness, who was
no less a personage than Caius Plinius Caecilius Secundus, better known to
the modern world as Pliny the Younger, who wrote two lengthy letters to
Tacitus on the subject of this event, the first describing the fate of his
uncle, the Elder Pliny, most eminent of Roman naturalists, who perished
during this period of terror; and the second containing a more detailed
account of the eruption itself. For it so happened—luckily for
posterity—that at the time of this sudden outburst of Mons Summanus, the
Elder Pliny was in command of the Roman fleet at Misenum on the Bay of
Naples, where his young nephew (who was also his adopted son) was living
with his mother in a villa. “On the 24th of August,” writes Pliny the
Younger some eleven years after the event he is about to describe, “about
one in the afternoon, my mother desired my uncle to observe a cloud which
appeared of a very unusual size and shape. He had just returned from
taking the benefit of the sun, and after bathing himself in cold water,
and taking a slight repast, was retired to his study. He immediately arose
and went out upon an eminence, from whence he might more distinctly view
this very uncommon appearance. It was not at that distance discernible
from what mountain this cloud issued, but it was found afterwards to
ascend from Mount Vesuvius. I cannot give a more exact description of its
figure than by resembling it to that of a pine-tree, for it shot up to a
great height in the form of a trunk, which extended itself on the top into
a sort of branches, occasioned, I imagine, either by a sudden gust of air
that impelled it, the force of which decreased as it advanced upwards, or
the cloud itself being pressed back again by its own weight, expanded in
this manner; it appeared sometimes bright, and sometimes dark and spotted,
as it was more or less impregnated with earth and cinders. This
extraordinary phenomenon excited my uncle’s philosophical curiosity to
take a nearer view of it.” The nephew then proceeds to relate how his
uncle sailed by way of Retina, the port of Herculaneum, to Stabiae, where
he met with his second in command, one Pomponianus. Meanwhile the Younger
Pliny, who had declined to accompany his uncle’s expedition on the plea of
having to pursue the studies with which as a hard-working youth of
seventeen he was evidently engrossed, became alarmed during the night for
the Elder Pliny’s safety. His own and his mother’s terrible experiences
are vividly portrayed in the second letter, which, at the historian’s
special request, the Younger Pliny wrote to Tacitus in later years.
“When my uncle had started, I spent such time as was left on my studies—it
was on their account, indeed, that I had stopped behind. Then followed the
bath, dinner and sleep, this last disturbed and brief. There had been
noticed for many days before a trembling of the earth, which had caused,
however, but little fear, because it is not unusual in Campania. But that
night it was so violent, that one thought everything was being not merely
moved, but absolutely overturned. My mother rushed into my chamber; I was
in the act of rising, with the same intention of awaking her, should she
have been asleep. We sat down in the open court of the house, which
occupied a small space between the buildings and the sea. And now—I do not
know whether to call it courage or folly, for I was but in my eighteenth
year—I called for a volume of Livy, read it as if I were perfectly at
leisure, and even continued to make some extracts which I had begun. Just
then arrived a friend of my uncle, who had lately come to him from Spain;
when he saw that we were sitting down—that I was even reading—he rebuked
my mother for her patience, and me for my blindness to the danger. Still I
bent myself as industriously as ever over my book. It was now seven
o’clock in the morning, but the daylight was still faint and doubtful. The
surrounding buildings were now so shattered, that in the place where we
were, which though open was small, the danger that they might fall on us
was imminent and unmistakable. So we at last determined to quit the town.
A panic-stricken crowd followed us.... We saw the sea retire into itself,
seeming, as it were, to be driven back by the trembling movement of the
earth. The shore had distinctly advanced, and many marine animals were
left high and dry upon the sands. Behind us was a dark and dreadful cloud,
which, as it was broken with rapid zig-zag flashes, revealed behind it
variously shaped masses of flame; these last were like sheet lightning,
though on a larger scale.... It was not long before the cloud that we saw
began to descend upon the earth and cover the sea. It had already
surrounded and concealed the island of Capreae, and had made invisible the
promontory of Misenum. My mother besought, urged, even commanded me to fly
as best I could; ‘I might do so,’ she said, ‘for I was young; she, from
age and corpulence, could move but slowly, but would be content to die, if
she did not bring death upon me.’ I replied that I would not seek safety
except in her company; I clasped her hand and compelled her to go with me.
She reluctantly obeyed, but continually reproached herself for delaying
me. Ashes now began to fall—still, however, in small quantities. I looked
behind me; a dense dark mist seemed to be following us, spreading itself
over the country like a cloud. ‘Let us turn out of the way,’ I said,
‘whilst we can still see, for fear that, should we fall in the road, we
should be trodden under foot in the darkness by the throngs that accompany
us.’ We had scarcely sat down when night was upon us,—not such as we have
seen when there is no moon, or when the sky is cloudy, but such as there
is in some closed room where the lights are extinguished. You might hear
the shrieks of women, the monotonous wailing of children, the shouts of
men. Many were raising their voices, and seeking to recognise by the
voices that replied, parents, children, husbands or wives. Some were
loudly lamenting their own fate, others the fate of those dear to them.
Some even prayed for death, in their fear of what they prayed for. Many
lifted their hands in prayer to the gods; more were convinced that there
were now no gods at all, and that the final endless night of which we have
heard had come upon the world.... It now grew somewhat light again; we
felt sure that this was not the light of day, but a proof that fire was
approaching us. Fire there was, but it stopped at a considerable distance
from us; then came darkness again, and a thick, heavy fall of ashes. Again
and again we stood up and shook them off; otherwise, we should have been
covered by them, and even crushed by the weight. At last the black mist I
had spoken of seemed to shade off into smoke or cloud, and broke away.
Then came genuine daylight, and the sun shone out with a lurid light, such
as it is wont to have in an eclipse. Our eyes, which had not yet recovered
from the effects of fear, saw everything changed, everything covered deep
with ashes as if with snow. We returned to Misenum, and after refreshing
ourselves as best we could, spent a night of anxiety in mingled hope and
fear. Fear, however, was still the stronger feeling; for the trembling of
the earth continued, while many frenzied persons, with their terrific
predictions, gave an exaggeration that was even ludicrous to the
calamities of themselves and of their friends. Even then, in spite of all
the perils which we had experienced, and which we still expected, we had
not a thought of going away till we could hear news of my uncle.”(4)
As to the fate of the Elder Pliny, it seems that the old man had been
obliged together with his friends and servants to fly from the villa at
Stabiae where he was resting. The sea being too agitated to allow of an
embarkation, the fugitives turned their steps towards the slopes of Mons
Gaurus, the present Monte Sant’ Angelo, with pillows bound over their
heads to serve as protection against the showers of hot cinders that were
falling thickly on all sides. At length the famous old writer, who was
somewhat plethoric and unwieldy, sank exhausted to the ground, never to
rise again, and shortly expired in an attack of heart failure, induced by
the unusual excitement and fatigue he had lately been called upon to
endure. At any rate, it appears fairly certain that the Elder Pliny did
not perish, as is still sometimes asserted, by the direct effects of the
eruption, but rather through an ordinary collapse of nature—syncope,
perhaps. Three days later his body was found lying not far from Stabiae by
his grief-stricken nephew, who describes his uncle’s corpse as looking
“more like that of a sleeping than of a dead man.”
This then was the first, as it was also the most violent, of the many
outbreaks of Vesuvius which our own age has witnessed, and with this
eruption of 79 in the reign of Titus, the Mountain, as we have already
said, greatly altered its shape. More than half the rim of the ancient
crater that had enclosed Spartacus and his men less than two hundred years
before had been torn away and destroyed, its remaining portion on the
landward side retaining the old name of Mons Summanus. Between this
remnant of the old wall of the crater and the scene of wreckage on the
southern face of the Mountain, there now appeared the great cleft, the
horse-shoe shaped valley called the Atrio del Cavallo, which separates the
two peaks of the whole summit. A fragment only of the original crater,
known as the Pedimentina, still remains on the seaward side above Torre
del Greco. From that terrible day, so vividly described by the Younger
Pliny, to our own times, a period stretching over 1800 years, a vast
number of eruptions, great and small, have been enumerated, for owing to
the nearness of Vesuvius to one of the largest cities in Europe, every
incident connected with its activity has been carefully noted, at least
since the time of the Renaissance. Out of the many upheavals we propose to
select the eruptions of 1631 and 1779, as being amongst the most
significant.
Ever since an outburst in the year 1500, the Mountain appears to have
lapsed into a remarkable condition of quietude, even of apparent
extinction, for over a century and a quarter, during which period, it may
be remarked, the Sicilian volcano of Etna was unusually active. Once more
the summit of Vesuvius was beginning to assume the form it had borne in
the days previous to the overthrow of Pompeii; the riven crater was
becoming filled with dense undergrowth and even with forest trees, amidst
which wild boar made their lairs and were occasionally hunted. The learned
Abate Giulio Braccini, whose account of the eruption of 1631 is the most
graphic and accurate we possess, explored the crater shortly before the
outbreak of the volcano, but found little to suggest any idea of an
approaching convulsion. He reckoned the deep depression occupying the
crest of the mountain to be about five miles in circumference, and to take
about a thousand paces of walking so as to reach the lowest point within
its area. He remarked abundance of brushwood on its sides, and observed
cattle grazing peacefully upon the open grassy patches in the midst of the
over-grown space. A deep crack, however, ran from end to end of the whole
crater, which allowed persons so minded to descend amidst rocks and
boulders to a large plain below the surface, whereon Braccini found three
pools of hot steamy water, of a saline and sulphureous taste. Such was the
tranquil aspect of the Mountain as surveyed by the Abate Braccini in the
first half of the seventeenth century; to men of science signs of latent
energy were certainly not wanting, yet to the ignorant, careless peasants
of the hill-side and the scarcely less ignorant dwellers of the towns on
the seashore, the state of repose in which the Mountain had continued for
four or five generations suggested no fears or suspicions. Tilling of
vineyards, building of new houses, sinking of wells, went on apace as
cheerfully as though an eruption were an impossibility, till certain
unmistakable portents that occurred towards the close of the year 1631
roughly dissipated this spell of fancied security. Earthquakes, more or
less severe, began at this time to be felt along the whole of the volcanic
line stretching from Ischia to the eastern slopes of Vesuvius; the plain
within the crater of the Mountain began to heave and rise in an alarming
fashion, and the water in all the local wells sank mysteriously below
ground. The signs of some impending disaster coming from the heights above
were too strongly marked to be lightly disregarded; the idea of a volcanic
convulsion, though by this time a long-distant and vague memory, became so
terrifying to the dwellers on the mountain’s flanks and in Torre del
Greco, Resina and the various towns that line the seaward base of the
Mountain, that the majority of the people removed themselves and their
property with all speed to places of safety. Nevertheless, despite the
warnings given by Nature and also by men of science and the royal
officials, many remained behind in their houses, and in consequence
perished, to the immense number, it is surmised, of 18,000. On the morning
of Wednesday, December 16th, the long threatened eruption burst forth in
earnest upon an expectant world. Amidst crashes like prolonged volleys of
artillery the people of Naples and the surrounding district beheld the
terrible pine-tree of smoke and ashes, described centuries ago by Pliny,
ascend from the south-western side of the summit of the Mountain, veiling
the sky for miles around, and so charged with electricity, that many were
even killed by the _ferilli_, or lightning flashes, that darted from the
smoking mass. The spectacle of the ominous pine-tree was at once followed
by a terrific rumbling and an ejection of lava, which after flowing down
the southern flank in several streams finally reached the sea, making the
waters hiss and boil at the moment of contact. Slowly but surely these
relentless red-hot rivers of lava crept like serpents along the hill-side,
destroying vineyard and garden, cottage and chapel, on their downward
path. Resina shared the fate of its ancient forerunner Herculaneum, whilst
Torre del Greco and Portici suffered severely, as we can see to-day by
noting the great masses of lava flung on to the strand at various points.
To add to the universal confusion of Nature, the sea, which had now become
extraordinarily tempestuous, probably owing to some submarine
earthquake-shock, suddenly retreated half a mile from the coast, and then
as suddenly returned in a tidal wave more than a hundred feet beyond its
normal limits. Such were the main features of the second great eruption of
Vesuvius, wherein the ashes ejected by the Mountain were wafted by the
wind beyond the Adriatic, to the Greek islands and even to Constantinople
itself.
[Illustration: VESUVIUS AND THE BAY OF NAPLES]
From this date onward the Mountain became very active in contrast with its
previous condition of lethargy, and throughout the whole of the eighteenth
century there were frequent eruptions, many of them on a vast scale. All
these outbursts have been carefully recorded and commented upon, for
naturally the scientists of a great city like Naples were intensely
interested in the passing phases of their own volcano. During the latter
half of this century all the phenomena have been described for us by Sir
William Hamilton, British ambassador at the Court of the Two Sicilies, the
versatile diplomatist who eventually married the beautiful but frail Emma
Hart. During his long period of residence in Naples, Sir William made no
fewer than fifty-eight explorations of the crater alone, besides carefully
studying every peculiarity visible upon the sides of the Mountain. He was,
of course, a close observer of the great eruptions of 1766-7, and also of
the still greater convulsion of 1779, which, strangely enough, occurred on
the seventeenth centenary of the awakening of the Mountain from its
pre-historic slumbers. On this occasion, Hamilton, accompanied by a Mr
Bowdler of Bath, had the temerity to track the streams of flowing lava to
their hidden source by walking over the rough unyielding crust of stones
and earth that had formed upon the surface of the molten stream, as it
slowly trickled down hill at the rate of about a mile an hour. The
adventurous pair of Englishmen were successful in their quest, and Sir
William thus describes the fountain-head of the fiery streams that he
found a quarter of a mile distant from the top of the cone.
“The liquid and red-hot matter bubbled up violently, with a hissing and
crackling noise, like that which attends the playing off of an artificial
firework; and by the continued splashing up of the vitrified matter, a
kind of arch, or dome, was formed over the crevice from whence the lava
issued; it was cracked in many parts, and appeared red-hot within, like a
heated oven. This hollowed hillock might be about fifteen feet high, and
the lava that ran from under it was received into a regular channel,
raised upon a sort of wall of scoriae and cinders, almost perpendicularly,
of about a height of eight or ten feet, resembling much an ancient
aqueduct.”
Some days later, at midnight on August 7th, a veritable fountain of red
fire shot up from the crest of Vesuvius, illuminating all the surrounding
country; and on the following night a still more marvellous sheet of flame
appeared, hanging like a fiery veil between heaven and earth, and reaching
to a height (so Sir William Hamilton guessed) of about 10,000 feet above
the summit, affording a wonderfully grand but terrible spectacle. This
great curtain of fiery particles, accompanied by inky black clouds from
which were darting continual flashes of lightning, was reflected clearly
on the smooth surface of the Bay, delighting the Court and the scientific
world of Naples, but inspiring, as may well be imagined, the mass of
superstitious inhabitants with the direst alarm. The theatres were closed
and the churches were opened; above the rumblings and explosions of the
agonised volcano could be heard the tolling of the bells. Maddened by
terror, the Neapolitan mob rushed to the Archbishop’s palace to demand the
immediate production of the holy relics of St Januarius, the protector of
the city, and on this request being refused, set fire to the entrance
gates, a forcible argument that soon persuaded his Eminence of the
propriety of the people’s demand. Thereupon the head of the Saint,
enclosed in its case of solid silver, was accordingly borne in solemn
procession with wailing and repentant crowds behind it to an improvised
shrine, hung with garlands, on the Ponte della Maddalena, at the extreme
eastern boundary of the city. Nor was the confidence reposed by the
Neapolitans in their patron Saint misplaced, for except from the stifling
smells and the dense rain of ashes, the terror-stricken capital suffered
not a whit, whilst the general alarm inspired its inhabitants with a
revival of religious fervour which was by no means insalutary. As usual,
the old cynical proverb was once more justified:—_Napoli fa gli peccati, e
la __Torre gli paga_, for of course poor Torre del Greco was grievously
affected by the lava streams. In this case, however, even Torre del Greco
and Resina did not fare so badly as did the towns on the northern slopes
of Monte Somma, a district which is of course perfectly immune from lava
inundations owing to the protecting rocky ridge of the Atrio del Cavallo.
But it seems that the great veil of clouds and fire, extending some
thousands of feet from the crest of the mountain to the heavens above, was
swayed by a chance current of air, so that its component red-hot dust,
ashes and stones were emptied in one fatal shower upon the northern flank
of the Mountain. Whole villages were ruined, hundreds of acres of vines
and crops were scorched and burned; the smiling peaceful hillside was in a
few minutes converted into a parched wilderness. Ottajano, a large town of
some 12,000 inhabitants, was the place most seriously injured by this
wholly unexpected rain of destruction, for a tempestuous fall of red-hot
stones, some of immense size, and a shower of ashes killed hundreds of the
terrified and suffocating citizens, and blocked up the streets with
smoking debris to a depth of four feet.
Of the recent eruptions of Vesuvius, which have been pretty frequent
during the latter half of last century, that of April 1872, so carefully
recorded by Professor Palmieri, who in spite of imminent danger never
abandoned his post in the Observatory, is the most notable. It is
remembered also owing to the catastrophe whereby some twenty persons out
of a large crowd of strangers, who had imprudently ascended to the Atrio
del Cavallo to get a closer view of the phenomenon, were suddenly caught
by the lava stream and enfolded in its burning clutches. For if ignorance
and superstition seem to make the poor fisherman or peasant unduly alarmed
on such occasions, curiosity and self-confidence are sometimes apt to lead
the educated or scientific into unnecessary peril. Naples itself was once
more alarmed in 1872, so that the relics of St Januarius at the furious
demand of the populace were again brought forth in solemn procession, and
exposed towards the face of the Mountain on the Ponte della Maddalena.
Thousands of quaking mortals gathered near this spot, joining in the
chanting of the priests and watching with pallid anxious faces the fiery
currents of lava slowly trickling down the south-western flank of Vesuvius
towards the city itself. A certain number of attendants meanwhile were
engaged in perpetually brushing away from the image of the Saint, from his
improvised altar, and from its votive garlands the ever-accumulating
mantle of grey dust, and it is scarcely to be wondered at that a certain
cool-headed Neapolitan artist, Il Vaccaro, should all this time have been
busily engaged in painting so characteristic and highly picturesque a
scene. Within the churches, and particularly in St Januarius’ own
cathedral, enormous crowds of hysterical men and women had collected,
loudly bewailing their past sins and imploring the Divine mercy, for
“E belle son le supplice
Pompe di penitenza, in alto lutto.”
Again the historic _palladium_ proved effectual, and the city, that was
never for a moment in danger, was once more saved! Naples received no
damage beyond a temporary panic and a heavy fall of ashes, which covered
every street and flat surface within the town to a depth of some inches
and which it took many days of enforced labour to remove. Again it was the
poor confiding vine-dressers and tillers of the Vesuvian soil who suffered
in this upheaval, for though the loss of life was very slight indeed, yet
numerous houses, fields and vineyards were totally destroyed and many more
were injured. Truly it is a maxim well proven by time:—_Napoli fa gli
peccati, e Torre gli paga._
Such, told baldly and briefly, is the history of the Mountain, which forms
the most conspicuous feature of the Bay of Naples and dominates one of the
fairest and most populous districts on the face of the globe. But it does
not take long to make visitors to the Neapolitan shore understand the
mysterious charm, not unmixed with awe, and the all-pervading influence of
Vesuvius. Go where we will within the circuit of the Bay of Naples and
even outside it, we are never out of sight of the obtruding Mountain and
its smoky wreath. We begin to feel that the Mountain is an animated thing,
that the destiny of the Parthenopean shore is locked up in the breast of
the Demon who has his dwelling within its red-hot caverns. So sudden are
the actions, and so capricious the moods of this Monster of the Burning
Mountain, that no one can tell the day, or even the hour, wherein he will
give us an exhibition of his fiery temper, though, it is true, in the case
of violent eruptions he is kind enough to afford timely warning by means
of a succession of earthquakes and other signals almost equally alarming.
His Majesty’s presence is felt everywhere; each morning as we open our
window upon the dazzling waters of the Bay, we note with relief his
tranquil aspect; each night, ere we retire to sleep, we find ourselves
inevitably drawn to watch the glare thrown by the molten lava within the
crater upon the thick vapour overhead. The nightly expectation of this
aerial bonfire possesses an extraordinary fascination for the stranger.
Some times the lurid glare is continuous; at other times there are long
intervals of waiting, and even then the reflected light is very faint, a
mere speck of reddish glow in the surrounding blackness, gone in the
twinkling of an eye. But, strangely enough, one grows to understand the
Mountain better from a distance and by watching its moods from afar, like
the Neapolitans themselves, who never ascend to probe its mysteries,
except a few vulgar guides and touts who batten on the curiosity of the
foreigner.
On clear windless days the intermittent clouds of vapour sent up from the
crater assume the most fantastic shapes—trees, ships, men, birds,
animals—ever changing like the forms of Proteus. It would seem as if the
Spirit of the Mountain were idly amusing himself, like a child blowing
bubbles, or a vendor at a fair-stall carving out little figures of
gingerbread to tickle the fancy of country boys and girls. The clouds so
formed sometimes cause amusement by their uncanny shapes, but not
unfrequently they inspire alarm. The superstitious peasant of the
_Paduli_, looking up suddenly from his work amidst the early peas or
tomatoes, beholds against the blue sky a vague nebulous form that to his
untutored mind suggests a gigantic crucifix upheld in mid-air above the
Mountain, and he crosses himself devoutly ere he bends down to earth once
more to his work in the rich dark soil. “Such stuff as dreams are made of”
appear in truth the weird phantoms that the sly Demon of Vesuvius flings
up into the pure aether, and if credulous mankind likes to draw inferences
for good or bad from these unsubstantial creations of his fancy, he laughs
to himself with a hollow reverberating sound. It must, however, have been
in the true spirit of prophecy on the occasion of King Manfred’s birth,
that the genius of the Mountain despatched two cloud-forms into the sky
(so the unabashed old chroniclers gravely relate), one having the
appearance of a warrior armed cap-à-pie, and the other that of a fully
vested priest. The affrighted gazers below, struck with the strange
phenomenon, beheld the two figures sway towards each other and finally
become locked together in deadly aerial combat, until all resemblance to
human shape had vanished from the pair. Then, after an interval of time,
men perceived the cloudy mass once more assume a mortal shape, and a huge
towering priest with flowing robes and tiara on head was left in solitary
and victorious possession of the sky. The Churchman had swallowed up the
soldier; the Pontiff had vanquished the King; it was a true premonition of
the fatal field of Benevento, which saw the ultimate triumph of the Papal
over the Imperial cause.
But if the near presence of the burning mountain has tended to make the
inhabitants of its immediate zone the slaves of superstitious awe, the
disasters of generations have likewise imbued them with a spirit of
fatalism, that appears even stronger than their outward show of credulity.
Life is not so sweet nor so dear apparently to these children of the
South, but that they can afford to take their chance of disturbance or
death with a true philosophic calm. The fisher-folk and maccaroni workers
of Resina, Portici and the two Torres have, it is true, little to lose; a
small boat can at the last moment easily convey their families and slender
stock of household furniture to a place of temporary safety, and when the
danger is over-past, the same shallop can bring back the refugees and
their belongings. But with the husbandmen the case is different. Not only
has he to fear the actual stream of lava, which may or may not overwhelm
his house and farm in its slow inevitable course, but there are also the
showers of hot ashes and of scalding water that will frizzle up in a few
seconds every green blade and leaf upon his tiny domain, for which he pays
an enormous rental, sometimes as much as £12 sterling an acre. Yet the
_contadino_ takes his chances with a seraphic resignation that we do not
usually attribute to the southern temperament. After the eruption of 1872,
which covered the rich _Paduli_ with a deep coating of grey ashes, a young
peasant girl was heard deploring the loss of her carefully tended gourds
and melons; “_Oh come volimme fa? Addio, pummarole! addio, cucuzzielle!_”
whereupon an older woman, witnessing these useless tears, upbraided her
with the words: “Do not complain, child, lest worse befall you!” And
indeed the whole population of the _Paduli_, instead of lamenting over
their scorched and spoiled crops, were jubilant at the thought that the
havoc done was only partial, not irrevocable;—a few months of incessant
labour, said they, would bring back the holdings to their former state of
perfection. Yet a general opinion prevails among foreigners that the
Neapolitans are lazy, thriftless and helpless! They indeed rely to a
certain extent upon St Januarius to protect their crops from the efforts
of Nature, over which, they argue, the Saint is more likely to possess
control than his human applicants, but when once the fatal shower of ashes
has fallen, they do not expect “San Gennaro” to set their injured acres to
rights again, but with a rare patience turn to the task themselves. A more
industrious, and at the same time a more capable and practical race of
agriculturists than the tillers of the slopes of Vesuvius, it would be
hard to match. And thus in the sunshine of the south, yet ever under the
shadow of death and destruction, dwell many thousands of human beings, as
unconcerned as though Vesuvius were miles and miles away. Not unconscious,
but fully conscious of their doom, the victims of the Mountain toil and
moil upon the fertile farms (in many cases risen phoenix-like from their
own ashes) that grow the early beans and tomatoes, the egg-plants and the
white fennel roots (_finocchi_) that well-fed travellers devour in the
hotels of Naples. Or else they tend the vines that yield the generous
_Lagrima Christi_, of which imprudent and heated visitors drink long
draughts unmixed with water, and then complain of ensuing languor and
pains beneath their waistcoats. Luscious, yet seductive wine! Counsellor
of moderation after a first experience of excess! Essence of Vesuvius,
whose strange name so puzzled the poet Chiabrera!
“Chi fu de’ contadini il si indiscreto,
Ch’ a sbigottir la gente
Diede nome dolente
Al vin’ che sovra gli altri il cuor fa lieto?
Lagrima dunque appellerassi un riso
Parte di nobilissima vendemmia?”
(“Who was the jesting countryman, I cry,
That gave so fearsome and so dour a name
To that choice vintage, which of all think I
Most warms the heart’s blood with its genial flame?
Smiles, and not tears, the epithet should be
Of juice wrung from so fair a vinery.”)
* * * * * *
Scarcely had the above pages been written, than the Mountain, which had
been drowsing for more than thirty years, suddenly awakened to give
appalling evidence of its latent activity and powers of mischief. The
eruption of April 1906 has, in fact, surpassed all previous outbursts
within living memory, and it may probably be reckoned amongst the most
violent of all hitherto recorded. Many of the details of this event
doubtless remain fresh in the memory, and in any case the sad condition of
numerous towns and villages, and of the beautiful Vesuvian districts, the
_paesi ridenti_ as the Neapolitans affectionately term these fertile
lands, will serve for some years to come as a sinister and ever-present
reminder of the horrors of the past and of the dread possibilities of the
future. All vegetation for miles around the volcano has been injured or
destroyed, for not only was the Mountain itself covered deep with grit and
ashes, but the streets and gardens of Naples, the luxuriant plain of
Sorrento, and even the heights of Capri, twenty miles distant across the
Bay, were shrouded in a funereal mantle of the greyish-yellow dust that
Vesuvius had flung into the air to let fall like a shower of parching and
destructive rain upon the earth. How vast was the amount of matter ejected
from the crater and scattered in this form over the surrounding country,
we may judge from the scientific calculation that 315,000 tons fell in
Naples alone! Everywhere appeared the same scenes of desolation, the same
dreary tint, for so thickly had this aerial torrent of ashes descended,
that buildings, trees and plants were completely hidden by it, the whole
landscape suggesting the idea of a recent heavy fall of dirty-coloured
snow. _Paesi ridenti_, indeed! It was a land of ugliness and mourning, a
city of stifling air and of human terror.
A few days previous to the eruption, which began on April 5th, the island
of Ustica, which lies some forty miles north of Palermo, had been visited
by earthquake shocks of such violence that the Italian Government at last
decided to remove the greater part of its population to the mainland, as
well as the convicts attached to the penal settlements on the island.
Scarcely had these manifestations ceased at Ustica, than Vesuvius began to
show signs of increased activity; the supplies in the wells on the
mountain sides began to fail, and there was observed a strong taste of
sulphur in the drinking water; whilst—most dreaded phenomenon of all—the
ever-active crater of Stromboli, that lies midway between Naples and
Messina, suddenly lapsed into quiescence. We all know the subsequent story
of the outbreak; of the thousands of fugitives flying into Naples or other
places of refuge; of the utter destruction of houses and cultivated
lands;—the doleful scenes of a Vesuvian eruption have been enacted and
described time after time in the history of the Mountain, and there is
every reason to suppose they will be repeated at intervals for centuries
to come. The marvel is how human beings can calmly settle down and pass
their lives so close to the jaws of the fire-spouting monster, and why an
intelligent Government permits its subjects to dwell in places which are
ever exposed to catastrophes such as that which we have just witnessed.
Well, it is the natural temperament of the Vesuviani to be fatalistic,
despite their religious fervour; and acts of legislature cannot force them
to abandon their old deep-rooted notions; all that the Italian Government
can do therefore is to stand ready prepared to help, when the upheaval
_does_ occur, as it inevitably must.
It is always a matter of speculation on these occasions as to what course
the ejected lava will pursue; whose turn, of the many settlements on the
southern slopes of the Mountain, will it be to suffer? This time it was
Bosco-Trecase, a village above Torre Annunziata, that was devastated by
the sinuous masses of incandescent matter, high as a house and broad as a
river. Torre Annunziata itself, as also ruined Pompeii were threatened,
but the red-hot streams of destruction mercifully stopped short of their
expected prey. The story of horrors and panic in the overthrow of
Bosco-Trecase is happily relieved by many a recorded incident of valour
and unselfishness. The royal _Carabinieri_, that splendid body of mounted
police, who in their cocked hats and voluminous cloaks appear as
ornamental in times of quiet as they prove themselves useful in the stormy
hours of peril, acquitted themselves, as usual, like heroes. It was they
who guided away the trembling peasants before the advance of the lava,
searching the doomed houses for sick and crippled, whom they carried on
their shoulders to places of security. Working, too, with almost equal
zeal and practical good sense were the Italian soldiers, who richly
deserved the praise that their royal commander, the Duke of Aosta,
subsequently bestowed upon them for their invaluable services rendered
during these fearful days of darkness and danger. “Soldiers!” declared the
Duke, in his address to the troops on April 23rd, “I have seen you calm
and happy in the work of alleviating the misfortunes of others, and I put
on record the praise you have won. By promptly appearing at the places
distressed by the eruption, you have encouraged the people by your
presence and your example; you have maintained order and have safe-guarded
property. Helping the local authorities, and even in some instances
filling their offices, you have carried out the most urgent and dangerous
duties in order to save the houses and to keep clear the roads. In the
spots most heavily afflicted you have lent your assistance in removing and
caring for the injured, and in searching for and burying the dead you have
given proofs of great self-sacrifice and reverence (_pietà_). Not a few of
the refugees have obtained food and shelter in your barracks, and whole
communities without means of existence have been provided by you with the
necessaries of life. Everywhere and from all your conduct has gained you
loud applause. Nevertheless, your task is not yet ended; continue at it
out of love for your country and devotion to your King!”(5)
With such a reputation for kindness of heart and energy in time of need,
no wonder that the Army is popular with all classes in Italy!
Nor did the King and Queen hold aloof from the scene of disaster, for they
hurried from Rome at midnight of that terrible Palm Sunday on purpose to
comfort the terror-stricken population. Victor-Emmanuel even penetrated in
his motor-car as far as Torre Annunziata, in spite of the fumes of sulphur
and the many difficulties in proceeding along roads clogged deep with
volcanic dust and ashes. On another occasion the King and Queen paid a
visit to the afflicted district of the slopes of Monte Somma, where
Ottajano and San Giuseppe had been almost buried by the continuous falling
of burning material from the crater. In fact, these localities suffered
even more severely than the towns on the seaward face of the Mountain
(Bosco-Trecase excepted), and at Ottajano hardly a house in the place
remained intact at the close of the eruption, whilst the loss of human
life was probably higher here than elsewhere. The Duke and Duchess of
Aosta—he the king’s cousin, and she the popular Princess Hélène, daughter
of the late Comte de Paris—were likewise indefatigable in their efforts to
assist and reassure the demoralized population, and to make every possible
arrangement for the feeding and housing of the numberless refugees and the
tending of the injured in the hospitals of Naples. Equally valorous was
the conduct of the great scientist, Professor Matteucci, who remained
together with a few Carabinieri throughout all phases of the eruption at
the Vesuvian Observatory, although in imminent peril of death amidst a
deadly atmosphere of heat and sulphureous fumes.
It was on April 5th that the streams of burning lava first burst from the
riven crater and made their way down the south-eastern slopes, destroying
Bosco-Trecase and reaching to the very suburbs of Torre Annunziata.
Pompeii itself was imperilled, and it is always well to remember that
during an eruption this precious relic of antiquity may possibly be lost
to the world. Meanwhile the rain of ashes and mud—formed by dust and hot
water commingling—fell incessantly; 150,000 inhabitants of the Vesuvian
districts fled in precipitate flight towards Naples, towards the shore,
towards the hill country beyond the Sarno. It was truly a marvellous
spectacle to observe the relentless stream of burning lava crushing
irresistibly every opposing object in its fatal path. Onlookers at a
distance could perceive the walls of houses bulging outward under pressure
of the moving mass, until the roof collapsed in an avalanche of tiles upon
the ground, whilst with a final crash the whole structure—cottage, farm,
church or stately villa—succumbed to the overwhelming weight.
Many are the tales of courage and intrepidity; not a few, alas! are the
stories of folly and cowardice that are related in connection with the
eruption. It cannot be said that the population of Naples, where everybody
was perfectly safe even if the atmosphere was unpleasant and the distant
thunders of the Mountain reverberated alarmingly, comported itself with
dignity or calm; and this criticism applies in particular to the hundreds
of visitors—English, German, American and other _forestieri_—who besieged
the railway station in frantic and indecent anxiety to remove themselves
with all speed from the city. Some excuse might perhaps be found for the
hysterical terror of the poor inhabitants of the Mergellina or the
Mercato, who spent their time in wailing within the churches or in
screaming for the public exhibition of the venerated relics of their
patron Saint, which again on this occasion the Archbishop, _nolens
volens_, was compelled by the mob to produce. But for the great mass of
educated foreigners then filling the hotels and pensions of the place, it
cannot be said that their conduct was edifying, particularly in face of
the example set by the King and Queen of Italy. To add to the general
panic prevailing in the city, the Neapolitans themselves were not
unnaturally greatly exasperated by the serious accident which took place
at the Central Market Hall near Monte Oliveto in the heart of the old
town. Here, early one morning during the course of the eruption, the great
roof of corrugated iron collapsed, killing many and frightening the whole
of the populace, already sufficiently unnerved by recent events. That this
catastrophe was due to the casual methods, amounting in this case to
criminal neglect of plain duty, of the municipal authorities, who had
neglected to sweep the accumulation of heavy volcanic ash from off the
thin metal roof, none can deny; and this glaring example of public
stupidity had of course a bad effect on the demoralized multitude, which
threatened to grow unruly, as well as terrified. No, the graceless
stampede of educated foreigners to the railway-station, the incompetence
of the Municipality, and the behaviour of the Neapolitan crowd do not
appear very creditable to the supposed enlightenment of the twentieth
century. It had been confidently predicted that nearly fifty years of
State education and liberal government would work wonders in dispelling
the crass ignorance and the deep-seated superstition of the dwellers on
the Bay of Naples. Yet, so far as can be judged from recent events,
matters seem to have changed but little on these shores, for the mass of
the population evidently preferred to pin its hope of safety to the
miracle-working relics of San Gennaro, rather than to the reassuring
messages of Professor Matteucci, sent from his post of undoubted peril on
the mountain-side.
If the inhabitants of a great city, which was never seriously threatened
with danger, should have acted thus, there is undoubtedly much excuse to
be found for the Vesuviani themselves, whose houses and lives were
certainly in danger from the devastating streams of lava. It was with a
sigh and a smile that we learned how the good people of Portici attributed
their escape from the fate of Bosco-Trecase to the direct interposition of
a wonder-working Madonna enshrined in one of their own churches. For some
days the town had been threatened, so that many were convinced of its
impending doom, when happily at the last moment the expected fate was
averted, as though by a miracle. And miracle it truly was in the eyes of
the people of Portici, when it was observed that the snow-white hands of
their popular Madonna had turned black in some mysterious manner during
the night hours. What could be a simpler or easier deduction from this
circumstance, than that Our Lady’s Effigy, taking pity on its affrighted
suppliants, had with its own hands pushed back the advancing mass of lava,
and thus saved the town! Great was the joy, and equally great the
gratitude, displayed by these poor souls at Portici, who at once organised
a triumphal procession in honour of their prescient patroness “delle mani
nere.” Does not such an incident, we ask, lend a touch of picturesque
medievalism to a modern scene of horror and darkness, exhibiting to us, as
it does, the traits of a simple touching faith and of genuine human
thankfulness?
Well, the great eruption of 1906 is over, and the inhabitants of the
Vesuvian communes are once more settling down in their ruined homes, or
their damaged farms and gardens. No doubt a new Bosco-Trecase will arise
on the shapeless ruins of the old site, for fear of danger seems powerless
to deter the outcast population from reoccupying its old haunts. Ottajano
will be rebuilt, not for the first time, and its citizens will again trust
to luck—and to St Januarius—for protection from the evil fate which has
repeatedly overtaken their town. The two Torres, Resina, Portici, and the
villages along the shore, have this time contrived to escape the lava
streams, and though their buildings have been severely shaken, and even
wrecked in many instances, the people will doubtless mend the cracks in
their walls and place fresh tiles on the injured roofs. They are wise in
their own generation, for the Mountain is not likely to burst forth again
for another quarter of a century at least after so violent a fit, _salvo
complicazioni_, of course, as the more cautious Italians themselves say.
But another outburst is inevitable; and whose turn to suffer will it be
then? Will it be Portici, or either of the Torres? Who knows?—and what
dweller under Vesuvius to-day cares at this moment? “Under Vesuvius,” but
it is a new Vesuvius, for the tall cone which was so conspicuous a feature
of the Bay of Naples has disappeared completely, and the summit of the
volcano has been once more reduced to the level of Monte Somma. How many
years, we wonder, will be required for the Mountain to raise for itself
once more the tall pyre of ashes that it has itself demolished and flung
on all sides to the winds? At any rate let us now look for a period of
rest, a period of prosperity to recoup the disturbed denizens of these
_paesi già ridenti_ for their heavy losses and terrible experiences.
_Speriamo._
CHAPTER V
THE CORNICHE ROAD FROM CASTELLAMARE TO AMALFI
It is without any feelings of regret that we learn of the non-existence of
a railway line beyond Castellamare, so that our journey to Amalfi along
the coast must be performed in the good old-fashioned manner of long-past
_vetturino_ days. Three skinny horses harnessed abreast are standing ready
at the hotel door to draw our travelling chariot, each member of the team
gorgeously decked with plumes of pheasant feathers in his head-gear and
with many-coloured trappings, whilst on the harness itself appears in more
than one place the little brazen hand, which is supposed to ensure the
steed’s safety from the dangers of any chance _jettatore_, the unlucky
wight endowed with the Evil Eye. Nor is the swarthy picturesque ruffian
who acts as our driver unprovided with a talisman in case of emergency,
for we observe hanging from his heavy silver watch-chain the long twisted
horn of pink coral, which is popularly supposed to catch the first baleful
glance, and to act on the principle of a lightning-conductor, in
deflecting the approaching danger from the prudent wearer of the coral
trinket. Merrily to the sound of jingling bells and the deep-chested
exhortations of our coachman do we bowl along the excellent road in the
freshness of the morning air and light “through varying scenes of beauty
ever led,” for the Corniche road towards Amalfi is admitted to be one of
the finest in the world. Following the serpentine curves above the cliffs,
we have on our right hand the dazzling Mediterranean with classic capes
and islands all flushed in the early sunshine, whilst above us on the left
rise the steep fertile slopes of the Lactarian Hills. Convent and villa,
cottage and farmhouse, peep out of embowering verdure, whilst our road is
shaded in many places by the overhanging boughs of blossoming almond and
loquat trees. The whole region is in truth a veritable garden of the
Hesperides, where in the mild equable climate fruit and flowers ripen and
bloom without a break throughout the rolling year.
[Illustration: POZZANO]
“Tall thriving trees confess’d the fruitful mould;
The verdant apple ripens here to gold;
Here the blue fig with luscious juice o’erflows,
With deepest red the full pomegranate glows,
The branches bend beneath the weighty pear,
And silver olives flourish all the year;
The balmy spirit of the western gale
Eternal breathes on fruits untaught to fail.
Each dropping pear another pear supplies,
On apples apples, figs on figs arise;
The same mild season gives the blooms to blow,
The buds to harden, and the fruits to grow.”
A lovely and a fertile scene it is indeed, and thoroughly typical of the
peculiar charm of Southern Italy, wherein the rich well-tilled lands
appear in striking contrast with the near-lying stony fallows and
scrub-covered wastes.
Beneath the picturesque pile of Santa Maria a Pozzano, perched aloft above
the roadway, we pass along the edge of the sea-girt precipice, rounding
the Capo d’Orlando, until we reach the pretty little town of Vico Equense,
with its churches and gay-coloured villas nestling amidst groves of olive
and orange trees. Vico owes its prosperity in the first instance to the
patronage of “Carlo il Zoppo,” Charles the Dwarf, the lame son and heir of
King Charles of Anjou, who founded a settlement and built a villa upon the
site of the ancient Roman colony; and it was in the old royal demesne of
the Angevins that the hand of the deformed king’s daughter, the Princess
Clementia, was demanded formally in marriage by the French monarch, Philip
the Bold, who sought to marry her to his third son, Charles of Valois. The
match between the young prince of France and his cousin, the Neapolitan
princess, appeared suitable to all concerned in every respect save one;
for it was well known that the King of Naples had been lame from his
birth, and it could never be deemed fit for the expected heir of France to
marry any but a perfectly sound and healthy bride. Now the Queen of Naples
was too proud to accede to the hints of the French ladies, who evidently
were most anxious to acquaint themselves with the satisfactory condition
of her daughter’s “walking members,” though she went so far as to allow
the maiden to appear before them clad only in a flowing robe of gossamer
silk. The possible danger of losing her opportunity to become Queen of
France proved, however, beyond the ambitious young lady’s powers of
endurance, and to the horror of her haughty mother and the delight of the
foreign emissaries, the Princess Clementia then and there doffed her
silken robes and appeared before all in the historic garb of Lady Godiva.
A glance at the princess’s form _in puris naturalibus_ sufficed to
convince the inquisitive Frenchwomen that no hereditary taint from Il
Zoppo descended to his daughter; and accordingly the betrothal of the two
young people was celebrated that very evening amidst the usual revels and
feastings.
The clean cheerful town on the sheer limestone crags boasts a cathedral,
wherein, so the guide-book informs us, we shall find the tomb of
Filangieri, the great Italian jurist. But the building contains in reality
far more stirring associations than those connected with a prominent
lawyer. It is but a rococo structure of the usual Italian type, and its
painted series of portraits of past bishops is by no means an uncommon
complement of cathedral churches in the South. But here, amidst the long
rows of indifferent portraits, we note an omission, a space that is
occupied, not by a likeness but by a medallion, which represents a cherub
with the forefinger of his right hand laid as a seal of silence upon the
lips. Here-by indeed hangs a tale, obscure perhaps, but pathetic and human
to the last degree. We all remember the broad frieze filled with Doges’
faces which is carried round the great hall of the ducal palace in Venice,
wherein the place assigned to the traitor, Marino Faliero, contains a
black veil instead of the usual portrait. Here in little Vico Equense is
to be found a somewhat similar incident, but with this important
difference:—the bishop whose portrait is here omitted was the most worthy
of remembrance of all his peers.
The crime of Monsignore Michele Natale, Bishop of Vico Equense, to which
the silent cherub bears everlasting witness, was that of being a patriot
and a Liberal (in the truest sense of that term) during the anxious times
of the ill-fated Parthenopean Republic, that short-lived period of
aristocratic government which was set up in self-defence by certain
Neapolitan nobles, prelates and men of science after the abrupt departure
of their cowardly King and Queen to Palermo. We all remember the terrible
ending of that government: how the vile rabble-army of Cardinal Ruffo
assaulted Naples; how the city capitulated to the Cardinal on the express
condition that all life and property should be spared; and how Lord
Nelson, refusing to recognise the terms that Ruffo himself had agreed to,
and overruling the Cardinal’s protests, treated the unhappy prisoners. The
Bishop of Vico Equense was one of this band of martyrs, for he suffered
death under circumstances of exceptional brutality on the morning of
August 20th 1799, in the piazza in front of the church of the Carmine,
together with two Neapolitans of noble rank, Giuliano Colonna and Gennaro
Serra, and with the poetess, Eleonora Pimentel, a Portuguese by birth but
the widow of a Neapolitan officer. All went nobly to their doom amidst the
execrations of the demoralised bloodthirsty mob of _lazzaroni_, yelling at
and insulting the “Jacobins,” and kept back with no little difficulty by
the royal troops from mutilating the corpses of women, bishops and
princes. Monsignore Natale himself was hanged, and in his case the public
executioner—“Masto Donato” as he was nick-named by the populace—gave vent
to many pleasantries concerning the episcopal rank of his victim.
Blindfolded and with the cord of infamy depending from his neck, the
Bishop was led up to the fatal ladder amid deafening shouts of
“Viva la forca e Masto Donato;
Sant’ Antonio sia priato!”
On reaching the top of the gallows, the hangman made fast the rope to the
cross-tree, and then an assistant (_tirapiede_) from below adroitly pushed
the unseeing prisoner into space, catching on to his legs meanwhile,
whilst “Masto Donato” himself adroitly leaped from the gallows-top upon
the prelate’s shoulder. With the hangman on his back, shouting aloud how
much he was enjoying his ride upon a real bishop, and with the other
ruffian clinging to his heels, Monsignore Natale swayed backwards and
forwards amidst yells of execration and gratified hate on that hot August
morning in front of the Church of the Carmine little more than one hundred
years ago. His body was left on the gallows to be insulted by the mob
throughout the long sweltering day, and then, stripped of all its
clothing, was finally flung with other corpses of noble men and women into
a charnel-house at Sant’ Alessio al Lavinaio. Who it was that placed this
quaint little memorial to the murdered prelate in his cathedral church we
know not; but here the speechless yet eloquent cherub tells Natale’s sad
story of brutality and injustice to all who care to listen. Happily the
spell of silence is at length broken, and the true history of that hateful
era of crime, cruelty, lying, and intrigue is gradually being revealed;
and the enemies of the Church in Italy learn with an astonishment, which
is perhaps feigned, that in that glorious army of martyrs of 1799 more
than one ecclesiastic of high rank suffered in the ill-starred and
premature cause of Neapolitan liberty.
Crossing the little river Arco, we proceed uphill through the region of
vines and olives, until we have passed the Punta di Scutolo, where begins
our descent into that famous tract of country, the Piano di Sorrento, a
plateau above the cliffs, some four miles in length by one in breadth.
Poets of antiquity and bards of the Middle Ages alike have sung the
delights of the Sorrentine Plain, and have painted in glowing colours of
inspired verse its race of happy peasants, its fruitful fields and
orchards, its luscious vines, its excellent flocks. Galen, the cunning old
physician, recommended to his nervous patients what would now be termed a
“rest cure” in these favoured regions; whilst the grateful Bernardo Tasso,
father of the immortal Torquato, speaks of the capital of this district as
“l’Albergo della Cortesia,” and in an ecstasy of delighted appreciation,
goes on to add: “l’aere e si sereno, si temperato, si salutifero, si
vitale, che gli uomini che senza provar altero cielo ci vivono sono quasi
immortali.” And though praise from Torquato’s courtly sire must not be
taken too seriously, yet few will deny that the beautiful plain deserves
many of the eulogies that have been showered upon it. At the small town of
Meta, the next place of importance after Sorrento itself, the road divides
at the Church of the Madonna of the Laurel: our way to Amalfi leading
southward over the opposing ridge—the “Sorrentini Colles” of Ovid—whilst
the other traverses the length of the plain by way of Pozzopiano and Sant’
Agnello, until it reaches Sorrento.
One prominent feature of this district has already attracted our
attention; the number of deep ravines with which the whole plain is
intersected. These natural clefts are marvellously lovely in their rich
luxuriance of foliage, and with their precipitous sides and verdure-clad
depths will recall the wonderful _latomiè_, the ancient stone-quarries of
Syracuse. Their depths are filled with orange and lemon trees, mingled
with sable spires of cypress and the tall forms of bays, which here bear
jet-black berries, such as are rarely seen in our northern clime; whilst
the edges of the cliffs are clothed with a serried mass of wild flowers;
red valerian, crimson snap-dragon, tall blue campanulas, the dark green
wild fennel, white-blossoming cistus, and a hundred other plants, gay with
colour and strong with aromatic perfume.
“The quarry’s edge is lined with many a plant,
With many a flower distilling fragrant dew
From brightly coloured petals. Almond trees
Give snowy promise of sweet leaves and fruit;
Here all the scented tangle of the South
Covers the boulders, calcined by the sun
To pearly whiteness; thorn or asphodel
Sprout from each cranny of the topmost ledge
To nod against the deep blue sky, or peer
Into the verdure-clad abyss below.”
It is not surprising to learn that these romantic glens, filled with
greenery, are reputed locally to be the haunts of fairies, _Monacelli_, as
the Sorrentine inhabitants name them. Like the “good folk” of certain
country districts in England, the pixies of Devonshire, and the “Tylwyth
Teg” of rural Wales, these elfin people of the ravines are not malicious
or unkindly in their nature, but they are particular and somewhat exacting
in certain matters. They appreciate the attentions of mortal men, and
offerings of fresh milk or choice fruit are not beneath the notice of the
Monacelli. Borrowing the idea from the votive offerings they make in the
churches to the Virgin and the Saints, the peasants sometimes place little
lamps in the fern-draped grottoes of these gullies, and to such as
punctually perform these acts of courtesy, the Monacelli frequently show
signs of favour. The _padrone_ of a local inn has assured us that he and
his wife stood very high in the good graces of the little people, who had
on one occasion actually written them a letter, although as the characters
employed were unknown to any person in the village, the object of their
communication by this means seems somewhat of a mystery. Another and a
more practical instance of their patronage was then related, for the
favoured landlord assured us that on one occasion, when he and his wife
descended downstairs in the morning, they found the house cleared, the
hearth ready swept, and all the contents of last night’s supper-table
relaid on the brick floor, but _d’un modo squisito_, such as no human hand
could ever have been deft enough to contrive. Just a simple innocent
trifle of Sorrentine folk-lore, but how closely does it resemble the
old-time gossip of rustic England, of which the great poet has left us so
charming a picture!—
“Tells how the drudging Goblin sweat
To earn his cream-bowl duly set,
When in one night, ere glimpse of morn,
His shadowy flail hath threshed the corn
That ten day labourers could not end.”
For, as we have already said, the Monacelli show themselves grateful to
those who anticipate their wants, and will serve their votaries with
industry and fidelity. _Fuore avra il Monacello in casa_—perhaps he has
had the Fairy in the house—has passed into a local phrase to designate a
neighbour’s unexplained prosperity. But, again, the lucky recipient of
these favours must never blab or even hint at the origin of his good
fortune, for all gossip is highly distasteful to the fairy folk; and that,
we suppose, is the true reason why so little authentic information can be
gleaned as to the methods of the Monacelli.
In direct contrast with the Monacelli of the ravines, who are, on the
whole, well inclined towards mortals, are the Maghe, first cousins
evidently to the terrible _ginns_ of Arabian folk-lore; perhaps the
Saracenic pirates themselves may have introduced their oriental sprites to
the Neapolitan shores. In the popular mind the Maghe are supposed to
possess vast treasures hidden in caves by the seashore, or on the bleak
mountain side, and it was doubtless concerning these spirits that the
guide’s tale, given in a previous chapter, relates. The most celebrated
Maga of all is the demon who haunts a certain underground corridor near
Pozzuoli, containing an immense hoard of gold and jewels, which he is
willing to present to anybody that is ready to give in exchange a new-born
baby, presumably for purposes of devouring. Nor was the general belief in
the cave-dwelling monster at Pozzuoli limited to the poor peasants and
fisher-folk, for rumour persistently asserted that King Francis of Naples,
father of Bomba of impious memory, more than once attempted to negotiate
with the guardian of this buried treasure; but the Maga’s terms, it seems,
were too bloodthirsty and extravagant even for a Neapolitan Bourbon to
comply with, and in that case they must indeed have been pretty startling.
Malignant fairies are, in short, quite common upon the Sorrentine plain,
where exasperated mothers are sometimes in the habit of frightening their
squalling children into silence by threatening to introduce them to
_Mammone_—perhaps a corruption of the old Greek word _mormo_—a terrible
ghost, that must be a near relation to the “Big Black Man” of English
nurseries, who is ever ready to carry off naughty boys and girls in his
sack.
But the whole of the Sorrentine Peninsula is full of local superstitions,
the vast majority of which can easily be traced to the influence of
Catholicism, whilst comparatively few seem to be the legacy of ancient
Greek or Roman mythology. Belief in witchcraft is universal in these
parts, but the witch herself (_strega_) is regarded somewhat in the light
of a beneficent “wise woman,” who can arrest the far more dreaded spell of
the Evil Eye, rather than as the malevolent old hag of bucolic England in
the past. Certainly there has never been recorded in Southern Italy any
such popular persecution of poor harmless old crones as once disgraced
English countrysides; nor has any Italian jurist, like the erudite Sir
Matthew Hale, ever condescended to supply legal information concerning the
peculiarities of witches, and the best methods of prosecuting and burning
them. But the _strega_, though not as a rule dangerous to mankind,
provided she be not disturbed or insulted, has the same supernatural power
of transit on a broomstick that is possessed by her northern sister. On
many a dark night have the peasants crossed themselves with fear on
hearing the witches flying through the storm-vexed air to keep their
unholy tryst beside the famous walnut tree of Benevento, which has been
described for us by the learned Pietro Piperno in his mysterious treatise,
entitled _De Nuce Beneventana_. Even snatches of the witches’ song can
sometimes be distinguished above the howling of the gale—
“Sott’ aero e sopra vento,
Sotto la Nuce di Benevento!”
Perhaps it may afford some consolation to those who have a dread of
witches that the word “Sabato,” solemnly pronounced on these awful
occasions, is of real service to the utterer; whilst such as have had the
good fortune to be born on a Friday in March are permanently placed
outside the evil power of their spells, since our Saviour was crucified on
a Friday in that month.
But at length we have finished the ascent of the ridge, and our driver
halts for a moment at the inn of the “Due Golfi.” A smiling damsel,
dressed in the picturesque native costume, advances to offer us the
national drink of Italy, sweet vermouth that is frothed up with a little
fizzing water in a narrow tumbler; and though carriage exercise is not
liable to produce thirst, yet we cannot be so churlish as to refuse the
draught, especially as the delay allows us to take our farewell look at
the Bay of Naples. For here we have reached the peak of the rocky saddle
that divides the two famous gulfs; and before us we now behold the wide
crescent of the Bay of Salerno with its sunburnt vineyards and its
precipitous cliffs. To our right we perceive the craggy headlands
stretching southward till they culminate in the Cape of Minerva:—how much
more attractive sounds the good old classical name than the new-fangled
Punta della Campanella, so called from the alarm bell which used to be
tolled in the ruined fortress at the approach of the Moslem pirate
galleys! Vastly different is the aspect on this side of the peninsula to
that which we have just left behind us. There is the plain below us,
thickly dotted with farms and villas set amidst crops and orchards, a
fertile scene of industry and population; here on the Salerno side are
wild stony tracts affording only pasturage for a few sheep and goats, and
covered for miles with broom, cytizus, coronella, myrtle, and numberless
fragrant weeds, all struggling fiercely for existence on the dry barren
soil, and filling the clear air with an incense-like perfume. Such is our
first acquaintance with the Costiera d’Amalfi, that wonderful stretch of
indented rocky coast-line once containing the Republic of Amalfi, which
was the forerunner of the glorious Commonwealths of Florence and Venice.
From the grey cliffs of Capri to the west, as far as the headland beside
Salerno, stretched this diminutive state, composed of a confederacy of
sister-cities, whereof Amalfi herself was the queen and metropolis. Its
glories have long vanished, but the Costiera d’Amalfi remains an enchanted
land, not only on account of its natural beauties, but also by reason of
its historical associations which give an additional charm to every breezy
headland and every little town upon this wonderful shore.
Below us, as we rapidly descend the slopes by the curves of the Corniche
road, lies the little beach known as Lo Scaricotojo, whence in the days
previous to the construction of this splendid highway all visitors were
wont to embark for Amalfi;—that is, unless they attempted the expedition
by way of the mountain roads leading thither from Castellamare or La Cava.
It raises a smile in these days of swift and luxurious travelling to learn
from an early Victorian guide-book that “the most elegible mode of going
from Sorrento to Amalfi is either to ride or to be carried in a _chaise à
porteurs_ to that part of the Colli where begins a rapid descent, and
thence descending on foot to the Marinella of the Scaricotojo on the Gulf
of Salerno.... The ride occupies about an hour and a quarter, and the
descent which, though steep, is not dangerous, occupies about an hour.”
_Nous avons changé tout ça_; yet there are still living amongst us those
who lament the passing away of the old-fashioned days of Italian travel,
when inns were bad but picturesque, and expeditions to such remote places
as Amalfi were not only difficult but even dangerous; since in
compensation for slow progress and risk of brigands every town owned a
primitive charm which is now rapidly disappearing before the modern
irruption of locust-like swarms of tourists with their motor cars, their
luncheon baskets, and their kodaks. Well, to the majority of travellers
the value of natural scenery is not a little enhanced by the sense of
comfort, and here on the Costiera d’Amalfi the most particular can have no
cause to complain, since it is one of the few lovely spots of Southern
Europe that has not yet been invaded by the dividend-paying railway. No,
the old Republic retains to a great extent its ancient atmosphere of
unspoiled beauty and remoteness from the bustling world. It is still a
stretch of glorious and historic country wherein one can obtain a pleasant
and valued respite for a time from the overpowering improvements of an
industrial age.
As we look southward across the breadth of the Bay, our eye is at once
caught by the group of the Isles of the Sirens, which, though in reality
fully a mile distant from the nearest point of the coast, seem in this
clear atmosphere as though they were lying within a stone’s throw of the
beach. Around these bare bluffs of rock, seemingly flung by the hand of
Nature in a sportive mood into the blue waves, lingers one of the most
insidious of all the old Greek legends, for it was past these lonely
cliffs that the cunning Ulysses sailed during his long career of mazy
wanderings in search of his island home and his faithful Penelope. In
those days, so the Greek bard tells us, there dwelt upon these islets
strange sea-witches with the faces and forms of most beautiful maidens,
although their lower limbs had the resemblance of eagles’ feet and talons.
Two sirens only, says Homer, dwelt upon these coasts, although later poets
have increased the number of the fatal sisters to three or even four.
Singing the most enchanting songs to the sound of tortoise-shell lyres,
there used to bask in the sunlight beside the gentle ripple the Sirens,
their nether limbs well hidden from the gaze of passing seamen, who,
attracted by the tuneful notes, hastened hither to discover the
whereabouts of the musicians. Innocent eyes, angelic faces, flowing golden
locks and white beckoning hands had every power to draw the curious
mariner nearer and nearer, until he came within reach of the fell
enchantresses. For the Sirens loved the flesh of mortals, and bleached
skulls and bones of digested victims lay in heaps upon the sandy floor of
their azure-hued caverns. Gold and jewels, too, the spoils of many a brave
galley that had been lured to destruction by these charmers, likewise
littered their retreat, and perhaps it was as much the glittering of this
gold as their own lovely features that in certain cases enticed the wary
merchant into this fatal trap. Gold and a pretty face: what male heart
could be proof against the double temptation the Isles of the Sirens
offered to the navigator in the days of the Odyssey! Only one sailor over
these seas proved himself a match for the wiles of the cruel goddesses of
the Amalfitan coast; for Ulysses, as we know, stopped the ears of his
companions with wax on their approach towards this dangerous spot, whilst
he himself, always eager to hear and see everything yet perfectly well
aware of the Sirens’ magnetic power, had himself tightly bound by cords to
the mast. So whilst the deaf rowers stolidly tugged at their oars,
oblivious of the weird unearthly melody around them, the clever King of
Ithaca gained the honour of becoming the only mortal who had listened to
that subtle song without paying the penalty of a hideous and ignoble
death.
It is strangely disappointing to find that no recollection of Sirens or of
Ulysses lingers in the lore of the present dwellers upon these coasts.
They have no more notion of the aspect of a Siren than they have of a
pleisosaurus, and, as a modern writer naïvely complains, they are not
sharp-witted enough to invent fanciful tales to please the enquiring
foreigner. Nor is this lack of intelligence to be wondered at, when we
recall to mind the clean sweep of all classical learning and tradition
which that period of time, truly known as the Dark Ages, made throughout
Italy; if Petrarch found it necessary to explain to King Robert the Wise
with the greatest tact and delicacy that Vergil was a poet and not a
wizard, what must have been the appalling ignorance prevailing amongst the
peasant and the fisherman? And yet these barren rocks were known as the
Isles of the Sirens centuries before the verses of the Aeneid immortalized
the mythic voyage of the Trojan adventurer, who passed along this
iron-bound coast on his way towards the mouth of Tiber. Their modern, or
rather medieval name of I Galli is somewhat of a puzzle. Erudite scholars
affect to derive it from Guallo, a fortress captured during a war between
King Roger and the Republic of Amalfi, but this explanation, we confess,
does not sound very reasonable. Others prefer to imagine that the word
Gallo (a cock) contains an allusion to the claws and feathers of the
Sirens themselves, for certain of the ancient writers endowed these dire
Virgins of the Rocks with the wings as well as the claws of birds;—in
fact, they represented them as Harpies, those horrible fowls with women’s
faces that appeared upon the scene at Prospero’s bidding to spoil the bad
king’s supper party. But why, if the Sirens were female,—and on this point
all their critics agree with an unanimity that is wonderful—should their
ancient haunts be called “The Cocks?” The untutored natives themselves,
understanding nothing of Sirens or of Odysseys, hold their own theory with
regard to the disputed name, which they connect with the construction of a
harbour at distant Salerno, and though this legend sounds foolish enough,
it is scarcely less flimsy than the notions already quoted. A certain
enchanter, one Pietro Bajalardo, undertook—in modern parlance,
contracted—to build in a single night the much needed breakwater at
Salerno on the strange condition that all cocks in the neighbourhood
should first be killed; for the wizard, so the story runs, had a special
aversion to Chanticleer on account of his having caused the repentance of
St Peter by his crowing. In any case, the reigning Prince of Salerno
gladly complied with the eccentric request, and at his command every cock
in or near the place was accordingly slaughtered, with the solitary
exception of one old rooster, who, being very dear to the heart of his
aged mistress, was kept concealed beneath a tub and thus escaped the
general holocaust. Throughout the livelong night Bajalardo was busily
engaged in superintending the work of building the harbour, whilst the
fiends who carried out his behest were actively conveying huge blocks of
broken cliff from the Cape of Minerva to place in the waters of Salerno.
But at daybreak the cock imprisoned beneath the tub, the sole survivor of
his race, according to natural custom announced the dawn, to the despair
of Bajalardo and the terror of his attendant fiends, who in their
precipitate flight dropped into the sea near the Punta Sant’ Elia the huge
masses of stone they were then carrying; and these rocks are called by men
I Galli in consequence to this day.
But, to be strictly impartial, it was not the Sirens alone who were
responsible for all the victims who perished on these arid rocks. _Homo
homini lupus_; man is always ready to prey upon man, and many of the dark
tales concerning the Galli go to prove the truth of the terrible old
adage. At what period the Sirens abandoned their ancient retreat and swam
or flew away to more congenial haunts is unknown to history; but certain
it is that the rulers of proud Amalfi committed many a cruel deed of
murder or torture upon their deserted islets. For here, many a hapless
political prisoner languished for years in abject misery, a prey to the
heat and glare of summer and to the fierce gales of bitter winter nights.
Rock-cut steps and ruined towers still remain as mementoes of those dark
days, when callous human gaolers worthily filled the places of the absent
Sirens. It was in a chamber of yonder turret, still standing, that the
Doge Mansone II., blinded by a brother’s vengeance, dragged out years of
utter misery in pain and darkness, until the Emperor of the East, suzerain
of Amalfi, at last took compassion upon the prisoner’s wretched plight and
allowed him to be removed into honourable confinement at Byzantium. For
many hundreds of years the Isles of the Sirens have lain untenanted, nor
are they visited nowadays save by a few inquisitive travellers or by the
fishermen of the Scaricotojo, who find safe shelter under their lee during
the sudden squalls of the Mediterranean. For, strange to relate, there are
no dangerous currents, no treacherous whirlpools close to these rocky
islets, such as we might expect to give some natural interpretation to the
ancient myth, the origin of which remains unexplained and constitutes a
very pretty mystery as it stands.
We bid farewell to the group of ill-omened rocks, as we proceed rapidly
under the rocky slopes of the Monte di Chiosse towards Positano, which
extends in a long curving line of cheerful-tinted flat-roofed houses from
the summit of its protecting cliff to the strand below, sprinkled with
boats and nets and cloths with heaps of grain a-drying. The descent to the
lower portion of the little town is singularly charming with its varied
scenery of rocks and hanging woods above us, with the tiled domes of
churches outlined against the deep blue waters, and with the whole scene
dominated by the pierced crag of Montapertuso, beyond which thrusts up
into the cloudless sky the triple peak of the giant Sant’ Angelo. Positano
is a thriving as well as an ancient place, and of its dense population we
have abundant evidence in the swarms of children that pursue our carriage,
brown-skinned picturesque little nuisances, shrilly and incessantly crying
out for _soldi_. Most of these infants wear bright coloured rags, but not
a few are dressed in garments that at once recall the ginger-coloured
robes of the Capuchin friars, for the brothers of the Order of St Francis
are popularly reputed to be especially competent in keeping aloof evil
spells from young persons entrusted to their charge; and of course, argue
the doting parents, it is only natural that the spirits of darkness should
not dare to molest the little ones tricked out in robes similar to those
worn by these holy men.
From the point of view of history the chief interest of Positano centres
in the time-honoured tradition that Flavio Gioja, the original inventor of
the compass, was a native of this town, once a flourishing and important
member of the group of cities which comprised the Amalfitan Republic in
its palmy days. But Clio, the Muse of History, is an inexorable mistress,
and she will not rest content with mere hearsay, however venerable, and as
a result of careful investigation it would seem that Flavio Gioja, who for
centuries has been generally credited with this marvellous discovery, must
himself have been a personage almost as mythic as the Sirens of this
shore, for his very name is spelled in a variety of ways that is
hopelessly confusing. Nor has the question of his place of birth ever been
satisfactorily settled, for both Positano and Amalfi claim this hero of
science for a son, although only in Amalfitan annals can the disputed name
be detected. Be this as it may, it was a citizen of this Costiera who has
ever been acknowledged as the inventor of the compass, though concerning
both himself and his alleged discovery there is a complete absence of any
contemporary record. Later writers have, it is true, always admitted the
honour on behalf of the Republic, and Pontano goes so far as to call
Amalfi _magnetica_ in compliment thereof, whilst during the later crusades
the Amalfitani, who were evidently convinced of the genuine nature of
Gioja’s claim, had an heraldic figure of the mariner’s compass emblazoned
on their banners. It seems a thousand pities to throw doubt upon so
picturesque a tradition, for the date of the invention of the compass has
been fixed as 1302, two years only after the holding of the famous Papal
Jubilee in Rome which Dante’s verse has described for us. Nor can the
ingenious theory be upheld that the fleur-de-lys, the emblem of the French
kings of Naples, which still decorates the dial of the compass in almost
all lands, is in any wise connected with Carlo il Zoppo, the monarch to
whom Gioja is said to have dedicated his ingenious discovery. No, we have
little doubt that the compass, like so many of the scientific wonders that
crept into Europe before and during the time of the Renaissance, was
originally brought from the far East, a farther East than the argosies of
Amalfi had ever penetrated. The little magic box with its moving needle
was first used, it is now admitted, by the cunning merchants of Cathay
during their trading expeditions across the stony monotonous plains of
Central Asia that lay between the Flowery Land and the civilization of
Persia. From Cathay the use of the magnetic needle was introduced to the
Arab mathematicians of Baghdad and Cairo, and through them the secret of
the lodestone of China was conveyed to the coast towns of the Levant. At
Aleppo or Alexandria some astute trader of Amalfi—perhaps his name really
was Flavio Gioja—contrived to learn the new method of steering from some
Moslem or Jewish merchant, and he in his turn brought this novel and
precious piece of information back to the Italian shores. If, then, a
native of Amalfi did not evolve the idea of the compass out of his own
brain, at least it was the old Republic which first impressed the Western
world with its immense value, and this, too, at a far earlier period than
the date usually assigned to Gioja’s “discovery.” For a Christian bishop
of Jerusalem a hundred years before Gioja’s day makes mention of the
compass as being in common use amongst the Saracens of Palestine, whilst
its existence was certainly known to Brunetto Latini, the tutor of Dante,
whom for certain moral failings upon earth his brilliant pupil somewhat
harshly places in the infernal regions. History has, in short, long
deprived poor disconsolate Positano of its vaunted glory in the production
of a medieval scientist whose very existence has now become a matter of
speculation.
As we thread our way along the road that curves round headland after
headland, and is carried over sheer precipices whose base is lapped by the
cool jade-green water, we begin to realize the essential difference
between the Sorrentine shores we have left behind us, and the marvellous
Costiera d’Amalfi we are now passing. Ever green and smiling are the
favoured districts that stretch from Castellamare to Massa Lubrense, with
the mountain tops acting as screens to protect the groves and crops from
the sun’s ardent rays and with the fresh reviving breezes from the Abruzzi
ever breathing upon them. But here we seem to be under the very eyes of
the Sun-God, who stares fixedly from rising to setting upon the Amalfitan
coast. Welcome enough is this continuous basking in his smiles during the
short winter days; but oh! the long, long summer hours wherein King Helios
relentlessly pours down his burning glances upon the shallow soil that
covers the rocky face of the Costiera! We who visit the territories of the
old Republic in winter or early spring only perceive one aspect of the
picture. We rejoice in the gladdening warmth afforded by unbroken sunshine
and by the complete absence of cutting winds which Monte Sant’ Angelo’s
towering form excludes from these shores; we note with delight the
premature unfolding of buds and blossoms, and we marvel at the young fruit
of the dark-leaved loquat trees—the _nespoli_ of the South—turning to pale
yellow even in February. But we cannot realise the blinding glare and the
torrid heat of a July or August, making a perfect furnace of this
sheltered corner, where the thin layer of cultivated soil, that has been
scraped together painfully by human hands, becomes baked through and
through, when the water-tanks are exhausted, and when the clouds of thick
dust hang like a pall of white smoke for miles above the sinuous course of
the Corniche road. How close and sweltering must be the atmosphere of
these populous coves, when the very waves are flung luke-warm upon the hot
sand! How must the inhabitants sigh for a breath of cool air from the
Abruzzi, for the zephyr that tempers the heat on the Sorrentine plain!
_Carpe diem_; let us enjoy the Costiera d’Amalfi in the freshness of early
spring-time, before the oranges and lemons have been stripped from the
leafy groves and before the sun has had time to scorch up the vegetation
that now gives colour to every cleft and crevice of the rocky coast-line.
As we advance eastward from Positano we obtain glimpses from time to time
of mountain valleys thickly clothed with brushwood, and far above our
heads we perceive Agerola perched aloft under the shadow of the topmost
crag of Monte Sant’ Angelo—Agerola, where wolves still haunt the dim
recesses of the chestnut woods, and where the charcoal burners can tell us
of the great grey Were-Wolf that prowls round the village on stormy
nights. Passing the torrent of the Arriengo and the Punta di San Pietro
with its lonely chapel looking out to sea; glancing down upon the deep set
strand and gloomy caverns of Furore, and rounding Cape Sottile, we find
ourselves at Prajano, one of the prettiest spots to be found on all this
wonderful coast. Here we stop to visit the church of San Luca, which
stands on a little grassy platform overhanging the sea and commanding a
superb view of the Bay of Salerno. It is a baroque structure of the type
common everywhere in Italy, which travellers are apt to despise without
acknowledging how picturesque this decadent style of architecture can
appear. At Prajano the wooden doors of green faded to the hue of ancient
bronze, the yellow-washed plaster façade and the lichen-covered tiles of
the roof and tower make up a charming mass of varied colouring when viewed
against the broad blue band of sea and sky beyond. Within, the church is
mean and tawdry, just a
“Sad charnel-house of humble hopes and crimes,
Long dead and buried in obscurity;”
but the afternoon sun struggling through the curtains that cover its
fantastic windows allows a mellow light to fill the expanse of the
building. A toothless old woman and a young girl, both of them thinly and
poorly clad, are the sole occupants of the church, and they are evidently
too much absorbed in prayer to notice our presence. They have placed
beside the Madonna’s altar lighted tapers which glimmer feebly in a shaft
of strong sunlight that falls through a rent in the curtain overhead. For
what purpose, we wonder, have these candles been bought out of a scanty
store! Are they burning on behalf of some sailor-boy now being tossed upon
the ocean? Or are they offered to obtain some boon more selfish and less
pathetic? At any rate, this pair of intent worshippers, representing fresh
Southern youth and crabbed age, make up a pretty picture as they kneel
together on the pavement of tiles ornamented in bright rococo patterns to
represent the coat-of-arms of some forgotten noble benefactor: it is too
simple and everyday a sight in Italy to offer a theme for verse, too
sacred a subject for an idle photograph. We leave the church on tip-toe,
and return to the terrace with its low marble seats and its stunted acacia
trees to sit a few moments before re-entering the carriage.
[Illustration: EVENING AT AMALFI]
Skirting the Capo di Conca we obtain our first sight of proud Amalfi, and
we realize that our drive, long in distance perhaps, but all too short
with its varied beauties and interests, is drawing to a close. Nearer and
nearer do we approach our goal, the shining turrets of the Cathedral tower
acting as our beacon, until at length our chariot clatters beneath the
echoing tunnel hewn in the cliff that leads into the town itself.
CHAPTER VI
AMALFI AND THE FESTIVAL OF ST ANDREW
The traveller’s first impressions of Amalfi, which is essentially the
beauty-spot of the Riviera of Naples, are usually associated with the old
Capuchin convent, long since turned into a hotel and now the bourne of
most visitors to this coast. Its arcaded façade and its terraced garden
stand on a plateau seemingly cut out of the sheer face of the cliff,
whilst high above the town the lofty barren rocks enfold the Convent and
its verdant demesne within a natural amphitheatre and protect this sunny
paradise from the keen blasts of winter. A flight of steps zigzagging up
the rocky hill-side connects the building with the high road below; whilst
a narrow pathway, leading between stone walls and now passing beneath dark
mysterious archways, wherein the lamps burning before the Madonna’s
shrines afford a welcome light even at midday, descends by steep gradients
from the garden above into the main piazza of the little city. Built by
the celebrated Cardinal Pietro Capuano nearly seven hundred years ago for
Cistercian monks, the monastery in the sixteenth century came into the
possession of the Capuchin Friars, those brown-robed figures that with
their bare feet and girdles of knotted white cord are such familiar and
picturesque objects in the daily crowds of every Italian town. But the
friars have been forced to abandon their airy retreat ever since the
suppression of the religious houses, which succeeded the union of the old
Neapolitan kingdom with young Italy, and their convent has long been put
to secular uses. Yet the old monastic church still exists, and
superstitious people declare that the spectral forms of ejected Capuchins
are sometimes to be seen advancing slowly up the rocky ascent in order to
revisit the sacred building that is now closed for worship. Nevertheless
the church is cared for by the members of the Vozzi family, its present
owners, who every Christmas-tide still prepare the popular _presepio_,
that curious representation of the scene in the stable at Bethlehem,
wherein a score of gaily dressed figures of painted wood represent the
Holy Family and the worshipping peasants. Little in fact has been changed
within the building itself, and the exquisite cloistered court with its
slender intertwining Saracenic columns still remains to delight alike the
artist and the antiquary. We say “still remains” advisedly; for beyond the
tiny quadrangle our eyes at once light upon a scene of hideous
devastation.
Doubtless many persons will recall the great land-slip of December 1899,
when almost without warning the whole face of the rocky headland that
shelters Amalfi on the west tore itself loose and slid with a crash like
thunder into the sea below, overwhelming in its fall the little inn known
as the “Santa Caterina” and burying in its ruins two English ladies and
several fishermen. The sinister scar still continues as a blot upon the
lovely landscape, speaking only too eloquently to all of sudden death and
destruction amidst the surrounding scenes of life and beauty. The older
portion of the Capuchin convent, by a miracle as it were, escaped the
on-rush of the land-slide, but its famous “Calvary,” the large group of
the Crucifixion that appears prominently in so many pictures of Amalfi,
was completely swept away, so that the boatmen from the sands below can no
longer behold the immense vivid representation of the Last Agony which was
wont to greet their upturned eyes. Already Time’s kindly hand has begun to
drape the scene of the catastrophe with a decent mourning veil of grey and
green, for the hardy succulent plants that can withstand the sun’s fierce
rays and can thrive despite the boisterous salt sea-winds are already
sprouting from every crack and cranny of the riven earth. Perhaps it is as
well for us selfish and self-satisfied mortals to possess a _memento mori_
close at hand in a spot so teeming with the joy of life; yet somehow the
first sight of that mass of broken headland and the dark ominous fissure
in the hill-side, flung across the sunlit scene, is apt to send a slight
shiver through the frame of the beholder.
There are three indisputable advantages to be gained by turning a
suppressed religious house into a modern hotel, so a cunning old Italian
inn-keeper once confided to us; that is, of course, provided one is not
afraid of the proverbial curse that clings to the buying of any of the
Church’s sequestrated property. These three things are good air, good
water, and lovely views; benefits that a layman is fully as competent to
understand as any cloistered ecclesiastic. And certainly the worthy Vozzi
are fully justified in offering these privileges to their guests at the
Albergo Cappuccini. Signor Vozzi! How many travellers in the South recall
with infinite pleasure their host’s tall commanding figure, his snowy
drooping whiskers, the sun-shade that was rarely out of his hand, his
old-fashioned courteous manners, and his famous family of cats, whereof
the coal-black Nerone was the prime favourite, a feline monster almost as
tyrannical as his Imperial namesake of evil reputation. Signor Vozzi’s
striking personality, the sable fur of agate-eyed Nerone, the eternal
sunshine, and the wide all-embracing views over sea and land, are somehow
all jumbled together in our perplexed mind, as it recurs to the many days
spent beneath the convent roof. Nay, not beneath the roof! For we were
wont to pass the whole day, even the short December day, in basking on the
warm sheltered terrace and peering over the busy beach and the dazzling
waters below, whereon the tale of Amalfitan fisher-life could be read as
it were from the pages of a book.
Somehow the old monastic buildings appear marvellously well adapted to
modern needs. The former inmates’ cells, wherein the brown-robed brethren
of the Order of St Francis until lately were wont to pass their placid
uneventful lives, afford comfortable if somewhat limited accommodation;
whilst the covered _loggia_ that runs the whole length of the cells has
been turned into a series of delightful little sitting-rooms, their broad
arc-shaped windows facing full south, a boon that only a winter resident
in Italy can properly appreciate. _Dove non entra il sole, entra il
medico_, is a hackneyed but well-proven adage; consequently here in the
old Capuchin convent the services of the local medicine-man ought rarely
to be required. Signor Vozzi’s guests partake of their meals in the
ancient refectory, a large bare echoing chamber with a vaulted ceiling,
which still contains the old stone pulpit from which in more pious days a
grave brother was wont to read aloud choice passages from the works of the
early Fathers of the Church or of St Bonaventura, the Seraphic Doctor of
the Franciscans, during the hours allotted to the frugal repasts of the
friars. But the public rooms and the cool white-washed corridors do not
present such attractions as the glorious garden with its famous _pergola_
and its views of the Bay. Here even in Christmas week we found quantities
of plants in full bloom: the delicate yellow blossoms of the Soffrana
rose; trailing ivy-leaved geraniums with gay heads of carmine flowers; the
honey-scented budleia with its little globes of dark yellow flowerets:
clumps of gorgeous scarlet salvia; and straggling masses of the pretty
cosmia, red, pink and white. Humming-bird hawk-moths darted hither and
thither in the sunshine, restless little creatures whose wings are never
for a moment still, as they poise gracefully over each separate blossom in
turn. The _pergola_ itself, which every artist at Amalfi paints as a
matter of course, generally with a Capuchin friar—at least a friar _pro
hac vice_—or a pretty dark-eyed damsel in the native costume, sitting in
the foreground, was certainly bare of foliage, we admit, for even in the
soft warm air of the Bay of Salerno the grape-vine wisely refuses to burst
into leaf at Yuletide, no matter how enticing the warmth. But the thick
white pillars and their wooden cross-beams, around which are entwined the
leafless coiling limbs of the sleeping vine, throw dark blue patterns of
chequered shadow upon the sunlit ground. Above the terraced garden rises
the orangery, well watered by many artificial rillets, and from the midst
of the orange and lemon trees there emerges a path leading to the
entrancing _bosco_, or grove, that fills the deep hollow space formed by
the sheltering cliffs behind. It was mid-winter, as we have said, yet pink
cyclamens and strong-scented double narcissi were blooming freely, whilst
from the dark boughs of the ilex trees overhead there fell upon the ear
the pleasant twittering of innumerable birds, for happily the cruel snare
and the gun are strictly forbidden in this sacred spot, so that his
“little sisters, the birds,” that the gentle Saint of Assisi loved so
tenderly, can still sing their songs of innocence and build their nests in
peace amidst the trees that no longer remain the property of the great
humanitarian Order. At nightfall this garden is almost equally beautiful
beneath a star-lit sky and with the many lamps of the town below throwing
long bars of yellow light upon the placid waters of the Bay. As we pace
the long terrace, wrapped in the glory of a million stars and revelling in
the exalted yet fairy-like loveliness of the scene around us, we perceive
the mellow night air to be redolent of a strange but fascinating perfume.
It is the _olea fragrans_, the humble inconspicuous oriental shrub that
from its clusters of tiny white flowers is thus giving out its secret soul
at the falling of the night dews, and permeating the whole garden with its
marvellous floral incense. But if the star-lit, flower-scented nights of
Amalfi are to be accounted as exquisite memories, how much more glorious
and exhilarating is the rising of the sun, as he appears in full majesty
of crimson and gold above the classic hills that overlook Paestum to the
east! Leaning at early dawn from the windows of the Cappuccini, we have
watched the sky flush at the first caress of “rosy-fingered Eôs” and seen
the fragment of the waning moon turn to silver at the approach of the
burning God of Day, still tarrying behind the lofty barrier of the capes
and mountains of the Lucanian shore.
“Slowly beyond the headlands comes the day,
Though moon and planet on a sky of gold,
Chequered with orange and vermilion-stoled,
Have floated long before the sun’s first ray
Has shot across the waters to display
Amalfi in her dotage; as of old
His beams lit up her splendours manifold,
Her quays and palaces that fringed the bay.
His smile makes every barren hill-side blush
In rose and purple for the glories fled,
As early watchers note th’ encroaching flush
From proud Ravello to Atrani spread,
And curse the cruel arm that once did crush
This sea-sprung Niobe, and leave her dead.”
[Illustration: AMALFI]
Dead, alas! For the old liberties of the great Republic of Amalfi have
been extinct for more than half a thousand years, and it is in consequence
difficult for us to realise that the quaint noisy squalid picturesque
little city by the sea-shore, huddled into the narrow gorge of the
Canneto, is that self-same Amalfi whose navies rode triumphant over the
Mediterranean before the days of the Early Crusades. Yet Amalfi, which may
be reckoned amongst the first-born of that fair family of medieval cities
that their prolific parent the land of Italy brought forth in an age of
darkness, was also the foremost to droop and die, her glories scattered
and passed before Florence had ceased to be an obscure country town. In
this case History presents to us a most forcible, not to say an unique
example of the origin, rise and decline of a power, all occurring within a
short space of time. Amalfi springs, as it were, out of the void as a city
of importance, for no Roman colony occupied its site in antique times. Its
very nomenclature is a puzzle to scholars, and the usual statement that it
owed its name to Byzantine settlers coming hither from the ancient town of
Melfi in the Basilicata does not sound very convincing, though for want of
a better theory it must suffice. Why, when, and by whom the city was in
reality founded remains an enigma, yet we learn from a passage in one of
the letters of St Gregory the Great that the place was of sufficient size
to be governed by a bishop in the sixth century. By the tenth we find the
Republic of Amalfi already risen to a position of commanding importance,
and holding its own against the rival states between which its territories
were wedged; the dukedom of Naples to the west and the principality of
Salerno to eastward. Dexterously playing on the greed and prejudices of
the various tyrants who ruled Naples and Salerno, and occasionally allying
itself with them in order to repel the fierce attacks of their common
enemy, the Saracenic hordes who were then harrying the Lucanian coast,
Amalfi continued to uphold its political freedom and dignity in the face
of immense difficulties. And in gratitude for the vigour with which the
Amalfitani had waged war against the infidel invaders, Pope Leo IV. in
course of time conferred upon the Duke or Doge, the chief magistrate of
the Republic, the title of “Defender of the Faith.” Nominally under the
suzerainty of the Greek Emperor at Constantinople, Amalfi was practically
independent; its system of government was conducted on lines somewhat akin
to those of aristocratic Venice; its population is said to have exceeded
fifty thousand in the capital city alone; its boundaries extended from the
Promontory of Minerva on the west to the town of Cetara upon the confines
of Salerno; whilst many daughter-towns of wealth and importance, such as
Scala and Ravello, sprang into being within the narrow limits of the
sea-girt republic. Owning a small and by no means fertile extent of land,
the inhabitants of Amalfi from its earliest days were forced to become
merchants and sailors; to use a modern phrase, the Amalfitani came to
possess a complete monopoly of trade with Eastern lands, both Christian
and Mahommedan. It was the ships of the Republic that alone brought to the
shores of Italy the rich stuffs, the gold and silver embroideries, the
dried fruits and the strange birds and beasts of Asia Minor and Arabia,
and in exchange for their oriental merchandise obtained an abundance of
corn, wine, oil, meat and other commodities of life that their beautiful
but somewhat sterile dominions were unable to supply to an ever increasing
population. But it was not only the material products of the East that the
sailors of Amalfi conveyed to Europe in their home-bound argosies; for
they brought back with them the rudiments of arts and sciences that
distracted Italy had well-nigh forgotten during the period of the
barbarian invasions. Through the merchant princes of Amalfi, the secrets
of astronomy, of mathematics and of scientific navigation were
re-introduced into the land that had almost lost its old Roman
civilization. A priceless manuscript of that great code of laws, the
Pandects, which a Byzantine Emperor, the famous Justinian, had caused to
be compiled with such skill and labour, putting into concise and accurate
form the collected wisdom of generations of Roman jurists, was included
amongst the treasures of the East that were borne back to Italy in the
Republic’s vessels. And in addition to restoring the old Roman
jurisprudence to its original home, the city of Amalfi had the honour of
promulgating the celebrated _Tabula Amalphitana_, the new maritime laws
that were henceforth destined to regulate the whole commercial system of
the western world. No marvel then that the poet William of Apulia should
praise in unmeasured terms the glories of the new-sprung city, whose trade
extended to the shores of India and whose merchants possessed independent
settlements in every great city of the Levant.
“Nulla magis civitas argento, vestibus, auro
Partibus innumeris; hac plurimus urbe moratur
Nauta marit coelique vias aperiri peritus.
Huc et Alexandri diversa feruntur ab urbe
Regia et Antiochi. Zeus haec freta plurima transit
His Arabes, Indi, Siculi nascuntur et Afri.
Haec genus est totum prope nobilitata per orbem,
Et mercanda ferens, et amans mercata referre.”
(“No city richer in its store of gold,
Of precious stones and silks doth Europe hold;
Her skilful mariners o’er treacherous seas
With aid of compass sail where’er they please.
From Egypt and from Antioch they land,
Their precious cargoes on th’ Italian strand.
Scathless Amalfi’s navies penetrate
The distant ports of every Paynim state.
Match me throughout the circuit of this earth
Another race so full of zeal and worth.”)
A small state on a barren shore, yet the holder of the balance between
East and West by means of its wide-spread commerce, such was Amalfi during
the tenth and eleventh centuries. In some respects this Republic of the
Middle Ages appears as the prototype of the Venice of the Renaissance, for
there is not a little in common between the city that was built upon the
marshy islets of the Adriatic lagoons, and the city that was erected at
the base of the treacherous cliffs of the Tyrrhene Sea. Solely by means of
commerce both foundations rose from nothingness to splendour and power:
both held the gorgeous East in fee; and both fell lamentably from their
high estate. The chief point of difference in this comparison of their
careers is obvious; Amalfi collapsed suddenly and utterly, whilst the
Queen of the Adriatic has sunk gradually to decay until she has become the
interesting monument of a vanished magnificence which we admire to-day.
It was the rising naval power of Pisa that finally crushed the greatness
of Amalfi, although the Republic had already entered into its days of
decline when Robert Guiscard at the time of the First Crusade had
temporarily annexed its dominions to his new principality. Some thirty
years later King Roger of Naples forcibly seized the whole of the Costiera
d’Amalfi, allowing the citizens to retain their own form of government.
Four years after this, the Pisan fleet, coming to aid the people of Naples
against King Roger, utterly destroyed the once vaunted navy of Amalfi, and
sacked both the city itself and the two hill-set towns of Scala and
Ravello. Its political liberty had already been crushed by the Normans,
and now its ships and its wealth were dissipated by the Pisans; it was a
double measure of ignominy and disaster from which Amalfi never recovered.
Amidst its humiliations and sorrows, the stricken city had also to mourn
the loss of its greatest treasure, its secular _palladium_, that most
precious copy of the Pandects of Justinian, which the Pisan marauders
seized and carried back with them to their city on the Arno. Here in Pisa
the famous volume remained in safe keeping for some three hundred years,
and then, as Time’s round brought its inevitable vengeance on the
plunderers of Amalfi, it was removed by the victorious Florentines to
their own city. So intense a veneration for the book itself now manifested
itself amongst the scholars and students of Florence, that at one period
offerings of incense were often made to the inscribed wisdom of past ages
as to a most holy relic of some Saint, and the clerk or jurist about to
peruse its faded characters was wont, first of all, to breathe a prayer of
genuine gratitude on his knees for the preservation of this ancient book.
Amalfi, Pisa, Florence, each in its turn has owned the guardianship of
this most famous literary jewel, which is to-day jealously guarded as the
chief treasure of the world-renowned Laurentian Library.
It is true that the prosperity of Amalfi did not disappear immediately
after the inroad of the Pisans, for Boccaccio, writing in the fourteenth
century, still speaks of the ancient territory of the destroyed Republic
as “a rocky ridge beside a smiling sea, which its inhabitants call the
Costa d’Amalfi; full of little cities, of gardens, of fountains, and of
rich and enterprising merchants.” It was in fact reserved for relentless
Nature herself to complete the work of destruction that Norman armies and
Pisan fleets had more than half accomplished. We have already spoken of
the terrible land-slips to which this beautiful shore is eminently
subject, even at the present day, as the mass of wreckage outside the old
Capuchin convent only too clearly testifies. In the year 1343, during the
progress of a storm of exceptional fury, of which the poet Petrarch has
left us a vivid account in one of his letters, the greater part of the
devoted city was swept away by a tidal wave. The whole line of quays
stretching from the headland by the Cappuccini to the point of Atrani on
the east, together with churches, palaces, and warehouses, was now
swallowed up by the surging waters and engulfed for ever in the depths of
the sea; and thus the very element that had brought wealth, power, and
prosperity to Amalfi in the past now proved the direct cause of her final
calamity. With this fearful cataclysm of Nature following upon the heels
of its political extinction, we can hardly wonder at the rapid decline of
this “Athens of the Middle Ages,” whose population has now sunk to about
one seventh part of the 50,000 citizens it once boasted in the far distant
days of her maritime supremacy.
Reflecting upon the famous past of this ancient city, let us descend the
steep pathway from the terrace of the Cappuccini to visit the crowded
beach below. Here we find ourselves in the midst of a cheerful animated
throng, engaged in mending nets, in painting boats, and in other
occupations connected with a sea-faring life. The tall fantastic houses
with balconied windows that line the curve of the sea-shore, the
glistening sands and the brown-legged, gay-capped fishermen, combine to
present a charming picture of southern Italian life, so that we could
gladly linger in observing the ever-changing scenes of life and industry.
But we cannot tarry long, for the ubiquitous beggars who have begun to
pester us ever since we passed the hotel gates have meantime dogged our
descending footsteps, and their forces have been recruited on the way
hither by many willing assistants. No doubt the vast majority of the
Amalfitani are hard working and self-respecting, for the little town
possesses maccaroni factories and old-established paper mills of no small
importance, yet it is obvious that a considerable portion of the total
population and at least one-half of all the children spend their whole
time in demanding alms of strangers. Before, behind, and from a distance
arises the ceaseless cry of “_Qual co’ signor’! Fame! Fame!_” in hateful
tones of make-belief misery, and these whining appeals are aided by all
the expressive pantomimic gestures of the South. You are placed on the
horns of a dilemma: give, and the report that a generous and fabulously
wealthy Signore has arrived in Amalfi will run like wild-fire through the
whole place, and your life in consequence will become an absolute burden
for the remainder of your sojourn in this spot. Refuse, and the wretches
who have hitherto been wheedling and cringing at your heels, will at once
grow insolent and threatening, especially in the case of unprotected
ladies. It is in fact a choice of two evils, and the only remedy that we
ourselves can suggest is for the persecuted traveller to select a good
stout larrikin and pay him freely to keep at arm’s length his detestable
brothers and sisters in professional beggary. But the uninitiated usually
endure these odious importunities for a certain length of time, and then,
exasperated by the unchecked mendicancy of the place, at last fly
precipitately from this beautiful shore, to seek comparative peace and
freedom elsewhere. For it is useless to argue; it is foolish, even
dangerous to grow angry. “Why should we give to you?” we asked one day in
desperation of a particularly persistent woman. “Because,” was the
unabashed and impudent but unanswerable reply, “you have much, and I have
nothing!” Driven by these human pests from the sunlit strand, we make our
way through the busy piazza, where peasant women with piles of fruit and
vegetables make a glowing mass of colour around the central fountain below
St Andrew’s statue, and proceed towards the Valley of the Mills. A
different phase of Amalfitan life now greets us, for here are to be found
the hard-working bees of this human hive, and it must be confessed their
ways make an agreeable change from the habits of the pestering drones that
infest the beach and the neighbourhood of the hotels. The whole of the
steep rocky gorge of that tiny torrent the Canneto is full of mills, each
emitting a whirring sound which mingles with the continual plash of the
water as it descends in miniature cascades the full length of the ravine,
providing in its headlong course towards the sea the motive power required
to turn all this quantity of machinery. Bridges span the Canneto at
several points, whilst either bank is occupied by tiny factories of paper
or soap, and by winding stone stair-ways that lead upward to terraces
contrived to catch the sunshine for the purpose of drying the goods. The
whole valley, with its strong contrasting effects of sun and shade and its
varied atmosphere of intense heat and of chilly dampness, is full of
seething picturesque humanity. The combined sounds of creaking wheels, of
falling water and of human chattering are almost deafening within this
narrow echo-filled gorge, above which in the far distance we catch a
glimpse of rocky heights with the town of Scala perched eyrie-like against
the deep blue of the sky overhead. Pretty laughing girls, bare-footed and
with marvellously white teeth, emerge from the open door-ways to smile
pleasantly at us, for the workers of the Valle de’ Molini are thoroughly
accustomed to the presence of strangers in their midst. Half-naked men,
who have stepped for a moment out of the hot rooms of the maccaroni
factories in order to breathe the fresh air, regard us with calm disdain
and without any seeming interest. Our presence is tolerated, even if our
reception excites no feelings of surprise or cordiality, so that we are
allowed to pursue our walk up the ever-narrowing valley in peace and
comfort and to admire at our leisure the wonderfully beautiful effects of
colouring produced by the cascades of purple-stained water, the graceful
forms and gay dresses of the girls, and the peeps of fruit-laden orange
trees above fern-clad walls. And how dark the people are! For though black
eyes and hair are commonly associated with the Italian race, yet in the
North we find abundant evidence of the admixture of Teutonic blood, whilst
in the South the fair-haired Norman settlers have left indelible marks of
their conquest of Naples and Sicily in many blue-eyed and white-skinned
descendants; but here in Amalfi a blonde complexion seems to be absolutely
unknown. “_Com’ è bianco! Com’ è bianco!_” called out one of a party of
girls with swarthy skin and ebon hair and tresses, who languidly came out
to stare at us, as we wended our way slowly up the Valley of the Mills.
[Illustration: IN THE VALLEY OF THE MILLS, AMALFI]
But the chief pride of Amalfi, and indeed its sole surviving fragment of
departed magnificence, is the Cathedral, dedicated to St Andrew the
Apostle, who is patron of the city. A broad flight of steps, flanked on
either side by the Archbishop’s Palace and the residence of the Canons,
leads to a platform covered by a most beautiful Gothic _loggia_ set with
richly traceried windows and upheld by antique marble columns. At its
northernmost angle we see springing into the blue aether the tall graceful
red-and-white striped campanile, surmounted by its barbaric-looking
green-tiled cupola and pinnacles. Facing the top of the steps are the two
magnificent doors, specially designed in distant Byzantium to embellish
this church more than eight hundred years ago, and cast by the famous
artist in bronze, Staurachios. Two Latin inscriptions, incised in letters
of silver upon the baser metal, relate to the world that one Pantaleone,
son of Maurice, caused this work to be undertaken in honour of the holy
Apostle Andrew, in order that he might obtain pardon for the sins he had
committed whilst upon earth. These glorious gates were the gifts to their
native city of members of the family of Pantaleone of Amalfi, merchant
princes who had amassed an immense fortune by trade in the Levant. They
are splendid specimens of _niello_ work, which consisted in ornamenting a
surface of bronze by engraving upon it lines that were subsequently filled
in with coloured enamel or with some precious metal. These portals of
Amalfi, perhaps the earliest example in Southern Italy of this rare form
of art, are divided into panels adorned with Scriptural subjects simply
and quaintly treated, wherein the stiff attitudes of the figures and the
many long straight lines introduced testify plainly enough to their
Byzantine origin and workmanship. As we enter the cool dark
incense-scented building, we note that though cruelly maltreated by the
baroque enthusiasts of the eighteenth century, the general effect of the
interior is still impressive with its rows of ancient pillars and its
richly decorated roof. On all sides marble fragments with exquisite
reliefs meet the eye, spoils evidently filched from the abandoned city of
Paestum across the Salernian Bay and presented to the church by the Norman
conquerors of Amalfi. After inspecting the classical bas-reliefs, we
descend into the ancient crypt, which well-meaning artists have completely
encased with a covering of precious marbles and garish frescoes of the
Neapolitan school. It is a place of more than local sanctity, this
modernized crypt, for the possession of the relics of the Apostle which
Cardinal Capuano proudly brought hither after the sack of Constantinople
in the early years of the thirteenth century, was considered by many to
constitute a sufficient recompense to Amalfi for her lost independence.
Popes and sovereigns were in the habit of approaching the shrine, and the
number of these illustrious visitors includes the names of St Francis of
Assisi, Pope Urban IV., the holy St Bridget of Sweden, and the notorious
Queen Joanna II. of Naples. Aeneas Silvius Piccolomini, afterwards Pope
Pius II., however, seems to have thought Amalfi, ever dwindling in size
and importance, too mean a place to own so great a treasure, and he
accordingly transported the head of the Saint to Rome, where it is now
accounted amongst the four chief relics of St Peter’s. Perhaps it was to
counterbalance the loss of so important a member of the Saint’s anatomy,
that in the succeeding century there arose a report which spoke of the
rescue of certain relics of the Apostle Andrew during the headlong course
of the Reformation in Scotland. The most precious objects preserved in the
Cathedral of St Andrew’s, says this legend, were secretly saved from the
expected fury of Knox’s partisans and brought to Amalfi, where they were
reverently added to the store of remains that had survived the plundering
of Pius II. Whether or no there be any truth in this somewhat fantastic
theory, it is enough to state that St Andrew continues to be patron Saint
of this maritime city, for which office the character of the Galilean
fisherman who was called to be a fisher of men seems specially
appropriate. Nevertheless, despite the valuable additions made in
Reformation days, the sanctity of the shrine is not held so high as it
used to be. No longer do the venerated bones ooze with the sweet-scented
moisture that in medieval days was piously collected to be used for
purposes so varied as the curing of warts, or the scattering of Paynim
fleets! Yet so late as the days of Tasso, the great Apostle himself was
evidently connected in the popular mind with the performance of so bizarre
a miracle:—
“Vide in sembianza placida e tranquilla
Il Divo, che di manna Amalfi instilla.”
But although the present times are too sinful to allow of the distillation
of the fragrant dew of Amalfi, we observe the kneeling forms of not a few
intent worshippers within the dimly-lighted crypt, in the midst of which
the Spaniard Naccarino’s bronze figure of the Apostle uprises with
dignified mien and life-like attitude. Sant’ Andrea is still “Il Divo,”
the tutelary god of the Amalfitani; he remains in the estimation of these
simple ignorant folk the special protector of the community. Times and
ideas change, but not the old deep-rooted feeling of a personal tie
between the Saint and his favoured people.
We were lucky in happening upon the great popular festival of Sant’ Andrea
during our visit to Amalfi, and consequently were enabled not only to
witness a picturesque scene of considerable splendour, but also to observe
how strong a devotion the Amalfitani still manifest towards their own
especial Saint. With the first flush of early dawn, discharges of mortars
from the beach and the neighbouring hills began to arouse the echoes and
to remind the still slumbering population that once more the great
anniversary had arrived. The world was quickly astir to do honour to the
great St Andrew, and from a very early hour an interminable stream of
peasants and villagers, young and old, male and female, began to enter the
town from all quarters, and to congregate in the piazza where stands the
large fountain crowned by the Saint’s own effigy. Here with exemplary
patience the throng waited until the hour of the ceremony in the Cathedral
drew nigh. Within the huge building priests and lay-helpers were actively
employed in preparing for the event, and by their exertions the whole
interior had been transformed into what may be best described as a
magnificent ball-room, for every blank wall had been covered with
draperies of rich crimson damask and the very pillars had been swathed
from base to capital in the same gorgeous material. Innumerable old
cut-glass chandeliers, that had reposed since the last _festa di Sant’
Andrea_ in huge round boxes in some secluded vault, had been slung by
means of cords from the ceiling and the arches of the nave, whilst a large
number of mirrors set in carved gilt frames had been affixed to various
points of the walls and columns. The fine marble pavement lay thickly
strewn with bay and myrtle leaves, emitting a pleasant wholesome scent
when crushed under foot by the picturesque but somewhat malodorous crowd
of fisher-folk and peasants. On entering the church, at the first sound of
the bells booming over head, we found ourselves heavily pressed by the
surging throng of worshippers, and it was only with difficulty we could
obtain a sight of the ceremonies at the high altar, prominent upon which
stood the silver bust of the Apostle containing the precious relics. It
was a typical Italian _festa_. The chanting was harsh and discordant; the
antiquated inharmonious organ emitted unexpected squeals, as if in
positive pain; there was, it is needless to add, a complete absence of
that “churchy” demeanour which passes for reverence in the North; yet
withal, despite the shrill discordant music, the tawdry embellishments of
the grand old building and the absence of propriety of the crowd, there
was perceptible some mysterious underlying force that compelled us to note
the extraordinary hold the Church has upon the people of Southern Italy.
For all this throng of persons had assembled that day with one definite
purpose: to see their universal friend and patron, their Saint and their
worker of domestic miracles; they had come to pay their homage to a
celestial acquaintance, with whom, thanks to the Church’s teaching, they
had all been intimate from their cradles. They had not thus assembled at
an early hour, deserting their mills and their shops, their boats and
their nets, renouncing their chances of gain, to hear a preacher’s
eloquence or to listen to fine music, but merely to pay their annual visit
of respect to their Spiritual Master. Why should we aliens intrude upon so
private a gathering? In any case, we have grown weary of standing in the
close sickly atmosphere, wherein the fragrance of the crushed bay-leaves,
the fumes of incense and the strange smell of garlic-eating humanity blend
in an oppressive manner. We push our way through the eager and intent
congregation, and gaining the door-way step with a sigh of relief into the
sunshine that is flooding the _loggia_. But it is too hot to remain here,
and we descend the great stair-case in order to take up a post of vantage
in the shade on the opposite side of the piazza; having gained our desired
position we expect in patience the arrival of the procession. Nor have we
very long to wait. The officials of the town suddenly dart forward to
clear the steps of their crowd of ragged children, and almost
simultaneously the great bronze doors of Pantaleone are flung open to the
sweet air and the sunshine. It was a wonderful and deeply interesting
experience to watch the glittering train slowly emerge from the darkness
of the church into the glare of day, and then descend that stately flight
of marble stairs to the sound of joy-bells and to the accompaniment of
explosions of fireworks. First came the leading members of the various
Confraternities of the little city, all bearing tapers whose tongues of
flame shone feebly in the fierce contemptuous sunlight, and all wearing
snow-white smocks and coloured scarves. Red, green, blue, white, purple,
yellow, gleamed the huge banners of these different societies, each borne
by a tall _vessillifero_, or standard bearer, assisted by quaint solemn
little figures who acted as pages. Then followed the body of the clergy in
copes of white and gold, with eyes downcast as they chaunted in loud nasal
tones from books in their hands; next came the Canons of the Cathedral in
fine old festal vestments reserved for such occasions and with mitres on
their heads, for Amalfi clings to the ancient ecclesiastical privileges
that were granted in distant days when Florence and Venice were little
more than villages. Last of all walked the Archbishop, an aged tottering
figure, weighed down by his cope of cloth of gold and seemingly crushed
beneath his immense jewelled mitre. Two lackeys, almost as infirm as their
venerable master, and clad in threadbare liveries edged with armorial
braid, were in close attendance, whilst behind the Archbishop, beneath a
gorgeous canopy of state upheld by six white-robed assistants, was borne
the great silver bust of St Andrew. The appearance of the Image of “Il
Divo,” upon which the sunbeams were playing in dazzling coruscations of
light, was greeted with a murmur of applause and satisfaction from the
expectant crowd in the open. Hats were doffed; knees were bent; prayers
were muttered, as with slow and cautious steps the bearers of the Image
and its canopy began to descend. Having gained the lower ground in safety,
a momentary halt was made, during which we were able to note the mass of
votive offerings—jewels, chains, rings, watches, seals—suspended round the
Saint’s neck, amongst them being many silver fishes, doubtless the gifts
of grateful mariners. And at this point we were spectators of a pretty
incident. A little girl with black ringlets and eager eyes was dexterously
lifted on to her father’s shoulder, in order that she might present “Il
Divo” with a golden chain, which the tiny fingers deftly clasped round the
bejewelled neck of the silver bust. The crowd saw and applauded; it was a
moment of triumph for the dark-eyed child, for the Church, and for the
approving throng. With the new addition of the child’s necklet to the
treasury of the Saint, the procession pursued its way through the square
towards the Valley of the Mills, with banners waving, with priests
chaunting in harsh monotonous tones, and with clouds of incense rising
into the sun-kissed air. It was truly a beautiful and curious sight, this
festival of the Church amidst people so devout and surroundings so
appropriate.
[Illustration: AMALFI: PIAZZA AND DUOMO]
On his safe return to his now brilliantly lighted Cathedral, the Saint was
welcomed with indescribable enthusiasm. The crazy old organ was made to
produce the loudest and liveliest of music; the uniformed municipal band
awoke the echoes of the venerable but bedizened fabric with its
complimentary braying; and urchins were even permitted to scatter
fire-crackers upon the floor in honour of the event. It was a real
ecclesiastical Saturnalia of a most innocent and joyous description. All
Amalfi spent the remaining hours of day-light in feasting, dancing and
singing, and when at last darkness fell upon the merry scene, rockets and
Roman candles were seen to spring into the night air from many points in
the landscape, illumining the sea with quickly dying trails of coloured
light. Watching the bonfires and the fireworks, and listening to the
sounds of revelry and song arising from the town below, we pondered over
our experiences of the day as we paced our airy terrace of the Cappuccini.
Surely the South has remained immutable for centuries in its deeply rooted
love of religious festivals. The forefathers of these devotees of Andrew
the Fisherman were equally enthusiastic worshippers of Poseidon or of
Apollo. The Church has not in reality altered the outer attributes; it has
but added a special moral significance to the old pagan gatherings. The
ancient gods of Greece and Rome are dethroned, and their very names
forgotten by the populace; but their cult survives, for it has been
adapted to the glorification of Christian Saints. True it is that the
milk-white sacrificial oxen and the gay garlands of antiquity have been
omitted; nevertheless, there remain the music, the incense and the
unrestrained jollity of the people. Much that is beautiful and suggestive
has perished, yet there survives enough of the old classical ritual for us
to see that the true spirit of antiquity has never wholly died out amongst
these sunburnt children of Magna Graecia.
“See the long stair with colour all ablaze,
With banners swaying in pellucid air,
As mitred priests with cautious footsteps bear
The silver Image, flashing back the rays
Of jealous Phoebus—Ah! the altered days
When these Lucanians with wind-lifted hair,
Blossom-bedecked, with limbs and bosoms bare,
Sang to Apollo psalms of love and praise!
With bells and salvoes all the hills resound,
And incense mingles with the atmosphere,
As still this Southern race, ill-clothed, uncrowned,
Retains the memory of the Pagan year,
When changed, yet all unchanged, Time’s round
Makes the Jew Fisherman a god appear.”
CHAPTER VII
RAVELLO AND THE RUFOLI
No visit to Amalfi can be considered complete without ascending to the
decayed town of Ravello, that crowns the rocky heights to the north-east
of the parent city by the sea-shore. The road thither leads along the
beach, passing between the picturesque old convent that is now the Hotel
Luna, beloved of artists, and the solitary watch tower on the precipice
which stands sentinel above the waters on our right hand. At this point we
turn the corner, and find ourselves in Atrani, lying in the deep gorge of
the Dragone and joining its buildings to those of Amalfi on the road above
the beach. Prominent upon the steep ridge that separates the two cities
stands the ruined keep of Pontone, the last relic of the town of Scaletta
that was a flourishing place in days of the Republic. A tall belfry of
peculiar and striking architecture which dominates Atrani is usually
attributed to the art of the Saracens, whom King Manfred called in to
garrison this place during his wars with Pope Innocent IV. Atrani, which
is but a suburb of Amalfi, suffered equally with the Capital during the
great upheaval of Nature that desolated this coast in the fourteenth
century, so that little of interest remains except the quaint church of
San Salvatore a Bireta, wherein the Doges of Amalfi were once elected and
crowned. This ancient building lies hidden in a sandy cove beneath the
roadway, and those who care to run the gauntlet of beggars and descend to
the beach below, can examine its beautiful bronze doors, which the
generous citizen Pantaleone gave _pro mercede animae suae et merito S.
Sebastiani Martyris_. But there is very little else to inspect, for the
interior has been hopelessly modernized.
Soon after passing Atrani we turn sharply up hill to the left, and begin
our ascent towards Ravello. The dusty white road winds upwards through a
region of carefully cultivated terraces filled with olives and vines,
intermingled here and there with orange, lemon, fig, and pomegranate
trees. As we gain higher ground, our horizon tends ever to widen, and we
behold the expanse of sea and sky melting in the far distance into “some
shade of blue unnameable,” whilst the mountain-fringed ring of the Bay of
Salerno becomes vividly mapped out to our eyes from the Cape of Minerva to
the Punta di Licosia. On our left we peer down into the depths of the dark
ravine of the Dragone, whose black shadows are popularly supposed to give
its name of Atrani to the cheerful little town we have left behind. Let us
thank Heaven that we are at last out of reach of the beggars, and that the
only human beings to be encountered upon the road are a few peasants with
loads of fruit or vegetables, and an occasional charcoal-burner bearing
his grimy burden to the town below. The _carbonaio_ with his blackened
face and queer outlandish garments is a familiar figure throughout all
parts of Southern Italy. He belongs to a race apart, that dwells in the
belt of forest land clothing the higher hills, and he only descends to the
cities of the shore and the plain in order to sell his goods. He is
despised by the sharper-witted townsman, who beats down his prices for the
combustibles he has borne with such fatigue from his distant mountain
home. Sometimes the old people are despatched to do the money bargaining,
the selling and buying. Look at the old couple at this moment passing us;
an aged man and woman that Theocritus might have known in earlier days
when the world was less civilized and less greedy of gain. With bare
travel-stained feet, with feeble frames supported by long staves and with
the heavy sacks of charcoal on their bent backs, the modern Baucis and
Philemon crawl along the white road beneath a broiling sun, patient and
uncomplaining, and apparently with no feelings of envy as they cast one
careless glance at our carriage. Weary and foot-sore, they will only
obtain a few _quattrini_ in the town for all their toil and trouble, and
then they must retrace every step up the long hill-side, with their little
stock of provisions to help eke out a miserable existence. Yet can any
life in such a climate and amid such surroundings be truly accounted
miserable, we ask, no matter how humble the dwelling or frugal the fare?
As our carriage creeps slowly upward, we find the land less cultivated,
and now and again we pass tracts of woodland whence little purling streams
fall over rocky ledges on to the roadway. We catch sight of small clumps
of cyclamen, and in the shady hollows we detect tufts of the maiden-hair
fern—_Capilli di Venere_, “Venus’ tresses,” as the Italians sometimes call
this graceful little plant. At a curve of the road we are confronted by a
smiling old peasant with gold rings in his ears, who in the expectation of
_forestieri_ coming this way has been patiently sitting for hours on a
boulder. Doffing his battered hat and putting a sunburnt hand to his
mouth, the old fellow in a deep musical bass wakens all the sleeping
echoes that lie in the many folds of the valley, so that we hear the words
of welcome repeated again and again, growing fainter and fainter as the
sound of the voice travels from cliff to cliff. The performer is delighted
with a few _soldi_, and the jaded scarecrow of a horse seems pleased with
his momentary halt. _Iterum altiora petimus_; by degrees we reach the airy
platform upon which Ravello stands, and finally alight at the comfortable
old inn so long associated with the excellent family of Palumbo.
Ravello undoubtedly owes its early foundation to certain patrician
families of Amalfi, which after securing their fortunes decided to leave
the hot close city beside the shore, and to seek new homes in the bracing
air of the hill-top above. Placing itself under the protection of the
powerful Robert Guiscard, Ravello became faithfully attached to the Norman
interest, and in 1086, at the suggestion of the great Count Roger, who
cherished a deep regard for the Rufolo family, the town was created a
bishopric by Pope Victor III. As a subject city of the Norman princes,
Ravello was during this period at the zenith of its fame and importance.
Its actual population is unknown at this distant day, but we learn that
under Count Roger the large area of the city was entirely girdled by
strong walls set with towers; that it contained thirteen churches, four
monasteries, many public buildings, and a large number of private palaces.
Its cathedral was founded in honour of Saint Pantaleone by Niccolò Rufolo,
Duke of Sora and Grand Admiral of Sicily, the head of the powerful family
whose name is still gratefully remembered in this half-deserted town. In
1156 Ravello was honoured by a state visit from Pope Adrian IV.—the
English monk, Nicholas Breakspear, the only Briton who ever succeeded in
gaining the papal tiara and who gave the lordship of Ireland to Henry
Plantagenet—and during his stay the Pontiff was entertained as the guest
of the all-powerful Rufoli. Born of humble parents in the village of
Bensington, near Oxford, Nicholas Breakspear became a monk at St Alban’s,
and having once entered the religious life, he rose by sheer force of
intellect and an iron strength of will to the attainment of the highest
honour the Church could bestow. It was in the hey-day of his power that
the English pope entered Ravello and sang Mass in the Cathedral in the
presence of all the noble citizens of the place, for in the previous year
he had crushed for ever the dangerous heresy of Arnold of Brescia, by
boldly sentencing that ardent reformer to be burnt at the stake in Rome
and his ashes cast into the Tiber. The Pontiff during his visit sojourned
in the Palazzo Rufolo, the beautiful Saracenic building that is still
standing intact after so many centuries, and by a curious coincidence is
now the property of the well-known English family of Reid. Nor was Pope
Adrian the only sovereign who honoured Ravello by his presence, for
Charles of Anjou, brother of St Louis of France and the murderer of poor
Conradin, and King Robert the Wise also received the hospitality of the
Rufolo family within these walls. The whole existing town in fact is
eloquent of the long extinct but by no means forgotten Rufoli, who may
fairly be reckoned among the more enlightened of the petty tyrants of
medieval Italy. That their name was still familiar in Italian society in
the fourteenth century is evident from the circumstances that Boccaccio
puts a story, no doubt founded on fact, into the mouth of the fair
Lauretta, which deals with the adventures of one Landolfo Rufolo of
Ravello, “who, not content with his great store, but anxious to make it
double, was near losing all he had, and his life also.” The novel proceeds
to relate how this member of a wealthy and respected family turned
corsair, after losing all his capital in a mercantile speculation in
Cyprus; how he, in his turn, was robbed of his ill-gotten gains on the
high seas by some thievish merchants of Genoa; and how Landolfo, after
passing through a variety of more or less improbable adventures, was
finally rescued from drowning off the coast of Corfu by a servant-maid
who, whilst washing dishes by the sea-shore, chanced to espy the
unconscious merchant drifting towards the beach with his arms clasped
round a small wooden chest, which kept him afloat. “Moved by compassion,”
says the relator of the tale, “she stepped a little way into the sea,
which was now calm, and seizing the half-drowned wretch by the hair of his
head, drew both him and the chest to land, where with much trouble she
unfolded his arms from the chest, which she set upon the head of her
daughter who was with her. She herself carried Landolfo like a little
child to the town, put him on a stove, and chafed and washed him with warm
water, by which means the vital heat began to return, and his strength
partially revived. In due time she took him from the stove, comforted him
with wine and good cordials, and kept him some days till he knew where he
was; she then restored him his chest, and told him he might now provide
for his departure.”(6) Of course the little chest that Landolfo had
clutched by chance in his agony of drowning eventually turned out to be
filled with precious stones, which by a miracle—and miracles were common
enough in the days of the _Decameron_—not only floated of itself but also
supported the weight of Master Landolfo. In any case, the rescued
merchant, with the greed and ingratitude which are often accounted for
sharpness and wit, presented his kind hostess with the empty trunk, whilst
he concealed the gems in a belt upon his own person. Equipped with these
jewels, he made his way across the Adriatic to the Apulian coast, and
thence reached Ravello with greater wealth than he had ever hoped to
obtain with his original capital at the time he set sail for Cyprus.
[Illustration: RAVELLO: IL DUOMO]
Fortunately Ravello, though shrunk to such modest proportions nowadays,
still possesses many memorials of its glorious past. Travellers will of
course turn their steps towards the Duomo, with its yellow baroque façade
abutting on the little piazza that, with its daisy-starred turf and old
acacia trees, forms so pleasant a play-ground for the merry dark-eyed
children of the place. The cathedral of St Pantaleone is—or rather was—one
of the most interesting and richly decorated churches erected in Southern
Italy under the combined influence of Norman and Saracenic art at a time
when cunning workmen were able to blend together the styles of East and
West, and to produce that rich harmonious architecture of which the
splendid churches of Monreale and Palermo present to us the happiest
examples. There still exist intact the magnificent bronze doors with their
fifty-four panels of sculpture in relief, the gift of Sergio Muscettola
and his wife, Sigilgaita Rufolo, and the work of the Italian artist
Barisanus of Trani, who likewise designed and cast the portals of the
cathedrals of his native town and of Monreale. But alas! the interior of
the building, that was once rich with mosaic and fresco and fanciful
carving, has been converted into one of those dull soulless caverns of
stucco that the wanderer in all parts of Italy meets with only too
frequently. This deplorable act of vandalism at Ravello dates of course
from the eighteenth century, and appears to have been the work of a bishop
named Tafuri, who in his frenzied eagerness to possess a cathedral worthy
of comparison with the fashionable atrocities in plaster then being
erected at Naples, did not hesitate to destroy wholesale almost all the
ancient and elaborate ornamentation of his Duomo. His architect—perhaps
the miserable Fuga, who ruined the interior of the Cathedral at Palermo,
who knows?—dug up the fine old pavement, tore out the mosaics and had them
carted away, effaced the frescoes, and at last transformed the venerable
building with its memories of popes and princes into a commonplace
white-washed chamber. Why this wretched prelate stayed his hand at the
pulpit, it is difficult to say: perhaps he was meanwhile translated for
his private virtues, perhaps Death overtook him in the work of
destruction; at any rate, the famous pulpit of Ravello mercifully escaped
the general onslaught, though it must have been by fortunate accident and
not by design that Monsignore Tafuri omitted to remove this unique
specimen of a style of architecture, which doubtless he considered
barbaric and un-Christian in its character. For this pulpit is one of the
finest examples of the ornate, if somewhat bizarre art of the thirteenth
century, and belongs to a type of work that is not unfrequently met with
throughout Italy. Six spiral columns, springing from the backs of crouched
lions, support the rostrum of marble inlaid with beautiful mosaics; whilst
above the arch of the stair-way of ascent stands the famous portrait,
usually called that of Sigilgaita Rufolo, wife of the founder of the
Cathedral. The striking face, which is surmounted by an elaborate diadem
with two pendent lappets, is evidently an excellent likeness of the
original; yet there can be no doubt that this interesting bust has been
wrongly named, since the pulpit itself, as a Latin inscription duly
records, was erected in the year 1272 by Niccolò Rufolo, a descendant of
the famous Grand Admiral, so that we may fairly conclude that the portrait
represents the wife, or perhaps sister or daughter, of the donor. But
popular tradition dies hard; and the name of Sigilgaita will probably
cling for ever to the female face which has for over six centuries looked
calmly down upon generation after generation of worshippers. Perhaps those
severe proud features may have impressed the ignorant Vandal-Bishop as
that of some unknown Saint, whom it might be dangerous to offend, and may
thereby have saved the pulpit of Niccolò Rufolo from the destruction that
must have seemed inevitable. Be that as it may, the bust has survived
uninjured, which, apart from the feeling of sentiment, is particularly
fortunate, for it belongs to a small class of artistic work, of which
existing specimens are rare and highly prized. For there must have been a
local and premature Renaissance in this part of Italy during the
thirteenth century, otherwise a statue so imbued with true classical
feeling and so correct in technical finish as that of Sigilgaita in
Ravello Cathedral could never have been produced; yet the names of the
artist or artists who thus anticipated the great plastic revival remain
undiscovered. Portrait-busts, similar in treatment and idea to that of the
so-called Sigilgaita, are to be found here and there in museums, but this
effigy in remote Ravello remains unique amidst its original surroundings.
Turning aside from Sigilgaita’s steady gaze and making the round of the
bleak white-washed building, our eyes are suddenly attracted by a fine
picture, in the manner of Domenichino, representing the martyrdom of
Pantaleone, the popular Amalfitan Saint to whom this church was dedicated
by the Rufolo family.
The cult of this Asiatic martyr in Amalfi is of course another legacy of
the Republic’s close connection with the Levant, whence some relic-hunting
admiral or merchant of the state reverently brought Pantaleone’s bones to
the Italian coast. As the veneration of this Saint still exists so
deep-seated that his Hellenic name is frequently bestowed on children at
baptism, it may not be deemed amiss to give a very brief account of this
eastern Martyr, who is so closely associated with Amalfitan, and later
with Venetian life. Pantaleone was born at Nicomedia, in Bithynia, the son
of a Pagan father and a Christian mother. Well educated by his parents, he
became a physician, and on account of his skill, his learning, his
graceful manners and his handsome face, was finally selected to attend the
person of the Emperor Maximian. At the Imperial Court the young doctor,
who had meantime neglected the faith of his mother, was recalled to a true
sense of Christian duty by the precepts of an old priest named Hermolaus.
Pantaleone now began to heal the sick and to preach the Gospel, and even
at times to perform miracles. Information as to his conduct having reached
the Emperor’s ears, Maximian gave the young physician the choice of
renouncing Christianity or of suffering death, whereat Pantaleone boldly
declared he would rather die than apostatize. Thereupon the Saint,
together with the Christian priest Hermolaus, was bound to an olive tree
and beheaded with a sword. The story of his martyrdom has been frequently
treated in Venetian art, for as an eastern Saint Pantaleone has a church
dedicated to him in Venice, wherein the brush of Paul Veronese has painted
in glowing colours the chief incidents of his life and death. As in the
case of other physician-saints of the Roman Church—St Roch, St Cosmo and
St Damiano—Pantaleone was especially besought in cases of the plague,
which owing to the intercommunication between Amalfi and the Orient,
frequently ravaged the towns of this coast.
[Illustration: A STREET IN RAVELLO]
From the Cathedral we proceeded to visit the quaint little church of Santa
Maria del Gradillo, that with its oriental-looking towers and cupolas
affords a pleasing example of the mixed Lombard and Saracenic style which
was in vogue in the years when the house of Hohenstaufen were masters of
Southern Italy. We found little that was worth seeing inside the building,
except the pretty black-eyed daughter of the toothless tottering old
sacristan, who slunk off grumbling on his child’s appearance, leaving her
to do the honours of the place. Her merry face with its welcoming smile
and her modest loquacity excited our interest, and in answer to our
questions we gathered that she was twenty years old, and was still
unmarried, not for lack of opportunity, she naïvely told us, but because
she was unwilling to leave her old parents, who had no one in the world
but herself to attend to them. Coming to the door of the church, Angela
(for that was her name) pointed out her home, a little white-washed
cottage with a heavily barred window over-hanging the grass-grown lane. We
wished our pleasant companion a warm good-bye, or rather _a riverderla_,
at the entrance of the dwelling, where through the open doorway we could
espy a small sun-smitten courtyard tenanted by a wizened old woman sitting
in the shade of an orange tree, by three cats, and by a large family of
skinny hens. On a low wall we noted some shallow earthenware pans filled
with carnation plants, whose red and yellow heads were clearly silhouetted
against the blue sky over head. Perhaps Angela’s life, we thought, is
after all happier thus spent in the tending of her parents, her poultry
and her garden, than if joined to that of some swarthy rascal of the beach
below or dull peasant of the hillside. Long may the old people survive to
keep their guardian Angel from the mingled sorrows and joys of matrimony!
“Tenete l’uocchie de miricula nere;
Che ffa la vostra matre che n’n de’ marite?
La vostra matre n’a de’ marito’ apposte
Pe’ ne’ lleva’ son fior, a la fenestre.”
(“Your eyes are marvellously black and bright!
How is it that your mother does not wed you?
She will not wed you, not to lose her light—
Not to remove the flower that decks her window!”)
The well-known hotel kept by Madame Palumbo, who is thoroughly conversant
with English ways and requirements, occupies a delightful position in the
old aristocratic quarter of Ravello known as “Il Toro,” the name of which
is still retained in the interesting little church of San Giovanni del
Toro close by. This comfortable hostelry has been constructed out of the
_Vescovado_, the ancient episcopal residence, and it still retains many
curious and attractive features of the original building, notably the
quaint little stair-way that descends from the bishop’s private chamber
into the chapel, which is now the _salon_ of the hotel. With its
magnificent views, its interesting buildings and its pure exhilarating
air, Ravello would seem to be an ideal spot wherein to linger, and it
affords a most agreeable change in the later Spring months from the close
atmosphere and enervating heat of Amalfi or the coast towns. Perched on
this breezy hill-top, from the terrace of the hotel can be observed the
whole circuit of the Bay of Salerno, whilst behind to the north and east
the ring of enclosing mountains rises sharp and distinct against the sky.
From this point we are presented with a complete view of the territories
of the ancient Republic, spread out like a map beneath our feet and
stretching from the Punta della Campanella to the heights above Vietri,
and backed by the arid grey mountain peaks. If the garden of the Hotel
Palumbo seems a fitting place wherein to idle or to dream, might not it
also appeal to some historian, not tied to time nor to the hard necessity
of money-making, as a suitable spot for the conception of a history of the
origin, rise, decline and fall of the great maritime Republic, whose
dominions, still smiling and populous, surround Ravello on all sides?
Gibbon found the first suggestion for his Roman History whilst musing upon
the ruins of the Capitol, and he finished his great work in a Swiss garden
amidst the scent of acacia bloom; might not the annals of the Amalfitan
Republic likewise spring from reflections made upon this terrace, where
the memories of a former greatness still beautiful in its decay must
operate so powerfully? Well, perhaps some future Gibbon—or more probably
some budding Mommsen—may in time present the world with a true impartial
and erudite history of the Costiera d’Amalfi.
We bask lazily in the afternoon sunshine, to the soft, rather soporific
cooing of some caged doves, that live in the back-ground out of sight
behind a screen of lemon trees in huge red jars, such as Morgiana must
have been familiar with. Beyond the terrace wall we note the carefully
tended vines, precious plants, for their grapes produce the delicate
_Episcopio_ wine, perhaps the choicest vintage to be obtained around
Naples, and boasting a flavour and bouquet that are rarely to be
encountered except in the products of the most celebrated vineyards of
France or Germany.
“O quam placens in colore,
O quam fragrans in odore,
O quam sapidum in ore,
Dolce linguae vinculum.
“Felix venter quem intrabis,
Felix guttur quod rigabis,
Felix os quod tu lavabis;
Et beata labia!”
Below the vinery we catch glimpses of the dancing waters of the Bay and of
the little towns of Minori and Majori, seen through a screen of olive and
almond trees that are gently swayed by the south wind. Opposite to us
towers the huge form of the mountain of the Avvocata, upon whose slopes
centuries ago the Madonna herself appeared in a flood of glory to an
ignorant but pious shepherd lad, promising the startled youth to become
his mediator, the _avvocata_ of his simple prayers. The story must be
true, say the peasants, for there on the hillside can still be seen the
ruins of the shrine that the wondering and grateful villagers raised upon
the very site of the apparition in honour of their celestial visitor. But
the whole country-side teems with interesting and often beautiful legends
and traditions, handed down by generations of the simple hardy folk who
toil for their daily bread amidst the vineyards and olive groves that
clothe the sun-baked slopes descending to the shore.
The intervening distance is not great between Ravello and La Scala, which
surmounts the opposite ridge of the valley of the Dragone, whence good
walkers can easily descend by the ancient mule track that leads down
direct to Amalfi by way of Scaletta. Like its neighbour and historic rival
across the valley, the annals and fortunes of Scala are closely interwoven
with those of Amalfi; and it was during the palmy days of the Republic
that this daughter-town reached its height of prosperity. Although the
tradition that once Scala possessed a hundred towers upon its walls and a
hundred and thirty churches is obviously exaggerated, yet it must have
been a place of importance even as early as 987, when Pope John XVI raised
it to the rank of a bishopric, an honour which did not fall to Ravello
until many years later. Early in the twelfth century Scala was pillaged by
the Pisans, but some years afterwards, when the mother city tamely
submitted to the demands of these Tuscan invaders without the smallest
effort at self-defence, the higher-spirited mountaineers of La Scala
manned their walls with skill and vigour, though without avail. The
hill-set city was ultimately carried by storm, and so thoroughly did the
enraged Pisans wreak their vengeance upon the place that Scala never again
rose to fame or eminence, but henceforward dwindled in wealth and size
until it finally sank to the condition of a large village, whilst Clement
VIII offered an additional indignity to the city in its dotage by
depriving it of episcopal rank. But though the citizens of modern Scala no
longer possess a bishop in their midst, they are still the proud
possessors and jealous guardians of the magnificent mitre presented by
Charles of Anjou, who was greatly pleased by the men and money that this
ancient town sent to aid his brother, St Louis of France, in his Crusade.
Some sculptured tombs, one of them a monument in honour of Marinella
Rufolo of Ravello, who was married to a Coppola of Scala, remain in the
churches to interest the curious traveller, but most visitors will find
the principal charm of this dilapidated little city in its lofty striking
situation beneath the frowning mass of Monte Cerrato.
But the sunset has come and gone, and the last tints of its rose-pink glow
are rapidly disappearing from the serrated line of mountain tops against
their background of daffodil sky. Stars are beginning to peep in the
firmament, and yellow lights, the stars of earth, are springing up fast in
the town below, and even appearing at rare intervals of space amongst the
cottages of the woody hillside, or upon the fishing boats that lie on the
bosom of the Bay, now turning to a deep purple under the advancing shadows
of night. A cheerful concert of unseen insects greets our ears as we
descend rapidly towards Atrani, whilst the goatbells amid the distant
pastures tinkle pleasantly from time to time. We soon exchange the dewy
freshness of evening in the country for the heavy air, thick with dust,
that hangs over the coast road, and in a few moments more find ourselves
at the foot of the rock-cut staircase that leads to our convent inn.
* * * * * *
But our days upon the beautiful Costiera d’Amalfi are at an end, and the
moment has at last come for us to bid farewell to these enchanted scenes
and to the ancient city slumbering peacefully in its rocky valley by the
shore. Our rows upon the glassy waters of the Bay, our scrambles up the
wild scrub-covered hillsides above the town, our evening walks along the
broad high-road to catch the fleeting glories of the sun-set,—all are
ended; the day, the hour of departure has actually arrived.
Casting a longing look behind we quit Amalfi in the cool of the evening,
in order to cover the eight intervening miles of coast road that lie
between us and Salerno. We pass Atrani, with its tall parti-coloured
tower, and proceed towards our destination with the smooth plain of waters
below us and the fertile slopes above our heads, and thus we quickly gain
Minori, another of the busy little settlements that once helped to make up
the collected might of the old Republic. We meet with bare-footed
sun-embrowned peasants, in their suits of blue linen and broad shady straw
hats; lean sinewy figures, returning from a long day’s work in the
fragrant orange groves by which the town is surrounded. We meet also,
alas! with the usual crowd of beggars, the halt, the maimed, and the
pseudo-blind, who are quickly left behind; nevertheless the naughty
picturesque half-naked children, loudly screaming for _soldi_, caper in
the dust alongside our carriage, until these little pests are
out-stripped, but only to give way to other imps, equally naughty and
unclothed, from Majori. Majori, nestling by the seashore amidst the
enfolding mountains, appears to us a second Amalfi, with its crowded beach
and brightly coloured boats, with its paper and maccaroni mills, huddled
into the narrow ravine of the Senna, which cuts the town in half ere it
empties itself into the Bay. Overhead the huge ruined castle of San
Niccolò looms distinct against the rose-flushed evening sky, crouching
like some decrepit old giant above the little city which he so oppressed
in the bad old days when Sanseverini and Colonna carried on a perpetual
selfish strife that allowed their humble neighbours no repose. Beautiful
as is Majori, it is no lovelier than many another spot upon this exquisite
coast; it is but as one pearl in a well-matched necklace, for the country
that lies between Amalfi and Salerno is fully as rich in historical
interest and natural charm as is the western portion that we have just
traversed. Behind Majori we behold Monte Falerio, with its rocky summit
tipped with the glow of evening and its base in purple shadow, descending
abruptly into the darkening waters of the Bay. Slanting down to the
surf-fringed beach, the great mountain seem to bar our further progress,
but with a guttural imprecation and a loud cracking of the whip, our
coachman deftly guides his half-starved but cunning little horses round
the sharp corner of the mountain spur known as the Capo del’ Orso, and in
a trice Amalfi, whither we have been straining our eyes, is snatched from
our vision; a few minutes later, and we have rounded the Capo del Tumulo,
with its memories of the great Genoese admiral, Filippino Doria, who in
the treacherous currents that circle round this Cape, destroyed the
Spanish fleet of the Emperor Charles V. Already the sun has dipped below
the horizon, and the calm expanse of the Tyrrhene has lost the last
reflected ray; forward our driver urges his horses in the fast-fading
light. The Angelus rings out from half a score of belfries beside the
seashore and on the hillside, breaking the stillness of the gloaming with
musical reverberations. Sunset and evening star, twilight and evening
bell; how exquisite is the fall of night upon the shores of the Bay of
Salerno! We pass the fishing village of Cetara, and in so doing we pass by
the willing strength of imagination out of the dominion of the ancient
Republic of Amalfi into the Principality of Salerno. Onward we press, and
it is not long before a shrill familiar sound bursts upon our ears, a
sound that quickly tears the gossamer threads of a fancy revelling in the
thoughts of long-extinct principalities and powers. It is the whistle of a
railway-engine descending the slope from Vietri above us down to Salerno;
it is the neighing of the iron horse that has not yet pranced along the
unconquered Costiera d’Amalfi, nor befouled its crystal-clear air with his
smoky breath. For at Vietri we re-enter the every-day world, and leave
behind us the sea-girt fairy-land; Vietri, not Cetara, is the true
frontier town to-day. But the lights of Salerno are drawing nearer and
nearer, and in a few moments of time we are tearing along the broad
lamp-lit Marina of the town, in the middle of which our driver pulls up
suddenly at the entrance of that old-fashioned comfortable inn, the
Albergo d’Inghilterra:
“Another day has told its feverish story,
Another night has brought its promised rest.”
[Illustration: MINORI AT SUNSET]
CHAPTER VIII
SALERNO AND THE HOUSE OF HAUTEVILLE
Backed by gentle slopes well wooded and well tilled, and screened from the
northern blasts by its guarding amphitheatre of grey crags, Salerno
occupies a delightful position upon the Bay to which it gives its own
name. The long stretch of its Marina, tolerably clean to the eye if not at
all points agreeable to the nostrils, follows the broad curve of the
strand, and an idle hour or so may pleasantly be whiled away in watching
the fishing craft moored beside the mole and the attendant sailors. At the
northern end of this promenade, in what constitutes the most fashionable
quarter of the place, is a tiny garden with palms and daturas, whilst hard
by stands a large theatre, evidences of the gentility of modern Salerno.
But the whole town appears sleepy and dead-alive to a stranger, though at
the sunset hour a band occasionally plays in this open space, the music
attracting hither a crowd composed of all the divers elements of society
in the quiet old city. Yet though not possessing any great attractions for
a sojourn in itself, Salerno makes an excellent centre whence to explore
the neighbourhood, for it lies within easy reach of the great Benedictine
Abbey of Santa Trinità; of beautiful La Cava, “that Alpine valley under an
Italian sky”; of Nocera, with its ancient cathedral that was once a pagan
temple; and last, but very far from least, of that glorious group of
temples at Paestum. It has tolerable hotels, and if only their _padroni_
could be brought to realise that a flavouring of rosemary and garlic in
every dish is not appreciated by the palates of the _forestieri_, the fare
provided would be excellent. As in all Italian cities, northern or
southern, however, the nocturnal noise is prodigious. Shouting and
shrieking, quarrelling and yelling rend the air at all hours, whilst the
practice of serenading, more agreeable in romantic poetry than in everyday
life, is here carried to excess, and the twanging of the mandoline and the
throaty voices of ardent lovers are rarely silent o’ nights in the dark
narrow streets of Salerno.
“A lu scur’ vagi cercann’
La bella mia addo è?
Mo m’annascunn’ po’ fann’ dispera’,
I mor’, I mor’ pe’ te,
Ripos’ cchiù ne ho!”
(“In favouring dusk I wandering go,
My fair, where shall I find her?
Now she attracts, now drives me wild;
I die, I die for her;
Repose no more have I.”)
Behind the long line of lofty well-built houses facing the Bay, the
streets are gloomy, narrow and crooked, a labyrinth of dark mysterious
lanes that contain no palaces or churches of note, and but few artistic
“bits” to catch the eye and delight the soul of a painter. As in the case
of Amalfi, the Cathedral of San Matteo at Salerno is almost the sole
monument left standing of a past that is peculiarly rich in historical
associations. Ever since the accession of the Angevin kings Salerno has
remained a quiet provincial town, neither rich nor poor, but stagnant and
without commerce. Into its harbour, which Norman and Suabian princes
attempted to improve, the sand has long since silted, and Naples for many
centuries past has been able to regard with serene contempt the city that
it was once intended to make her commercial rival:
“Se Salerno avesse un porto,
Napoli sarebbe morto.”
Well, Naples owns an excellent harbour, and has in consequence grown into
one of the largest sea-ports on the shores of the Mediterranean, whilst
little Salerno can only afford anchorage for fishing boats.
The chief interest of the place centres in its close connection with the
great Norman house of Hauteville, and especially with Robert Guiscard,
Duke of Apulia and Calabria, who after a fierce struggle managed to
capture this city from the Lombard princes. Sprung from a hardy race of
_valvassors_ or _bannerets_ in Normandy, Duke Robert was one of the twelve
sons of Tancred of Hauteville in the bishopric of Coutances. Joining his
elder half-brother William Bras-de-Fer in Italy, Robert at once began to
make a remarkable display of soldierly and statesman-like qualities. An
adventurer pure and simple in an alien land, this sharp-witted Norman in
course of time obtained the nick-name of Guiscard, or the Wiseacre, and on
the death of his elder brother he was nominated Count of Apulia by
acclamation of the Norman followers, to the exclusion of his helpless
young nephews. Robert Guiscard’s appearance and character have been
sketched for us with loving care by one of the most famous of the world’s
historians, who was fully able to appreciate the mingled force and
cunning, the _suaviter in modo_ and the _fortiter in re_, of this leader
of a handful of Normans in a hostile and distant country. Let Gibbon’s
stately prose therefore present to us a word-painting of the Great
Adventurer himself:—
“His lofty stature surpassed the tallest of his army; his limbs were cast
in the true proportion of strength and gracefulness; and to the decline of
life he maintained the patent vigour of health and the commanding dignity
of his form. His complexion was ruddy, his shoulders were broad, his hair
and beard were long and of a flaxen colour, his eyes sparkled with fire,
and his voice, like that of Achilles, could impress obedience and terror
amidst the tumult of battle. In the ruder ages of chivalry, such
qualifications are not below the notice of the poet or historian; they may
observe that Robert at once and with equal dexterity could wield in the
right hand his sword, his lance in the left; that in the battle of
Civitella he was thrice unhorsed, and that on the close of that memorable
day he was adjudged to have borne away the prize of valour from the
warriors of the two armies. His boundless ambition was founded on the
consciousness of superior worth: in the pursuit of greatness he was never
arrested by the scruples of justice, and seldom moved by the feelings of
humanity: though not insensible of fame, the choice of open or clandestine
means was determined only by his present advantage. The surname of
_Guiscard_ was applied to this master of political wisdom, which is too
often confounded with the practice of dissimulation and deceit; and Robert
is praised by the Apulian poet for excelling the cunning of Ulysses and
the eloquence of Cicero. Yet these arts were disguised by an appearance of
military frankness: in his highest fortune he was accessible and courteous
to his fellow soldiers, and while he indulged the prejudices of his new
subjects, he affected in his dress and manners to maintain the ancient
fashion of his country. He grasped with a rapacious, that he might
distribute with a liberal hand; his primitive indigence had taught the
habits of frugality; the gain of a merchant was not below his attention;
and his prisoners were tortured with slow and unfeeling cruelty to force a
discovery of their secret treasure. According to the Greeks, he departed
from Normandy with only five followers on horse-back, and thirty on foot;
yet even this allowance appears too bountiful;—the sixth son of Tancred of
Hauteville passed the Alps as a pilgrim, and his first military band was
levied among the adventurers of Italy.”
Gaining over the Pope Nicholas II. to his interests, the new Count was
able to exact an oath of fealty in 1060 from the Italian barons, hitherto
his equals, to recognise him as “Duke of Apulia, Calabria, and here-after
of Sicily, by the grace of God and of St Peter,” although it took many
years of hard fighting before these lands, thus proudly claimed, could be
subdued. Beginning with the conquest of the Duchy of Benevento, Guiscard
at once laid siege to Salerno, taking it after an obstinate resistance
lasting over eight months, during which he was himself severely wounded by
a splinter from one of his own engines of war. The city captured with such
difficulty now became the victor’s favourite residence and the recipient
of his bounty and enlightened rule, so that Salerno quickly rose to the
rank of one of the most illustrious towns in Europe, supplanting even its
magnificent neighbour Amalfi in popular esteem.
“Urbs Latii non est hâc delitiosior urbe,
Frugibus arboribus vino redundat; et unde
Non tibi poma nuces, non pulchra palatia desunt,
Non species muliebris abest probitasque virorum.”
(“All Latium shows no more delightful place,
Whose sunny slopes the vine and almond grace;
’Midst fruitful groves her palaces uprear,
Her men are virtuous, and her women fair.”)
It was under the Guiscard’s auspices that the famous school of Medicine
that had long been seated at Salerno rose to its highest point of
excellence. “Paris for learning, Bologna for law, Orleans for poetry, and
Salerno for Medicine”;—such was the verdict of the age. With the somewhat
grudging consent of the clergy, the hygienic skill of the dreaded Arabs
was in this city permitted to temper the crass ignorance of medieval
Italy, and at Salerno alone were the works of the infidel Avicenna and of
the pagans Galen and Hippocrates openly studied. The result was that the
fame of the doctors of this _Fons Medicinae_ spread over all Western
Europe, so that distinguished patients either came hither to be treated in
person or else sent emissaries to explain their symptoms and to obtain
advice. Nor were the professors of the healing art at Salerno tied down by
a strict adherence to drugs and boluses, for they fully realised that the
height of all human ambition, the _mens sana in corpore sano_, is in any
case more easily to be obtained by self-control than by all the
ingredients of the pharmacopoeia. They were warm believers apparently in
the doctrine of moderation in all things, which after all is one of the
most valuable prescriptions of modern hygiene:
“Curas tolle graves, irasci crede profanum,
Parce mero, coenato parum, non sit tibi vanum,
Surgere post epulas, somnum fuge meridianum.”
(“Throw off dull care; thine angry moods restrain;
Eschew the wine-cup; lightly eat, nor vain
Deem our advice to make Enough thy feast.
Take exercise, and shun the noon-day rest.”)
Such was the oracular reply of the Salernitan sages to Robert, Duke of
Normandy, and no one can dispute the sound common sense of the
prescription given, nor doubt that it is applicable to half the patients
who to-day throng the consulting rooms of fashionable London physicians.
But to return to Robert Guiscard, who shares the historical honours of the
place, together with the great Pope Gregory VII., of whom we shall speak
presently. After subduing the southern half of Italy and the island of
Sicily, the great Duke next turned his victorious arms against the Eastern
Empire, with the secret intention, it was suspected, of ascending the
throne of Constantine. With the pseudo-Emperor Michael in his train, the
Great Adventurer in 1081 assembled a vast army at Otranto, consisting of
30,000 Italian subjects and of 1300 Norman knights, with the object of
crossing over to Epirus. Durazzo on the opposite Albanian coast, the
Dyrrachium of the ancients, a city that was henceforth destined to be
closely associated with succeeding dynasties of South Italy, was the
objective of this gigantic expedition, for it was commonly reported to be
the key of the Eastern Empire. Thither the flotilla set sail, but before
reaching the Greek shore, an unexpected and unseasonable tempest scattered
Guiscard’s argosy, destroying many of the ships and drowning many crews.
Nevertheless, the undaunted spirit and endless resources of the Norman
Duke rose superior to all misfortunes. Landing with the remnant of his
army he at once laid siege to Durazzo, despite the fact that the Emperor
Alexius was marching to its relief, and that the Venetian fleet was
already anchored in its harbour. In spite of overwhelming odds, Guiscard
utterly routed the Byzantine army. With his heir Bohemond and his wife
Sigilgaita beside him, the Duke watched the progress of the battle, and at
its most critical juncture, at a moment when it appeared inevitable that
the hard-pressed Italian army must yield to the sheer numbers of the foe,
the deep voice of the leader could be heard booming like a deep-toned bell
over the battlefield, as he addressed his wavering troops. “Whither do ye
fly? Your enemy is implacable, and death is less grievous than slavery!”
Joined with the hoarse voice of Guiscard, the Norman warriors could
distinguish the exhortations of the Amazon-like Sigilgaita, “a second
Pallas, less skilful in arts, but no less terrible in arms than the
Athenian goddess.” Rallying at the words of their master and shamed by the
martial ardour of the Duchess, the invading troops made one last desperate
effort, whereby the Imperial army was driven back and scattered, so that
Alexius barely escaped with his life. Having routed the Emperor in fair
fight, Guiscard now made use of his unparalleled cunning by bribing the
treacherous Venetians, who eventually assisted the Italian forces to enter
the city gates, and thus Durazzo was gained at the point of the sword
after one of the fiercest sieges known to history. Scarcely had the
beleaguered town been reduced, than the indomitable Guiscard found himself
compelled to return to Italy, where the Emperor of the West, the unhappy
Henry IV., vainly endeavouring to wipe out the humiliation of Canossa, had
seized Rome and was actually besieging the great Hildebrand in the Castle
of Sant’ Angelo. Leaving his son Bohemond in command of the army in
Macedonia, Robert recrossed the sea, and hastened with a handful of men
towards Rome. But so intense a fear did the victor of Durazzo inspire,
that the terrified Emperor without waiting to give combat fled headlong
together with his anti-pope from the Holy City, where Guiscard was
received with acclamation. “Thus, in less than three years,” remarks
Gibbon, “the son of Tancred of Hauteville enjoyed the glory of delivering
the Pope, and of compelling the two Emperors of the East and West to fly
before his victorious arms.” Guiscard’s triumphal entry into Rome was
however marred by scenes of violence and scandal, due to the conduct of
the Saracen troops which his brother, the great Count Roger of Sicily, had
brought to assist the enterprise. So infuriated were the Romans by the
behaviour of the infidels, that the prudent Gregory deemed it wiser to
return to Salerno together with his deliverer, and it was in Guiscard’s
palace that the famous “Caesar of spiritual conquest” expired three years
later. As to the Great Adventurer himself, he died in the island of
Cephalonia in the very year of the Pope’s death at Salerno (1085) and was
buried beside his first wife, the gentle Alberada, at Venosa in Apulia,
though the city which he had always loved and favoured would seem to have
offered a more appropriate spot for his interment.
But although the mortal remains of the Great Adventurer do not rest within
the precincts of his beloved city, an undying monument of his glorious but
turbulent reign is to be found in the Cathedral, which despite the neglect
and alterations of eight centuries may still be ranked as one of the most
interesting buildings in Southern Italy. Standing in a secluded part of
the town, this magnificent church gains nothing from its position, for it
can only be reached by means of tortuous dingy lanes, and even on a near
approach the effect produced on the visitor is not impressive. “The
Cathedral-church of San Matteo,” says the Scotch traveller, Joseph
Forsyth, in quaint pedantic language, “is a pile so antique and so modern,
so repaired and rhapsodic, that it exhibits patches of every style, and is
of no style itself.” But is not this quality, we ask, exactly what a great
historic building, such as Guiscard’s church, truly demands? Ought not it
to bear the impress of the various ages it has survived, and of the many
famous persons who have contributed to its embellishment? From Duke
Robert’s day to the present time, the Cathedral is an epitome of the
history of Salerno, a sermon in stones concerning the great past and the
inglorious present of the city.
In the year preceding his own death and that of the great Pontiff, who was
tarrying at Salerno as his not over-willing guest, Duke Robert erected
this Cathedral, obtaining the chief ornaments for his new structure and
also its most important relic, the supposed body of the Apostle St
Matthew, from the lately deserted city of Paestum across the bay. The
church is approached by means of a quadrangular fore-court, a cloister
supported on antique columns, such as can still be observed in a few of
the old Roman churches, so that we venture to think that this idea at
Salerno was suggested by the great Pope himself. A number of sculptured
sarcophagi, which, like the pillars, were the spoils of Paestum, are
ranged alongside the entrance walls; and once upon a time there stood in
the centre of the courtyard the huge granite basin that all visitors to
Naples will recall as set in the middle of the Villa Reale, where it
performs the humble office of decorating a miniature pond, wherein
lily-white ducks quack and gobble at the bread crumbs thrown to them by
children and their nurses. Fancy the irate disgust of Duke Robert at
waking to learn that the antique fountain for his new Cathedral, brought
with such care and toil from distant Poseidonia, should have been
transported to the rival city and turned to such base uses! Above the
splendid bronze doors, the gift of Landolfo Butomilea and his wife shortly
after Guiscard’s death, we perceive the dedication of the church to the
Apostle Matthew by the proud conqueror of the Two Sicilies and the
protector of Hildebrand.
“A Duce Roberto donaris Apostole templo:
Pro meritis regno donetur ipse superno.”
The donor, we note, is confident that the Apostle, in return for so
glorious a fabric, will undertake to obtain the Kingdom of Heaven for this
generous client upon earth.
The interior, which is sadly marred by white-wash and gaudy decoration, is
a perfect treasure-house of works of art—antique, medieval, Renaissance—of
which the guide-book will give a detailed list. Succeeding generations
have put to strange uses some of the fine marble reliefs that Guiscard
transported hither from Paestum, and we note that one archbishop has gone
so far as to filch a sarcophagus carved with a Bacchanal procession to
serve for his own tomb. We might perhaps infer that the deceased prelate
was addicted to the wine-flask, and to have been a firm believer in and
follower of one of the rules of the medical school of his own diocese:
“Si nocturna tibi noceat potatio vini,
Hoc ter mane libas iterum, et fuerit medicina.”
(“If a carouse at night do make thee ill,
For morning medicine drink of wine thy fill”)
Let us hope that this extraordinary receipt for “hot coppers” was intended
satirically, or else given seriously as the only advice that a confirmed
toper was likely to follow in any case. But the use of classical adjuncts
to adorn Christian tombs, which to-day appears so incongruous to us, was
popular enough at the time of the Renaissance, and readers of Robert
Browning’s poetry will call to mind the story of the dying Bishop’s
injunction to his heirs concerning his tomb in St Praxed’s church at Rome:
“The bas-relief in bronze ye promised me,
Those Pans and Nymphs ye wot of, and perchance
Some tripod thyrsus with a vase or so,
The Saviour at His sermon on the mount,
Saint Praxed in a glory, and one Pan
Ready to twitch the Nymph’s last garment off,
And Moses with the tables....”
But it is necessary to shake off the spirit of Renaissance dilettantism
before we venture to approach the chapel of John of Procida to the right
of the high altar, where stands the stern figure of the greatest of the
medieval Pontiffs. Above the marble statue of the Caesar of the Papacy,
that was tardily erected to his memory by the unfortunate Pio Nono, appear
the glittering mosaics of the apse of the chapel, from which look down the
figures of John of Procida and of King Manfred, the last sovereign prince
of the hated Suabian line that Gregory twice anathematized. Beneath the
cold forbidding eye of the last of the Hohenstaufen and his friend and
avenger here rest, strangely enough, the ashes of that “great and
inflexible asserter of the supremacy of the sacerdotal order: the monk
Hildebrand, afterwards Pope Gregory the Seventh.” Born the son of a poor
carpenter in the Tuscan village of Soana, this extraordinary man rose to
eminence as a monk of Cluny, where he became famous for his extreme
asceticism of life in an age of undisguised clerical corruption and
luxury, when simony, lay investiture and priestly marriages were the rule
rather than the exception on all sides, so that but few Churchmen were
able to rise above their surrounding temptations. Such few as could resist
the world, the flesh and the devil were accounted, and not unfrequently
were in reality, ignorant crazy fanatics, half-pitied and half-despised.
Between these two extremes of worldly indulgence and of unreasoning
severity of life, Hildebrand ever pursued a middle course, for whilst on
the one hand he eschewed the vanities of life around him, on the other he
never sank into the self-effacement of a hermit. His acknowledged purity
and zeal soon won for him from the laity a respect mingled with awe,
whilst his natural talents, his indomitable will, and his genuine piety in
course of time brought all Churchmen who had any regard for their holy
office to fix their hopes upon this Clugniac monk, now a Cardinal. For
some years before his actual election to the Papal throne in 1079,
Hildebrand had begun to exercise an immense control over the councils of
the Church, and he was personally responsible for the epoch-making
resolution under Nicholas II., which declared that the choice of a new
Pontiff was vested in the College of Cardinals alone. His own election,
under the terms of this new and drastic arrangement, became the signal for
the fierce struggles, equally of the battlefield and the council-chamber,
that were destined to distract Italy for generations to come. For, as
might have been expected, the Emperor Henry IV., King of the Romans, was
not long in protesting against so decided an infringement of his secular
claims. From the synods of Worms and Piacenza came the Imperial decree of
deposition against Gregory, which was addressed by “Henry, not by
usurpation but by God’s holy ordination, King, to Hildebrand, no longer
Pope, but false monk.” Gregory, strong alike in virtue and in resolve, and
aided by the might of the Countess Matilda of Tuscany and of Robert
Guiscard, answered by pronouncing a solemn anathema upon his secular
adversary. In awe-struck silence the Council of the Lateran listened to
the Pope’s final excommunication of the King, and of all those who dared
to associate themselves with him. “I absolve,” said Gregory, “all
Christians from the oaths which they have taken or may take to him; and I
decree that no one shall obey him as king; for it is fitting that he, who
has endeavoured to diminish the honour of the Church, should himself lose
that honour which he seems to have.” We all know the final act of that
terrible unequal struggle, the duel of brute force against spiritual
terrors in a rude age of violence and superstition, which took place in
the courtyard of the Castle of Canossa, the Countess Matilda’s fortress in
the Apennines.
“On a dreary winter morning, with the ground deep in snow, the King, the
heir of a long line of Emperors, was permitted to enter within the two
outer of the three walls which girded the Castle of Canossa. He had laid
aside every mark of royalty or of distinguished station; he was clad only
in the thin white linen dress of the penitent, and there, fasting, he
awaited in humble patience the pleasure of the Pope. But the gates did not
unclose. A second day he stood, cold, hungry and mocked by vain hopes. And
yet a third day dragged on from morning till evening over the unsheltered
head of the discrowned King. Every heart was moved save that of the
representative of Jesus Christ.”
[Illustration: ON THE ROAD TO RAVELLO]
Can we wonder then that the phrase “to go to Canossa” (_gehen nach
Canossa_) has become ingrafted on to the German language, or that so
significant an expression was openly used by Prince Bismarck during the
fierce religious struggles in the days of the “Kultur-kampf” between the
newly-formed Empire and the direct successor of the spiritual Caesar who
had thus humbled a former Emperor of Germany? It was in vain that Henry
afterwards endeavoured, by making war upon his oppressor, to undo the evil
effects of his public recantation at Canossa; the act of humiliation was
too marked ever to be wiped out either by himself or by his descendants.
For good or for bad, Gregory had succeeded in rendering the Papacy free
from lay control; he had gained for ever for the Church one of her most
cherished tenets, the absolute independence of the Pope’s election by the
College of Cardinals; and he had even partially reduced the Western Empire
into a fief of the Church itself. The former of Gregory’s great objects,
the freedom of election, still remains intact after an interval of more
than eight hundred years; the latter attempt, though long struggled for
and apparently with success at times, has, we know, ultimately failed.
Having accomplished so much during his reign, it is strange to think that
Gregory’s last days should have been passed in a form of exile away from
the Eternal City which he claimed as the metropolis of the Universal
Church. There is pathos to be found in the Pope dying at Salerno, far
removed from the scene of his ambition and success. With the bitter
feeling that his name was execrated in Rome after Guiscard’s sack, and
that his host was bent upon obtaining the imperial title from his
reluctant guest, Gregory’s declining days were spent in melancholy
reflections. To the last he spoke confidently of the righteousness of his
cause, and whilst making his peace with all mankind in anticipation of his
approaching end, he deliberately excepted from his own and God’s mercy the
names of his arch-enemy Henry and the anti-pope Guibert, together with all
their followers. Thus the aged Pontiff languished to his end within the
walls of the Castle of Salerno, encircled by flattering Churchmen who did
their utmost to cheer their dying champion. “I have loved justice and
hated iniquity, and therefore I die in exile,” are the famous words
recorded of Hildebrand in the face of the King of Terrors. “In exile thou
canst not die!” eagerly responded an attendant priest. “Vicar of Christ
and His Apostles, thou hast received the nations for thine inheritance,
and the uttermost parts of the earth for thy possession.”
Perhaps the expiring Pope was cheered by these words—who can tell? In any
case they were prophetic, for the present world-wide character of the
Roman Church, which embraces in its fold all nationalities and holds its
members together all the globe over in one indissoluble bond of a
spiritual empire, is largely due to the trials and exertions of one man:
the monk Hildebrand, Pope Gregory the Seventh.
Here then he sleeps his last sleep, the friend of Matilda, the mortal foe
of King Henry, the patron of William the Conqueror, the guest of Robert
Guiscard:—what a galaxy of illustrious names shines upon that dim silent
chapel in the Cathedral of Salerno! Here stands in unchanging benediction
his gleaming marble effigy, calmly surveyed by King Manfred near at hand
in imperial robes, the last prince of the hated and twice banned Suabian
House, whose bones were destined to bleach in the sun and rattle in the
wind by the bridge of Benevento under a Papal curse.
Before we quit the Cathedral in order to enjoy the evening sunshine, which
is filling the interior with its roseate glow, let us return for one brief
moment to the northern aisle, to glance at the grave of the Duchess who
fought so boldly by her husband’s side at Durazzo. It is easy to find, for
her simple tomb stands not far from the beautiful and elaborate monument
of Margaret of Durazzo (strange coincidence!) wife of King Charles of
Naples, wherein the sculptor has portrayed angels drawing aside a curtain
so as to display the sleeping form of the dead Queen within. Close to this
monument of a not unusual Renaissance type, we discover the last resting
place of Robert Guiscard’s second wife, the Duchess Sigilgaita, their son
Roger Bursa and their grandson William, in whom the direct line of the
Great Adventurer became extinct. Many stories are told by the old
chroniclers of this bold intrepid princess (not always to her
credit)—daughter of the last Lombard prince Gisulf of Salerno and wife of
her father’s supplanter, whose humble Norman ancestry she affected to
despise. But despite her reputation for cruelty and even for murder,
Sigilgaita was a faithful wife and a brave woman, with a character not
unlike that of our own Queen Margaret of Anjou; and it seems strange that
so devoted and well mated a pair as herself and Robert Guiscard should be
separated in death, he at Venosa and she in the cathedral of her husband’s
foundation.
Passing out of the silent church into the warm light of eventide, by steep
alleys and by stony footpaths we gradually mount upwards towards the
ruined castle that commands a lofty position with an all-embracing view of
the bay and its encircling mountains. The crumbling fragment of the old
palace of Salerno differs but little in appearance from any one of those
innumerable dilapidated piles of the Middle Ages with which Southern Italy
is so thickly studded, yet coming fresh from visiting Guiscard’s cathedral
and Hildebrand’s last resting-place, we find it comparatively easy to
conjure up some recollections of its past, so as to invest its crumbling
red-hued walls with a spell of interest. These broken apertures were
surely once the windows through which the dying Pope must have wearily
glanced upon the sun-smitten waves and violet-shadowed hills that we
behold to-day; here in this embrasure, long despoiled of its marble seat,
must have brooded the fierce and unscrupulous Sigilgaita, thinking of how
best to rid herself of her step-son Bohemond, in order that her own
children might inherit their father’s realms. The ghosts of princes and
popes are around us, yet the only living inhabitant of the roofless castle
is the ragged little goat-herd, whose unsavoury charges are cropping the
short grass that covers the site of the banqueting hall, where Norman
knights and Italian barons once caroused in the crusading days of long
ago. We seat ourselves on the dry sward in a sun-warmed angle of the
ruins, where an almond tree that has sprouted from the rubble sends down
from time to time upon our heads a tiny shower of pale pink blossoms at
the bidding of the soft evening breeze. At our feet are masses of the dark
shiny leaves of the wild arum, and rank grass which is plentifully starred
with tall-stemmed crimson-petalled daisies and the mauve wind-flowers that
are drowsily closing their cups at the approach of night. The little
goat-herd eyes us solemnly, but—strange and welcome to relate—shows no
inclination to pester the _signori_. The soft murmuring of the distant
sea, the subdued hum of the city far below us and the drowsy buzzing of
the bees in the almond and ivy bloom close at hand combine to strengthen
the golden chain of imagination. As we sit basking in the peaceful beauty
of the scene around us and serenely conscious of its glorious past, one of
our party suddenly remembers in a welcome flash of inspiration that this
deserted courtyard has been made the scene of one of Boccaccio’s most
famous tales. It is a story that many writers of succeeding ages have
endeavoured to imitate in prose or verse, but this fictitious love-tragedy
between a princess and a page at Salerno has a simple charm and dignity in
its original setting that only the master-hand of the Tuscan author could
impart. The scene of the novel of Guiscard and Ghismonda is laid, as we
have said, at this very spot, and as the hero, the heroine and the villain
of the tale have Norman names, we may be allowed to conjecture that this
graceful story, which Boccaccio puts into the mouth of the lady Fiammetta,
was founded upon some actual but half-forgotten family scandal in the
annals of the mighty but self-made House of Hauteville.
* * * * * *
Once upon a time there reigned in Salerno the Prince Tancred, who was a
widower, and the father of an only daughter, Ghismonda, Duchess of Capua.
The Duchess, who was considered one of the most beautiful, accomplished
and virtuous princesses of her day, had been early married to the Duke of
Capua, but on his death after a very few years of matrimony had been left
a childless widow. Being still very young, the Princess Ghismonda was now
taken back to his court by her father, who jealously guarded her and
seemed unwilling for her to be remarried. Living in rooms that over-looked
the courtyard of the palace, the Duchess, who found time hang on her hands
somewhat heavily, used to spend hours daily in watching the lords and
pages of her father’s household passing and repassing the quadrangle
below, and amongst the many well-favoured youths a certain page named
Guiscard found most favour in her sight. Now Guiscard, who had thus all
unwittingly attracted Ghismonda’s attention and finally won her heart, was
a young Norman of no great lineage and of small means, but being discreet,
upright and sensible-minded, had obtained a high place in Prince Tancred’s
estimation. Skilfully questioning her maids of honour without exciting
their suspicions, the Princess gained all she wished to know concerning
Guiscard’s position and attainments, and it was not long before she found
means of conveying the secret of her affection to the youth, who in fact
had already fallen head over ears in love with the beautiful Duchess who
so often leaned from the casement above. She now sent him a letter hidden
in a pair of bellows, wherein she explained to him the existence of a
secret passage, long disused, that led from a hollow in the hillside below
the castle walls up to her own apartment. Over-joyed at receiving this
missive, the infatuated page took the first occasion, as we may well
imagine, to make use of this friendly clue, and before many hours had
passed after receiving the letter, the young man, flushed and triumphant,
was standing in the chamber of his beloved mistress, who had meanwhile
taken every necessary preparation for receiving her lover in secret. Many
a time were the pair able to meet thus without awakening the least
suspicion in the minds of Prince Tancred or of the maids of honour, and
all would doubtless have gone well for an indefinite period of time, but
for a most unforeseen accident. It appears that one morning the old Prince
of Salerno, wishing to confer with his daughter on some matter of state,
came to her private apartment, and on learning that she had gone out
riding settled himself upon a couch that stood within a curtained alcove,
and whilst waiting for her return fell sound asleep. After some hours of
repose the prince was suddenly roused from his heavy slumber by the sound
of two voices in the room, that of his daughter and of a strange man.
Peeping stealthily through the folds of the draperies, he now beheld to
his fury and amazement the Duchess alone with his page Guiscard. But the
descendant of Robert the Wiseacre well knew how to temper vengeance with
dissimulation. Dreading the scandal that would follow an open exposure,
the Prince, in spite of his years and the stiffness of his joints,
contrived to quit the chamber unperceived by means of a convenient window.
That very night the unsuspecting Guiscard was seized by his sovereign’s
orders and thrust into a foul dungeon of the palace, whither Tancred
himself descended to question his prisoner and to reprove him violently
for his base ingratitude. But the unhappy page could only make repeated
answer: “Sire, love hath greater powers than you or I!” On the following
morning Tancred proceeded to visit the Duchess, still ignorant of her
paramour’s fate, and in a voice strangled with the conflicting emotions of
paternal love and desired vengeance bitterly upbraided his erring child.
“Daughter, I had such an opinion of your modesty and virtue, that I could
never have believed, had I not seen it with mine own eyes, that you would
have violated either, even so much as in thought. The recollection of this
will make the pittance of life that is left very grievous to me. As you
were determined to act in that manner, would to Heaven you had made choice
of a person more suitable to your own quality; but this Guiscard is one of
the meanest persons about my court. This gives me such concern, that I
scarce know what to do. As for him, he was secured by my order last night,
and his fate is determined. But with regard to yourself, I am influenced
by two different motives: on one side, the tenderest regard that a father
can have for a child; and on the other, the justest vengeance for the
great folly you have committed. One pleads strongly in your behalf; and
the other would excite me to do an act contrary to my nature. But before I
come to a resolution, I would fain hear what you have to say for
yourself.”
Seeing clearly from her father’s words that her secret had been discovered
and that her lover was in prison, the intrepid Ghismonda, a true daughter
of the high-spirited House of Hauteville, assuming a composure she was
very far from feeling, made a dignified appeal on behalf of Guiscard and
herself.
“Father, it is not my purpose either to deny or to entreat; for as the one
can avail me nothing, so I intend the other shall be of little service. I
will by no means bespeak your love and tenderness towards me; but shall
first, by an open confession, endeavour to vindicate myself, and thus do
what the greatness of my soul prompts me to. It is most true that I have
loved, and do still love Guiscard; and whilst I live, which will not be
long, shall continue to love him; and if such a thing as love be after
death, I shall never cease to love him.... It appears from what you say,
that you would have been less incensed if I had made choice of a nobleman,
and you bitterly reproach me for having condescended to a man of low
condition. In this you speak according to vulgar prejudice, and not
according to truth; nor do you perceive that the fault you blame is not
mine, but Fortune’s, who often exalts the unworthy, and leaves the
worthiest in low estate. But, not to dwell on such considerations, look a
little into first principles, and you will see that we are all formed of
the same material and by the same hand. The first difference amongst
mankind, who are all born equal, was made by virtue; they who were
virtuous were deemed noble, and the rest were all accounted otherwise.
Though this law, therefore, may have been obscured by contrary custom, yet
is it discarded neither by nature nor good manners. If you regard only the
worth and virtue of your courtiers, and consider that of Guiscard, you
will find him the only noble person, and these others a set of poltroons.
With regard to his worth and valour, I appeal to yourself. Who ever
commended man more for anything that was praise-worthy than you have
commended him? And deservedly, in my judgment; but if I was deceived, it
was by following your opinion. If you say, then, that I have had an affair
with a person base and ignoble, I deny it; if with a poor one, it is to
your shame to have let such merit go unrewarded. Now concerning your last
doubt, namely how you are to deal with me: use your pleasure. If you are
disposed to commit an act of cruelty, I shall say nothing to prevent such
a resolution. But this I must apprise you of; that unless you do the same
to me, which you either have done, or mean to do to Guiscard, mine own
hands shall do it for you. If you mean to act with severity, cut us off
both together, if it appear to you that we have deserved it.”
The Duchess’ able defence of her choice of Guiscard and her democratic
views of society were hardly likely to influence the proud tyrant of
Salerno, although his house was sprung from a plebeian stock of Normandy.
Ignoring her plea and arguments, Tancred left his daughter alone with her
grief, and proceeded to the cells below to give the order for Guiscard’s
immediate death by strangling. But Tancred’s fury was by no means appeased
by the page’s death, for tearing the unhappy youth’s heart from the warm
and still quivering body, the brutal prince had the bleeding flesh placed
in a golden covered cup, which he bade his chamberlain deliver to
Ghismonda, with these cruel words: “Your father sends this present to
comfort you with what was most dear to you; even as he was comforted by
you in what was most dear to him.” With a calm countenance and with a
gracious word of thanks, the Princess accepted the gift, and on removing
the cover and realising the contents of the cup, said with meaning to the
bearer of this gruesome present: “My father has done very wisely; such a
heart as this requires no worse a sepulchre than one of gold.” Then after
lamenting for a while over her lover’s fate, Ghismonda filled the goblet
with a draught of poison that she had already prepared in anticipation of
her father’s vengeance, and quaffed its contents. After this she lay down
upon her bed, clasping the cup to her bosom, whereupon her maids, all
ignorant of the cause of their mistress’ conduct, ran terrified to call
Prince Tancred, who arrived in time to witness his unhappy daughter’s
death agony. Now that it was too late, the Prince was stricken with
remorse and began loudly to bewail the violence of his late anger. “Sire,”
said the dying Princess, “save those tears against worse fortune that may
happen, for I want them not. Who but yourself would mourn for a thing of
your own doing?” Then dropping her tone of irony, she made one last
request of her weeping and repentant father, that her own and Guiscard’s
bodies might be honourably interred within the same tomb. Thus perished by
her own hand the beautiful Princess Ghismonda of Salerno, Duchess of
Capua, urged to the fell deed by a parent’s inexorable cruelty. And it is
some slight consolation to the sad ending of the story to learn that
Tancred did at least carry out his daughter’s dying entreaty, for the
bodies of Ghismonda and Guiscard were duly laid in one grave amidst the
pomp of religion and the cold comfort of a public mourning.(7)
* * * * * *
But the sun has long since sunk below the horizon, and the chill dews of
night are falling round us. Hastily we leave the old palace of the princes
of Salerno to the solitary occupation of the bats and owls, to seek warmth
and cheerfulness in our inn upon the Marina.
CHAPTER IX
PAESTUM AND THE GLORY THAT WAS GREECE
In these days of easy travelling there lies a choice of two routes to
Paestum and its temples: one by driving thither direct from La Cava or
Salerno, in the mode of our forefathers; and the other by taking the train
to the little junction of Battipaglia, and thence proceeding southward by
the coast line to the station of Pesto itself, that stands almost within a
stone’s throw of the chief gate of Poseidonia. A third, and perhaps a
preferable way, consists in using the railway beyond Battipaglia to Eboli,
a town of no little interest in the upper valley of the Silarus, and
thence driving along the base of the rocky hills that enclose the maritime
plain and through the oak wood of Persano that was brigand-haunted within
living memory. But though the scenery between Eboli and Paestum
undoubtedly owns more charm and variety than the marshy flats can boast,
yet the strange loneliness of the sea-girt level has a fascination of its
own, which will appeal strongly to all lovers of pristine undisturbed
nature. For the larger portion of these Lucanian plains still remains
uncultivated, so that thickets of fragrant wild myrtle and lentisk, of
coronella and of white-blossomed laurustinus, stud the landscape; whilst
the open ground is thickly covered with masses of hardy but gay flowering
weeds. The great star-thistles run to seed unchecked by the scythe, and
the belled cerinthia and the glaucous-leaved tall yellow mulleins seem to
thrive heartily on the barren soil. Boggy ground alternates with patches
of dry stony earth, and in early summer every little pool of water affords
sustenance to coarse-scented white water-lilies, and clumps of the yellow
iris that are over-shadowed by masses of tall graceful reeds. These
_arundini_, which are to be found near every water-course or pool
throughout Italy, are characteristic of the country with their broad grey
leaves, their heads of pink feathery bloom, and their mournful whispering
answers to the question of every passing breeze; elegant in their growth,
they are also beloved by the practical peasant who utilizes their long
slender stems for a variety of purposes in his domestic economy. For the
reeds, stripped of their foliage, support his tender young vines and make
good frame-work whereon to train his peas and tomatoes; the longest canes
of all, moreover, serve well as handles for the long feather brushes which
are used so extensively in all Italian households. Other floral denizens
of the plain are the great rank _porri_, or wild leeks, conspicuous with
their bright green curling leaves issuing from globe-like roots above the
ground, and of course, the asphodel, the plant of Death. For the asphodel
is pre-eminently the flower of Southern Italy and of Sicily, since it
presents a fit emblem of a departed grandeur that is still impressive in
its decay. How beautiful to the eye appear the dark grey-green sword-like
leaves from the centre of which up-shoots the tall branching stem with its
clusters of delicate pink-striped blossoms, that show so lovely yet smell
so vile! Apart from its fetid odour, the asphodel is a thing of intense
beauty, so that a long line of these plants in full bloom, covering some
ridge of orange-coloured tufa or the velvety-grey crest of some ancient
wall, with their spikes of starry flowers standing out distinct like
floral candelabra against the clear blue of a southern sky, makes an
impression upon the beholder that will ever be gratefully remembered.
But flowers and shrubs are not the only occupants of the Poseidonian
plain, for as we proceed on our way towards the Temples, we notice in the
drier pastures large herds of the long-horned dove-coloured cattle of the
country, whilst in marshy places our interest is aroused by the sight of
great shaggy buffaloes of sinister mien. The buffalo has long been
acclimatized in Italy, though its original home seems to have been the
trackless marshes of the Tigris and Euphrates. The conquering Arabs first
introduced these uncouth Eastern cattle into Sicily, whence they were
imported into Italy by the Norman kings of Naples. In spite of its
malevolent nature and the poor quality of its flesh and hide, the buffalo
came to be extensively bred in the Pontine and Lucanian marshes, where the
moisture of the soil and the unwholesome air always affected the native
herds unfavourably. For hours together these fierce untameable beasts love
to lie amidst the swampy reed-beds, wallowing up to their flanks in slimy
malodorous mud and seemingly impervious to the ceaseless attacks of the
local wasps and gad-flies, which try in vain to penetrate with their
barbed stings the thick hairy covering of defence. Perchance between
Battipaglia and Paestum we may encounter a herd of these shaggy beeves
being driven by a peasant on horse-back, with his _pungolo_ or small lance
in hand: a human being that in his goat-skin breeches and with his
luxuriant untrimmed locks, seems to our eyes only one degree less savage
and unkempt than the fierce beasts he guides. As cultivation has made
progress of recent years and the unhealthy marshes of the coast line are
being gradually drained, the numbers of buffalo tend to decrease, whilst
the native Italian oxen are being introduced once more into the newly
reclaimed pastures. That former arch-enemy of the cattle in the days of
Vergil seems to have disappeared: that “flying pest,” the _asilo_ of the
Romans and the _aestrum_ of the Greeks, which in antique times was wont to
drive the grazing herds frantic with terror and pain, until the valley of
the Tanager and the Alburnian woods re-echoed with the agonised lowing of
the poor tortured creatures. And speaking of noxious insects, a general
belief prevails in Italy that their bite—as well as that of snakes and
scorpions—becomes more acute and dangerous when the sun enters into the
sign of Lion, so that human beings, as well as defenceless cattle, must
carefully avoid all chances of being bitten during the months of July and
August.
Before our goal can be reached it is necessary for us to cross the broad
willow-fringed stream of the Sele, the Silarus of antiquity, which
according to the testimony of Silius Italicus once possessed the property
of petrifying wood. In the distant days of the eighteenth century, the
traveller to Paestum had to endure amidst other difficulties and dangers
of the road the disagreeable business of being ferried across the Sele,
which was then bridgeless. Owing to the malaria and the loneliness of the
spot, the acting of ferryman over this river was not an agreeable post,
and Count Stolberg, a German dilettante who has left some memories of his
Italian wanderings, relates how a feeble dismal soured old man, a
veritable Charon of the upper air, had great difficulty in conveying
himself, his horse and his servant across the swollen stream. The old
man’s age and misery aroused the Count’s compassion, so that he asked him
why he continued thus to perform a task at once so arduous and so
distasteful. “Sir,” replied the boatman, “I would gladly be excused, but
that my master compels me to undertake this work.” “And who, pray, is this
tyrant of a master of yours?” indignantly enquired the Count. “Sir, it is
my Lord Poverty!” grimly answered the old ferryman, as he pocketed the
Teuton’s fee. Times have changed with regard to the necessity of a ferry
over the Sele, but to judge from the appearance of the people and from the
accounts in the journals, we much doubt if my Lord Poverty’s sway has been
much weakened in these parts.
At length we reach the tiny hamlet and station of Pesto, surrounded by its
groves of mournful eucalyptus trees, and if we visit the station itself,
we cannot help noticing the fine gauze net-work over every window and
door, also the veiled faces and be-gloved hands of the station-master and
his _facchini_. It is not difficult to gauge the reason of the eucalyptus
trees at Pesto, an alien importation like the buffalo, for these native
trees of Australia have been planted here with the avowed object of
reducing the malaria, for which the place is only too renowned. Scientists
have positively declared that the mosquitoes which rise in clouds from the
poisonous swamps at sunset are directly responsible for this terrible form
of ague, and a paternal Government has accordingly introduced gum-trees to
improve the quality of the air, and has presented gloves, veils and fine
lattice work to its servants in the hope of protecting them from the bites
of these tiny pestilence-bearing insects. We do not wish to dispute the
wisdom of modern bacteriologists, but somehow we have no great faith in
this elaborate scheme for battling with Nature; and indeed not a few
persons who have studied the matter declare that though the reeking
marshes are certainly productive of malaria in themselves (so much so that
it is dangerous to linger amidst the ruined temples of an evening), yet
these spiteful little creatures are at least innocent of innoculating
humanity with this particular disease. Moreover, a plausible idea that is
now largely held insists that the recent spread of cultivation over the
Lucanian Plain is itself largely responsible for the increase of malaria;
it is the up-turning of the germ-impregnated earth that has lain fallow
for centuries, say the supporters of this theory, which awakens and sets
free the slumbering demon of fever in the soil, so that the speeding of
the plough on the Neapolitan coast must inevitably mean also the spreading
of this fell and mysterious sickness. Let us therefore give the devil his
due: the mosquito is a hateful and persistent foe, and his sting is both
painful and disfiguring, but do not let us accuse him of carrying malaria
until the case can be better proved against him. But enough of fevers and
doctors’ saws! Let us turn our willing eyes towards the three great
temples that confront us close at hand. Before however proceeding to
inspect these great monuments of Grecian art and civilization, which rank
amongst the most venerable as well as the most beautiful relics of
antiquity, it is only meet that we should carry with us into their ruined
halls a few grains of historical knowledge, whereby our sense of reality
and our appreciation of their greatness and splendour may be increased.
[Illustration: THE TEMPLE OF NEPTUNE, PAESTUM]
Although we do not possess a definite history of Paestum, similar to that
of Rome or of Athens, yet from the many allusions to be found scattered
throughout the pages of classical historians, as well as from the various
inscriptions and devices found upon ancient coins of this city, it is not
a difficult task to piece together the main features of Poseidonian
annals. From a very remote period of antiquity there was undoubtedly a
settlement on or near the coast to the south of the river Silarus, whilst
it is commonly held that this spot was called Peste—a name almost
identical with the modern Italian appellation—many hundreds of years
before the arrival of Doric settlers on the shores of the Tyrrhene Sea.
Late in the seventh century before Christ, the Greek colony of Poseidonia,
the city of the Sea God, was founded on or near the site of Italian Peste
by certain Hellenic adventurers from Trœzen, who were amongst the
inhabitants of Sybaris, at that time one of the most flourishing of the
famous cities of Magna Graecia: and this new colony of Trœzenians
henceforward was accounted one of the twenty-five subject-towns that
recognised Sybaris for their metropolis, or mother and suzerain city. We
have no details of its early history, but it is quite certain that under
the protection of Sybaris the new city of Poseidonia rose by degrees to
such wealth and importance that in course of time it gave its own name to
the whole Bay of Salerno, which henceforth became known to the Greeks as
the Poseidonian Gulf and later, to the Romans, as the Bay of Paestum. With
the fall of the mother city, this flourishing colony was left alone to
face the attacks of the Samnites, the native barbarians who peopled the
dense forests and the barren mountains of Lucania; yet it somehow
contrived to retain its independence until the close of the fourth century
B.C., when the Samnite hordes, forcing the fortified line of the Silarus,
made themselves masters of Poseidonia, and put an end, practically for
ever, to its existence as a purely Hellenic city. From its Lucanian
masters the captured town received the name of Paestum, and its
inhabitants were at once deprived of their independence, were forbidden to
carry arms, and were probably in many instances reduced to the level of
serfs. A large number of Samnites also settled within the walls of the
town, and compelled the former owners to surrender to them the larger and
richer portion of the public and private lands upon the maritime plain.
The use of the Hellenic language and public worship were however
permitted, and, strange to relate, no interference was made with a solemn
annual festival, which the depressed and enslaved population now
inaugurated with the confessed object of remembering for ever their Greek
origin and their former greatness. For once a year at a fixed date all
Greeks were wont to gather together and to bewail in public, outside the
great temple of Poseidon, their lost liberty and their vanished power. It
is evident that the Lucanians did not fear the tears and lamentations of
this unhappy subject state, for this custom continued to be observed
throughout the whole period of Samnite oppression, and survived even till
Roman times—perhaps to the very end of the city’s existence,—although in
the course of passing generations there could have been but few persons of
pure Greek descent left in the place.
With the advent of Alexander of Epirus, who had been called into Italy by
the Greeks of Tarentum in order to assist the sorely-pressed colonies of
Magna Graecia, Epirot troops were landed at the mouth of the Silarus.
Under the very walls of Paestum there now took place a stubborn fight
wherein the army of the Samnites was completely routed, and its survivors
driven in confusion from the coast into the wild woods and rocky valleys
of the Lucanian hills. For a brief interval of years Poseidonia regained
its lost liberty and its Hellenic name, but with the overthrow and death
of Alexander of Epirus, the scattered hordes pressed down once more from
their mountain fastnesses upon the rich plain, and the city was for the
second time enslaved by the ruder conquering race. Forty years later,
after the Pyrrhine war, all Lucania fell under the rising power of Rome, a
change that was by no means unacceptable to the Greek cities, which were
groaning under the rude tyranny of the Samnites. A Latin colony was now
planted at Paestum, to form a convenient centre whence the neighbouring
district could be kept in order and peaceably developed according to Roman
ideas. These Roman colonists, although they did not restore the lands and
buildings held by the expelled Samnites to their rightful owners, yet
lived on terms of amity with the Greek population, with whom they must
have freely intermarried. The original Hellenic inhabitants, relieved of
the bonds of servitude, were now placed on an equal footing with the new
colonists, partaking of political rights in the city thus freshly
re-created under the supremacy of Rome, and soon they grew to imitate the
speech and manners of their new masters, so that as an immediate result of
the expulsion of the barbaric Samnites and the entry of the progressive
Romans, Paestum began to recover a considerable portion of its ancient
splendour.
During the course of the second Punic War the name of Paestum is not
unfrequently mentioned in Roman annals, and owing its revived prosperity
to its annexation by Rome, it is not surprising to find the existence of a
strong feeling of gratitude amongst the inhabitants. At the date of fatal
Cannæ this faithful Greek city sent assurances of unswerving allegiance to
the Senate, and also more substantial help in the form of all the golden
vessels from its temples. It was Paestum also that early in the third
century B.C. supplied part of the ill-fated fleet of Decius Quinctius,
that was raised to run the blockade of Tarentum. But even the loss of its
ships and men did not deter this loyal city from coming forward a second
time with expressions of fealty and promise of further aid to the great
suzerain city in this dark hour of its difficulties. From this point
onward till the close of the Republic, History is almost silent with
regard to Paestum; but its numerous coins go far to attest its continued
welfare, for it now shared, together with Venusia, Brundusium and Vibo
Valentia, a special right to strike money in its own name and with its own
devices. Under the Empire, Paestum managed to uphold its size and
importance, so that it became the capital of one of the eight Prefectures
into which the district of Lucania had been divided. At this period, there
can be no doubt, the surrounding plain was in the highest state of
cultivation, whilst its prolific rose-gardens—_biferi rosaria Paesti_—have
supplied the theme of every Roman poet from Vergil to Ausonius. Yet in
spite of its apparent prosperity, the seeds of coming decline had already
been sown. Strabo tells us that even in early Imperial days the city was
obtaining an unenviable reputation for malaria: a circumstance that was
due to the over-flowing of the unwholesome streamlet, the Salso, whose
reeking and fever-bearing waters began to impregnate the earth.
Engineering works on a large scale were planned to remedy this drawback,
but these were never executed, and in consequence the unhealthiness of the
place increased. With the decline of the Roman power the population and
prosperity of Paestum likewise tended to lessen, so that its citizens were
placed in a worse position than before with regard to the carrying out of
this vast but necessary scheme of sanitation.
In a spot so accessible to external influence, it is easy to understand
that Christianity early took root in Paestum, which in the fifth century
of our own era had already become a bishopric. The story of the growth of
the Faith in Lucania is closely connected with a legend that centres round
a native of the place, a certain Gavinius, a general in the army of the
Emperor Valentinian, who whilst serving in Britain against the Picts by
some means succeeded in obtaining a valuable relic, supposed to be nothing
less than the body of the Apostle Matthew, which he brought back with him
to his native place. Early in the ninth century there appeared a fresh
cause of alarm, more serious and far-reaching even than the dreaded
malaria, for plundering Saracens, foes alike to the old Roman civilisation
and to the new Christian creed, now began to harass the Tyrrhenian shores.
Settling at Agropoli to the south of the Bay, these Oriental freebooters
found little difficulty in effecting a landing on the Poseidonian beach,
and in raiding the weakened and almost defenceless city. Able-bodied men
and young maidens were forcibly carried off to the pirates’ nest at
Agropoli, or perhaps even to the distant coast of Barbary, to be sold into
perpetual slavery. Alarmed beyond measure by this raid, the remaining
inhabitants of the place, at the advice and under the guidance of their
bishop, now decided—wisely, for they had to choose between immediate
flight or gradual extermination by disease, slavery and the sword—to
remove themselves to the barren mountains in their rear, once the haunts
of the Samnites, and to build a new Paestum on a site at once more healthy
and better protected by Nature against the raids of infidel corsairs. In a
body therefore the remaining citizens amid deep wailing left for ever the
ancient city with its glorious temples, and retired to a strong position
to the east. The spot chosen for the new residence of these exiles lay
close to the source that supplied with pure water their ancient aqueduct,
known for this reason as Caputaqueum, now corrupted into Capaccio. A link
with the old city, that lay deserted in the plain below, was still
retained by the bishop of the newly founded town in the mountains, who
continued to be known as _Episcopus Paestanus_. In the eleventh century
Robert Guiscard systematically plundered the ruins of Paestum in order to
erect or embellish the churches and palaces of Salerno and Amalfi. Every
remaining piece of sculpture and of marble was removed, and it was only
the vast size of the pillars of the three great temples, and the
consequent difficulty attending their transport by boat across the bay or
along the marshy ground of the coast line, that saved from destruction
these magnificent relics of “the glory that was Greece.” But even humble
Capaccio did not afford a final resting-place to the harried Paestani, for
in the year 1245 the great Emperor Frederick II., who had been defied by
the feudal Counts of Capaccio, besieged and utterly destroyed this
stronghold of the mountains that had been the child of Poseidonia of the
sea-girt plains. Another and a yet loftier retreat had to be sought by the
survivors of the Imperial vengeance, so that the ruined Capaccio the Old
was abandoned for another settlement, which still exists as a miserable
village amidst those barren hills that had ever looked down with jealous
envy upon the proud city with its pillared temples. One curious
circumstance with regard to Paestum must finally be mentioned, in that the
existence of its ruins, the grandest and most ancient group of monuments
on the mainland of Italy, remained unknown to the learned world until
comparatively modern times. Only the local peasants and the inhabitants of
the poverty-stricken towns in the Lucanian hills seem to have been aware
of the presence of the gigantic temples standing in lonely majesty by the
shore and as the superstitious nature of these ignorant people attributed
these structures to the work of a magician—perhaps to the great wizard
Vergil himself—they were shunned both by night and by day as the haunt of
malignant spirits. Poor fisher-folk and buffalo-drivers, who had of
necessity to pass near the ruined fanes, were wont to slink by in fear and
trembling, and doubtless they brought back strange stories of its ghostly
occupants with which they regaled their friends or families by the
fire-side of a winter’s evening. Yet it is most strange that during the
period of the Renaissance, at a time when enthusiastic research was being
made into the neglected antiquities of Italy, this unique group of Doric
temples should have escaped notice. For neither Cyriaco of Ancona nor
Leandro Alberti, who visited Lucania ostensibly for the sake of recording
its classical remains, make mention of “the ruined majesty of Paestum,”
and it was reserved for a certain Count Gazola (whose name is certainly
worthy of being recorded), an officer in the service of the Neapolitan
King, to present to the notice of scholars and archaeologists towards the
middle of the eighteenth century the first known description of what is
perhaps Italy’s chief existing treasure of antiquity. From Gazola’s day
onward the beauty and interest of Paestum have been appraised at their
true worth, and numberless artists and writers of almost every nationality
have sketched or described its marvellous temples.
With this brief introduction to the history of a city, whose chief
building is still standing almost intact after a lapse of 2500 years, let
us take a rapid survey of Poseidonia as it exists to-day. Its walls, of
Greek construction but probably built or restored as late as the time of
Alexander of Epirus, who gave the captured town a fleeting spell of
liberty, form an irregular pentagon about three miles in circumference,
whereon the remains of eight towers can be observed, whilst the four
gates, placed at the four cardinal points of the compass, are clearly
traceable. We enter this _città morta_ by the so-called Porta della
Sirena, the eastern gate that faces the hostile Samnite Hills and (oh, the
prosaic touch!) the modern railway-station. This gate remains in a
tolerable state of preservation, and draws its name from the key-stone of
its arch, which bears in low relief a much defaced design of a mermaid or
siren, its counterpart on the inner keystone being a dolphin: two devices
very appropriate to the entrance of a city dedicated to the Lord of Ocean.
Passing the picturesque yellow-washed Villa Salati, with its high walls
and iron-barred windows testifying only too plainly to the lawlessness
that once reigned in this district, we find ourselves face to face with
the great temple of Neptune or Poseidon, and its companion-fane, the
so-called Basilica. The Temple of Neptune (for in this instance at least
the popular appellation chances to be the correct one), in all probability
co-eval with the first Greek foundation of the city, formed the central
point of the life of Poseidonia during the 1400 years of its existence as
a Hellenic, a Samnite, and finally a Roman city. In its simple grandeur
and its perfect proportions this wonderful temple possesses only one rival
outside Greece itself: the Temple of Concord at Girgenti, which the poet
Goethe compared to a god, after designating the building before us as a
giant. Superiority in grace is therefore a disputed point between the two
great structures of Poseidonia and Agrigentum, yet in every other respect
the temple of the Lucanian Plain surpasses its Sicilian rival.
To-day, after more than a score of centuries of exposure to the salt winds
and to the burning sunshine of the south, the walls and pillars of these
great buildings have been calcined to a glorious shade of tawny yellow,
fit to delight the soul of every artist, whether he views their Titanic
but graceful forms outlined against the deep blue of sky and sea on the
western horizon, or against the equally lovely background of grey and
violet mountains to the east. But it was not always thus. The porous local
travertine that gave their building material to the Greeks of the sixth
century before Christ was once carefully stuccoed, and, in the manner of
Hellenic art, painted in the most brilliant hues of azure and vermilion,
so that it becomes hard for us to realise the original effect of such
gorgeous masses standing erect in a landscape that is itself fraught with
glowing colour. But better to appreciate the magnificence before us, let
us give a brief technical description of the greatest of the temples in
the choice words of an eminent French antiquary.
“The largest and most elegant, and likewise the oldest of the Temples of
Paestum, is that commonly known by the name of the Temple of Neptune. This
building shares, together with the Temple of Theseus at Athens, the honour
of being the best preserved monument of the Doric order in existence, and
the impression of grandeur that it gives to the spectator rivals even the
first sight of the Parthenon itself. In front of the building is a
platform in the midst of which can be seen the hollow space that formerly
held the altar of sacrifice, for according to the practice of the Greek
religion, these rites of blood-shedding took place in the open air and
outside the temple. With a length of 190 feet and a breadth of 84 feet,
this building is hypoethral, which means that the _cella_, or sanctuary
that held the statue of the deity, was constructed open to the sky. It is
peripteral, and presents a row of six pillars fluted at base and top, with
twelve on each side, making thirty-six in all. The _cella_ itself in the
interior is upheld by sixteen columns about six feet in diameter, which in
their turn are surmounted by two rows of smaller pillars above that
support the roof. With the exception of one side of the upper stage of the
interior every column of the temple remains intact, as do likewise the
entablature and pediments. Only the wall of the _cella_ has been pulled
down; doubtless to supply material for building.”(8)
Having quoted Monsieur Lenormant’s careful description of the chief pride
of Poseidonia, we shall confine ourselves to as few remarks as possible
concerning the two remaining temples. The Basilica, a misnomer of which
the veriest amateur must at once perceive the absurdity, is inferior both
in size and in beauty of proportion to its close neighbour of Neptune. Its
chief peculiarity from an architectural point of view will be at once
remarked, for it has its two façades composed of seven—an odd number—of
columns, so that its interior easily divides itself into two narrow
chambers of equal length, affording ample ground for the theory, now
generally held, that this building was not a hall of Justice, or
_Basilica_, but a temple intended expressly for the worship of dual
divinities. Almost without a doubt it was erected—probably not long after
the Temple of Poseidon—in honour of Demeter (Ceres) and of her only child
Persephone (Proserpine), who was seized from her mother’s care by the
amorous god of the Infernal Regions, as she was plucking anemones in the
verdant meadows of Enna. We all know “the old sweet mythos”; we all
understand its hidden allegory with regard to the sowing, the up-springing
and the garnering of the yellow corn, that spends half the year in the
embraces of the earth, the palace of Pluto, and half the year on the broad
loving bosom of Mother Demeter. Here then within these bare and ruined
walls were mother and daughter worshipped by the people of Poseidonia, who
reasonably considered that the two goddesses of the Earth should have
their habitation as near as possible to the Sanctuary of the Sovereign of
Ocean.
Much smaller than either of these immense temples is the third remaining
Greek building of Paestum, which lies a good quarter of a mile to the
north, not far from the Golden Gate, the Porta Aurea, that leads northward
in the direction of Salerno. Like that of Neptune, this temple is
hexastyle, with six columns on each of its façades and twelve on either
flank, but as it is little more than half the size of its grander and
older brethren, it is now frequently known as “Il Piccolo Tempio,”
although its former incorrect ascription to Ceres still clings to it in
popular parlance. It is from this building, which stands on slightly
rising ground, that the best impression of the whole city and of its
wondrous setting between the savage Lucanian hills and the blue
Mediterranean can be obtained.
“Between the mountains and the tideless sea
Stretches a plain where silence reigns supreme;
A land of asphodel and weeds that teem
Where once a city’s life ran joyfully.
‘Vanity! Vanity! All Vanity!’
Whisper the winds to Sele’s murmuring stream;
Whilst the vast temples preach th’ eternal theme,
How pass the glories and their memory.
Think what these ruins saw! what songs and cries
Once through these roofless colonnades did ring!
What crowds here gathered, where the all-seeing skies
For centuries have watched the daisies spring!
Dead all within this crumbling circle lies:
Dead as the roses Roman bards did sing.”
Beautiful as Paestum presents itself in the bright noontide of a Spring
day, beneath a cloudless sky and with the blue waters of the Mediterranean
lapping the distant yellow sands, there appears something incongruous in
the sharp contrast between this joyfulness of vigorous life and the solemn
atmosphere of the deserted city. The noisy twittering of multitudes of
ubiquitous sparrows, equally at home in Doric temples as amongst the sooty
chimney stacks of London; the twinklings and rustlings of the lizards in
the young leaves and grass; the polyglot babble of excursionists from
Naples or La Cava that a warm day in Spring invariably attracts to
Paestum:—these are not sounds that blend well with the solemn spirit of
the place. We long to cross the intervening ages so as to throw ourselves,
if only for one short hour, outside the cares and interests of to-day into
the heart of that refined civilisation which is gone for ever;—with the
cheerful sunlight around us, and with our fellow-mortals on pleasure bent
close at hand, we find it difficult to forget the present. Would it be
possible, we ask ourselves, to spend a nocturnal vigil within the hall of
the great temple of the Sea God, so as to behold, like that undaunted
traveller, Crawford Ramage, the shafts of crystalline moonlight shed
through the aperture of the roof leap from pillar to pillar, making bars
of brilliant light amidst the surrounding blackness! O to sit and meditate
thus engrossed with the memory of the past, and with no other sounds
around us than the sad cry of the _aziola_, the little downy owl that
Shelley so loved! But the gaunt spectre of Fever ever haunts this spot,
and after sunset his power is supreme; so that he would be a bold man
indeed who in an age of luxury and selfish comfort would carry out an idea
at once so romantic and so perilous.
We ourselves were especially fortunate on the occasion of our last visit
to Poseidonia on a mild day in December, a month which on the Lucanian
shore somewhat resembles a northern October. A soft luminous haze hung
over the landscape and over the Bay of Salerno itself, rendering the
classic mountains at once indistinct in outline and unnaturally lofty to
the eye. More grandiose and mysterious than under the fierce light of a
sunny noontide appeared that day the three giant pillared forms, as we
entered the precincts of the ruined city by the Siren’s Gate, and made our
way through the thick herbage still pearled with dew, since there was
neither sunshine nor sirocco to dry “the tears of mournful Eve” off the
clumps of silver-glinted acanthus, or the tall grasses bending with the
moisture. In the warm humid air we seated ourselves on the plinth of a
column, and gazing around allowed the influence of this marvellous spot to
sink deep into the soul. No tourists with unseemly or unnecessary chatter
arrived that day to share our selfish delight or to break the
all-pervading spell of solitude; all lay peaceful and deserted. All was
silent too save for the low monotonous sobbing of the sea on the unseen
beach near at hand, the historic beach on which at various times
throughout the roll of past ages Doric colonists, Epirot warriors, Roman
legionaries and fierce Mohammedan pirates had disembarked, all with the
same object:—to seize the proud city that had now for the last thousand
years lain uninhabited, save for the owls and the bats. It was too cloudy
a day for sun-loving creatures such as lizards or serpents to emerge and
rustle amongst the broken stones and leaves, over all of which during the
silent hours of the past night Arachne had been employed in weaving her
softest and whitest textures, that the windless morning had allowed to
remain intact. The only sign of animate life was visible in a pair of
lively gold-finches, which with merry notes were fluttering from thistle
to thistle, picking the down from each ripened flower-head and prodigally
scattering the seeds upon the weed-grown soil where once had bloomed the
odorous Roses of Paestum that the poets loved.
Sitting thus amid the silence and solitude of a city half as old as Time
itself, we were unexpectedly aroused by a gruff salutation proceeding from
a little distance behind the temple. Turning quickly in the direction of
the sound, we perceived the figure of a tall bearded man dressed in
conical hat, with goat-skin trousers and cross-gartered legs, who but for
the gun slung across his shoulders by a stout leathern strap might well
have been mistaken for an apparition of the god Pan himself returned to
earth. Vague recollections of the brigand Manzoni, the scourge of the
neighbourhood and the murderer of more than one unhappy visitor to the
ruins of Paestum in the good old _vetturino_ days, flashed through our
mind, as we surveyed the muscular frame and the fowling-piece of the
strange being before us. It was with a sigh of relief that we noted upon
the straight stretch of white road leading to the Little Temple in the
distance the presence of two royal _carabinieri_ majestically riding at a
foot’s pace, their tall forms enveloped in long black cloaks whose folds
swept over their horses’ tails. We felt reassured, and when for a second
time the guttural voice addressed us in unintelligible _patois_, we
perceived the innocent object of this mysterious visit. Searching in a
capacious goat-skin bag, a species of Neapolitan sporran, this descendant
of the Poseidonian Greeks produced and held up to our gaze three birds
that he had shot in his morning’s hunting. For the modest sum of three
lire the game exchanged hands, and the sportsman departed, well satisfied
with his luck. Next evening we feasted royally in our inn at Salerno upon
a succulent woodcock fattened upon the berries of the wood of Persano, and
upon a couple of snipe that had grown plump amongst the Neptunian marshes.
Nor was this dainty addition to our supper that night altogether
undeserved; for having decided in a momentary fit of enthusiasm to forego
the usual basket of hotel food at the time of starting from Salerno, in
order to follow the advice of old Evelyn “to diet with the natives,” we
had preferred to take our chance of midday refreshment at the solitary
_osteria_ within the ruined city wall. The good people of the inn did what
they could to regale the two _gran’ signori Inglesi_, whose unexpected
presence had the effect of creating some stir within their humble walls.
No little time was expended in bustling preparations, before a flask of
red wine, some coarse bread, a dish of fried eggs and a plateful of cold
sausage were placed before us upon the rough oak table, well scored with
knife-cuts. Eggs, wine and bread are usually tolerable everywhere
throughout Italy, no matter how mean the inn that provides them; but the
Lucanian sausage, though interesting as a relic of classical times, is
positive poison to the Anglo-Saxon digestion. For the Lucanian sausage of
to-day is the _Lucanica_ unchanged; the same tough, greasy, odoriferous
compound, in fact, that Cicero describes as “an intestine, stuffed with
minced pork, mixed with ground pepper, cummin, savory, rue, rock-parsley,
berries of laurel, and suet.” And we have only to add that mingling with
the above-mentioned condiments there was an all-pervading flavour of
wood-smoke, due to the sausage’s place of storage, a hook within the
kitchen chimney. But if the fare was rough, it was cheap and smacked of
classical times, and our reception by the Paestani of to-day was most
cordial.
We left Poseidonia late in the afternoon, casting back many regretful
glances at the three giant sentinels of the plain, looming preternaturally
large in the rapidly fading light of a starless evening. At that hour we
felt we could understand and sympathise with the poor untutored peasant’s
fear and avoidance of these lonely ruins, for superstition is often as
much the result of chance environment as of crass ignorance.
CHAPTER X
SORRENTO AND ITS POET
It has been said of more than one spot on this globe, that it was so
beautiful in summer the marvel was to think any one could die there; and
so wretched in winter, it was a miracle for its inhabitants to survive.
Sorrento may be said to belong to this class of place, for the climate of
its short winter is one of the most trying and inclement that can possibly
be imagined, whilst during spring, summer and early autumn it well merits
its local reputation as _il piccolo paradiso_ of the Bay of Naples, and
its air is considered by Neapolitans as the “balm in Gilead” for every
evil to which human flesh is heir. The Lactarian Mountains protect the
plain of Sorrento in summer from the scorching rays of the sun, and lay
their beneficent shadow for several hours of the long hot summer’s day
over the many thousands who dwell on the fertile Piano di Sorrento at
their base. But in winter these same hills intercept the blessed sunshine,
which is what most travellers speed southwards to obtain, and leave the
coast line from Castellamare to the Punta di Sorrento with its northern
aspect wrapped in shade and moisture, whilst the remainder of the Bay is
still basking in the genial warmth, so that anything more miserable than a
mid-winter sojourn in Sorrento it would be impossible to conceive. There
are of course calm warm days to be met with even in December and January,
but these are occasional and by no means dependable blessings, and the
visitor who persists in taking up his abode here at this season of the
year must prepare himself to experience cold, damp, wind and rain, without
any of the contrivances or comforts of a northern winter. “One swallow
does not make a summer,” and on the same principle a southern latitude and
the presence of orange groves do not necessarily imply a salubrious
climate; indeed, the sub-tropical surroundings seem to add an extra degree
of chilliness to the place. To sit at Christmastide in a large lofty room
before a meagre fire of sputtering smoky logs, with Vesuvius wrapped from
crest to base in a white mantle of new fallen snow, and with an icy
_tramontana_ from the bleak Abruzzi howling round the house, bending the
bay trees and penetrating into every corner of the chamber, is by no means
the ideal picture of a winter in the Sunny South; yet this is only what
the traveller must be prepared to face, and is very likely to obtain. Nor
is the cold compensated for by any advantages in the neighbourhood itself,
for there is but the high road from Castellamare which passes through the
town and leads above the seashore to Massa Lubrense. It is all very well
in its way, but in wet weather its surface is one sheet of slippery mud,
and the streams pouring down the hillside make it chilly and damp for all
who are not quick walkers. Besides this not very attractive and soon
exploited walk, there are only the _vicoletti_, the narrow steep rocky
paths running up hill, which make rough going and give little pleasure,
for they are almost all bounded on either side by high stone walls that
jealously exclude the view. So much for Sorrento in its winter dress. But
when the spring comes, here truly is a transformation from cold and
torpor! The soft warm air is redolent of the penetrating fragrance of
orange blossom, of stocks, of jessamine, of wallflower, and of a hundred
odorous plants and shrubs from each garden and grove behind the many
obstructing walls. The balconies and gate-pillars are draped in scented
masses of the beautiful wistaria, which in Italy produces its long pendant
bunches of purple flowers before putting forth its bronze-coloured leaves.
Cascades of white and yellow banksia roses fall over each confining
barrier, or else their stems may be seen climbing like huge serpents up
the trunks of pine and olive, to burst forth amidst the topmost boughs
into floral rockets against the cloudless sky. The ravines with which the
whole of the Piano di Sorrento is intersected are filled with a perfect
jungle of fresh spring foliage, amidst whose varied tints of green appear
here and there the bright red shoots of the pomegranate trees bursting
into leaf. In the heavily perfumed air at dusk, or when the bright
moonlight is flooding the whole scene and is turning the Bay into a mirror
of molten silver, the song of the innumerable nightingales can be heard
resounding from all sides; alas! too often sweet songs of sorrow for nests
despoiled by the ruthless hands of young Sorrentine imps, as in the days
of the Georgics.
“Qualis populeâ mærens Philomela sub umbrâ
Amissos queritur fetus, quos durus arator
Observans nido implumes detraxit, at illa
Flet noctem, ramoque sedens miserabile carmen
Integrat, et mœstis late loca questibus implet.”
(“At nightfall hear sad Philomel upraise
Her mellow notes amid the dark-leaved bays,
Mourning her babes and desecrated bower,
Which some rough peasant robbed in evil hour;
She tells her story of despair and love,
Until her plaintive music fills the grove.”)
All is fragrant, warm, genial, and peaceful, save for the melancholy notes
of poor ill-used Philomel, who is foolish enough to visit a cruel country,
wherein every bird is merely regarded as a toothsome morsel for the family
pot. We bird-lovers of Britain, with our Selborne Societies and our Wild
Birds’ Protection Acts, find it extremely difficult to understand the
utter indifference displayed by Italians of all classes towards the
feathered race. The whole of the beautiful country with its cypress hedges
and olive groves lies almost mute and lifeless, for on every festival the
fields and lanes are patrolled by bands of _cacciatori_ with dogs and guns
on the look-out for game, if blackbirds and sparrows can be accounted
such. In some districts it is even dangerous for pedestrians to use the
roads on a Sunday, for fear of a stray bullet, since all, as a rule, fire
recklessly at any creature within and out of range. Nor is this senseless
war of extermination carried on merely with guns, for trapping is used
extensively, and very ingenious and elaborate are some of the arts
employed in this wretched quest. Every country house has its _uccellare_,
or snare for the securing of small birds for the table, whilst many of the
parish priests in the mountain districts add to their scanty incomes by
catching the fledglings which the young peasants sell in the neighbouring
market. The result is what might only naturally be expected—a scarcity of
birds and an almost complete absence of song, for the whole countryside
has been practically denuded of blackbirds and thrushes; even the
nightingale has escaped destruction rather on account of its nocturnal
habits than of its tiny size and exquisite notes. It is positively
sickening to observe the quantities of slaughtered wild birds in an
Italian market at any season of the year, for the work of devastation
proceeds apace equally in spring time. Basketfuls of thrushes and
blackbirds, and strings of smaller varieties—linnets, sparrows, robins,
finches, even the diminutive gold-finches, most beautiful, most gay, and
most innocent of all songsters—are being hawked about by leathern-lunged
_contadini_, who, alas! always manage to find customers in plenty. No
matter how melodious, how lovely, or how useful to the farmer a bird may
be, no Italian, high or low, seems to have any sense or appreciation of
its merits except as an article of food; it is merely a thing that
requires to be caught, killed, cooked and eaten, and Providence has
decreed its existence for no other purpose; even gold-finches in the eye
of an Italian look better served on a skewer than when they are flying
round the thistle-heads, uttering their bright musical notes and
enlivening the dead herbage of winter with their gay plumage. _Che bel
arrosto!_ (what a glorious dish!) sigh the romantic peasants, as they
glance upward for a moment from their labour in the fields at the sound of
the larks carolling overhead; and though an educated Italian would
probably not give vent to so vulgar a remark, he would much prefer the
_bel arrosto_ to the “profuse strains of unpremeditated art” that so
entrance the northerner, who is in reality far more of a poet by nature
than the more picturesque dweller of the South. _Tantum pro avibus._
As summer advances, the delight of bathing in the limpid waters of the Bay
is added to the other attractions of Sorrento, whilst many pleasant and
profitable hours can be passed in reading or writing during the long
midday rest in the cool airy carpetless and curtainless rooms, where on
the frescoed ceilings there plays the green shimmer of light that
penetrates through the closed bars of the _persiani_, the outside heavy
wooden shutters that let in the sweet air, but somehow seem to exclude the
intense heat. With the approach of sunset and the throwing open of
casements to catch the westerly breeze, there comes a delightful ramble,
perhaps an excursion on mule-back to the famous convent of the Deserto or
some other point of interest; or else a row upon the glassy waters at our
feet, to explore “Queen Joanna’s Bath,” or some strange caverns beyond the
headland of Sorrento, well known to our boat-men. That is the true life of
_dolce far niente_, but such an ideal existence can only be indulged in
during summer time or in late spring; to pass a winter at Sorrento the
heaviest of clothing, abundance of overcoats and rugs, hot-water bottles,
cough drops, ammoniated quinine and all the usual adjuncts of a northern
yule-tide must be carefully provided before-hand by the traveller, who is
bold enough to tempt Providence by turning what is essentially a warm
weather retreat into a place of winter residence.
In early autumn also the place has its charms, in the days when the market
is filled with stalls heaped with glowing masses of fruit, many of them
unknown to us wanderers from the north. There are peaches that resemble
our own fruit at home, and there are also great yellow flushed velvety
globes, like the sun-kissed cheeks of a fair Sorrentina, that appear
tempting to the eye, but are in reality tough as leather, for they are the
_cotogni_ or quince-peaches of Italy, which to our feeble palates and
digestions seem only fit for cooking, though the experienced native
contrives to make them edible by soaking the fruit in wine. The moment he
sits down to table, he carefully pares his _cotogne_ and cuts it into
sections, which he drops into a glass of red wine where they repose until
the meal is finished; by this time the fruit has become thoroughly
saturated, and it is then eaten with apparent relish. There are hundreds
of apples, some of a shining rich crimson and others of dull yellow
peppered over with tiny black specks, the _renati_, highly prized by the
natives for their delicate flavour and soft flesh. There are of course
loads of grapes, varying from the little honey-tasting purple sort, that
has been introduced from California, to the huge but somewhat insipid
bunches of the white _Regina_; we note also the quaintly shaped “Ladies’
Fingers,” which are especially sweet. The figs, massed together in serried
layers between fresh vine leaves and costing a _soldo_ the dozen, stand
around in glossy purple pyramids, so luscious that their sugary tears are
exuding from their skins, and so ripe that they seem to cry to be eaten
before noon. Here is a barrow piled high with the little green fruit, each
separate fig being decorated with a pink cyclamen stuck in its crest; and
here is a smaller load of the black _Vescovo_, which is said to obtain its
ecclesiastical name from the fact that the parent stock of this highly
esteemed variety originally flourished in the bishop’s garden at Sorrento.
No one who has not visited the shores of the Mediterranean in September or
early October can realize the luscious possibilities of the fig; for there
seems nothing in common between the freshly-picked fruit of the south,
bursting its skin with liquid sugar, and the dry sweetish woolly object
which tries to ripen on the sheltered wall of an English garden and is
eaten with apparent gusto by those who know not its Italian brother. Being
autumn, we have missed one prominent feature of the fruit market, the
great green-skinned water-melons (_poponi_) with their rose-coloured pulp
and masses of coal-black seeds, which form the favourite summer fruit of
the people, who find both food and drink in their cool nutritious flesh.
But even gayer and more striking than the fruits are the piles of
vegetables, arranged with a fine appreciation of colour to which only an
Italian eye can aspire. Carrots, turnips, tomatoes, purple-headed
cauliflowers, all the broccoli and many others to be observed are old
familiar friends, but who in England ever saw such gorgeous objects on a
coster’s stall or in a green-grocer’s shop as the yellow, scarlet and
shining green pods of the _peperoni_, or the banana-shaped egg-plants of
iridescent purple, or the split pumpkins, revealing caverns of
saffron-hued pulp within? Truly, the Sorrentine market contains a feast of
colour to satisfy the craving of an artist!
At vintage time the whole Piano di Sorrento reeks with the vinous scent of
the spilt juice, that is carelessly thrown on to the stone-paved roads by
the jolting of the country carts which bring in the great wooden tubs, so
that the very streets seem to run with the crimson ooze. Slender youths in
yet more slender clothing, with legs purple-stained from treading the
grapes (for in the South wine is still made on the primitive plan), are to
be met with on all sides, playing at their favourite game of bowls on the
public road, in order to relieve their brains of the pungent fumes of the
fermenting grape juice. Somehow at the very thought of a Campanian vintage
with its long hot dusty days, its bare-legged brown-skinned peasants
treading the pulp, and its all-pervading aroma of wine-lees, there rise to
memory the truly inspired lines of John Keats:
“O for a draught of vintage, that hath been
Cool’d a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country-green,
Dance, and Provençal song, and sun-burnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stained mouth.”
But all these joys of odorous gardens made musical by nightingales, of
morning plunges into the blue Mediterranean, of the wealth of southern
fruit and the novel delights of the vintage are not for the winter
traveller, who had far better spend the December or January days of his
visit to the Bay in a steam-heated Neapolitan hotel, rather than face the
cold and wet in a Sorrentine inn on its overhanging cliff. Nevertheless
the warm autumn often extends itself into a continuous St Martin’s summer,
that lasts almost until the New Year, before skies grow clouded and the
snow-flakes descend upon the vineyards and the lava streams of Vesuvius.
Nothing can be pleasanter in fact than some of the long walks in a sharp
exhilarating air, and though days are short and nights are often chilly,
one can sometimes linger on comfortably in Sorrento, though it is as well
to be prepared for departure in case of a sudden spell of stormy weather,
for winter sunshine is a necessity, not a luxury, on the Piano di
Sorrento.
[Illustration: AFTERNOON, SORRENTO]
Unlike other towns upon the Bay of Naples, Sorrento is divided into two
distinct portions; the city on the cliffs, with its streets and squares,
its cathedral and ancient walls, its villas and gay gardens; and the
Marina, lying at the mouth of the gorge below, close to the water’s edge.
The population of Upper Sorrento is agricultural and labouring, whilst
that of the lower consists entirely of fisher-folk and sailors; it is
needless to add that the latter are far less prosperous than their
fellow-citizens who live over-head. Until recent times little
communication between these two sets of Sorrentines took place and
intermarriages were rare, for the sea-faring population only ascended to
the town above and intermingled with the people of Upper Sorrento on the
great occasions of local festivals, such as the enthronement or funeral of
a bishop. Nor has the levelling spirit of the age as yet broken down the
deep-rooted feeling of local clannishness; although it cannot be long
before time-honoured customs and prejudices will be swept away in the
tidal wave of modern development. One of the chief industries of the place
is the manufacture of scarves and sashes of rich silk woven in cross bars
of strong contrasting colours, so that the Sorrentine silk work strongly
resembles the well-known Roman variety. Equally popular with visitors are
the various articles made of olive wood and decorated in _tarsia_, the art
of inlaying with pieces of stained wood, which is a speciality of the
place. There are two kinds of this Sorrentine inlaid work; one consisting
of figures of peasants dancing the _tarantella_, of Pompeian maidens in
classical drapery, of _contadini_ or priests bestriding mules, and of
similar local subjects; and the other, of fanciful patterns made up of
tiny coloured cubes of wood, much in the style of the old Roman stone
mosaics. The designs employed vary of course with the fashion of the day,
for there is a local school of art supported by the municipality, which
professes to improve the tastes of the _tarsiatori_, but most persons will
certainly prefer the trite but characteristic patterns of the place.
But the main industry of Sorrento consists in the culture of the orange;
and the dark groves, covered with their globes of shining yellow fruit,
“like golden lamps in a green light,” to quote Andrew Marvell’s charming
conceit, constitute the chief feature of its environs. Even the
coat-of-arms of the medieval city, showing a golden crown encircled by a
wreath of the dark glossy leaves, attests the antiquity of this industry
here. The cultivation of the orange in Southern Italy is by no means an
easy pursuit, though under favourable conditions it may prove a very
lucrative one, even in a spot so subject to sudden changes of temperature
as Sorrento in winter time, when a continuance of severe weather, like
that experienced around Naples in the opening months of the year 1905,
means total destruction of the fruit crop and temporary ruin to the
owners.
The fruit of commerce is propagated by means of grafting the sweet variety
on to the stock of the bitter orange—said on doubtful authority to be
indigenous to this district—which is fairly hardy and can be grown in the
open as far north as Tuscany, so that every _aranciaria_ ought to possess
a nursery of flourishing young sweet-orange shoots, ready in case of
necessity. For eight long years the grafted tree remains as a rule
profitless, but having survived and thriven so long, it then becomes a
valuable asset to its proprietor for an indefinite period;—as a proof of
the longevity of the orange under normal conditions we may cite the famous
tree in a Roman convent garden, which on good authority is stated to have
been planted by St Dominic nearly six hundred years ago. As to the amount
of fruit yielded, the growers of Sorrento commonly aver that one good
year, one bad year and one mediocre year constitute the general cycle in
the prospects of orange farming. Two crops are gathered annually, the
principle one in December and the other at Eastertide, the fruit produced
by the later and smaller crop being far finer in size and flavour than
those of the Christmas harvest. Mandarin oranges are gathered on both
occasions, but the large luscious loose-skinned fruit of March and
April—_Portogalli_ as they are commonly termed—are far superior to the
small hard specimens that appear in December, and seem to consist of
little else than rind, scent and seeds. The oranges begin to form in
spring time, almost before the petals have fallen, when the peasants
anxiously draw their conclusions as to the expected yield. But however
valuable the fruit, the wood of the tree is worthless for commerce, except
to make walking-sticks, or to serve the ignoble purpose of supplying
hotels and cafés with tooth-picks! Lemons, which are far more delicate
than oranges and require to be kept protected by screens and matting
during the sharp winter nights, are less common at Sorrento than on the
warmer shores of the Bay of Baia or the sunny terraced slopes of the
Amalfitan coast.
With the ripening of the oranges on the trees appear those strange
creatures from the wilds of the Basilicata or Calabria, the _Zampognari_,
who visit Naples and the surrounding district in considerable numbers.
They usually arrive about the date of the great popular festival of the
Immaculate Conception (December 8th) and remain until the end of the
month, when they return to their homes with well-filled purses. In outward
aspect these strangers resemble the stage-brigands that appear in such
old-fashioned operas as _Fra Diavolo_, for they wear steeple-crowned hats
with coloured ribands depending, shaggy goat-skin trousers, crimson velvet
waistcoats, blue cloaks, sandalled feet and gartered legs. Their pale
faces are unshorn, and their hair hangs in great tawny masses over neck
and ears, which are invariably adorned with golden rings. These fellows
come in pairs, one only, properly speaking, being the _zampognaro_, for it
is he who carries the _zampogna_ or classical bag-pipe of Southern Italy,
whilst his companion is the _cennamellaro_, so called from his
ear-splitting instrument, the _cennamella_, a species of primitive flute.
The _zampogna_ may be described as first cousin to the historic bag-pipes
of Caledonia, for the sounds emitted strongly resemble the traditional
“skirling” of the pipes; but no Scotchman even could pretend to delight in
the shrill notes of the _cennamella_. The former at least of these two
popular instruments of southern Italy was well known to the omniscient
author of the Shakespearean plays, for in _Othello_ we have a direct
allusion to the uncouth braying music still made to-day by these
outlandish musicians.
“Why, masters, have your instruments been in Naples, that they speak i’
the nose thus?... Are these, I pray you, wind instruments?... Then put up
your pipes in your bag, for I’ll away: go; vanish into air; away!”
In the midst of their instrumental duet the two shaggy mountaineers are
apt to break into a harsh nasal hymn in honour of the Virgin, to visit
whose shrines at this season of the orange harvest is the main object of
their Christmas migration to the Neapolitan shores. Very tastefully
decorated are many of the Madonna’s little sanctuaries in or near the
orange groves, when the arrival of the _zampognari_ is considered
imminent. The tiny lamps are well trimmed and shine brightly, whilst heavy
garlands composed of masses of bay or laurel or ilex leaves, interspersed
with some of the golden clusters of the ripening fruit are suspended round
the alcove that holds the figure of the Virgin. This effective but simple
form of ornamentation will at once suggest the beautiful glazed and
coloured terra-cotta wreaths of fruit and foliage that are to be seen so
frequently in Tuscan churches; indeed, it is possible that the members of
the Della Robbia family may have originally borrowed the decorative
schemes for their famous plaques and lunettes from the rustic shrines thus
simply but tastefully embellished. Nominally, the two performers are
supposed to sing and make music on nine different days at the houses of
all their patrons in order to make up the total number of the _novena_,
but the extent of their performances is generally calculated in accordance
with the depth of the householder’s purse, the sum given for their
services varying from a few _soldi_ to a five _lire_ note. All classes of
society employ the zampognari, for it is with the first appearance of the
lovely golden fruit, essentially _the_ winter fruit of the Italians, that
the arrival of these picturesque strangers has been associated from time
immemorial. The _zampognari_ are in fact as much of a national institution
with the Neapolitans at Christmastide as are the waits or carol-singers in
our own country, so that to the majority of these people _Natale senza
zampogna e cennamella_ would seem no true Christmas at all.
Closely connected with the life of the people of the Piano di Sorrento is
the famous dance known as the _Tarantella_, which may be witnessed by the
curious at almost any time—for money. Even when performed by professional
dancers, tricked out in spick and span stage-peasant finery, the
Tarantella is a most graceful exhibition of movement, although the dance
naturally gains in interest when it takes place in the days of vintage or
on the popular festivals of the Church, without the presence of
largesse-giving strangers. The origin of the name has always puzzled
antiquarians, although in all probability the dance derives its curious
appellation from the Greek city of Taranto, whence the Tarentines
introduced its steps and action into other parts of Italy. But vulgar
belief is very strong, so that this graceful dance is still closely
associated in the popular mind with the _tarantula_, a kind of poisonous
spider found in the neighbourhood of Taranto, the effects of whose bite
are said to yield to violent exercise followed by profuse perspiration. In
order to excite the proper amount of exertion necessary for the cure, the
person afflicted, _il tarantolato_, is induced to leap and caper by the
sound of music, with the result that there exist a number of tunes
specially connected with this wild species of dancing. The real
explanation of this fable seems to lie in the extremely excitable nature
of the Tarentines themselves, assisted by the exhilarating music and by
frequent pulls at the wine barrel. The two lines sung to the air of one of
the tunes employed:
“Non fu Taranta, ne fu Tarantella,
Ma fu la vino della carratella:”
(“It was neither the taranta, nor the tarantella, but it was the
wine from the cask.”)
sums up pretty accurately the real cause of these strange Tarentine
orgies, which have really nothing whatever in common with the rhythmical
dance that is still so popular in the environs of Naples. Nevertheless the
theory of _tarantella_ and _tarantismo_ has been gravely discussed by old
Italian writers, and a certain learned prelate of the fifteenth century,
Niccolo Perotto, Archbishop of Siponto, alludes to the malignant cause of
this dance-cure as “a species of speckled spider, dwelling in rents of the
ground caused by excessive heat. It was not known in the time of our
fore-fathers, but now it is very common in Apulia ... and is generally
called _Tarantula_. Its bite seldom kills a man, yet it makes him half
stupid, and affects him in a variety of ways. Some, when a song or tune is
heard, are so excited that they dance, full of joy and always laughing,
and do not stop till they are entirely exhausted; others spend a miserable
life in tears, as if bewailing the loss of friends. Some die laughing, and
others in tears.”
Such is the curious legend concerning the origin of the Tarantella, which
is still danced with something of the old spirit by the holiday-making
crowds of Naples, though it is at the _festa_ of San Michele, the patron
of Procida, that the Tarantella can now be seen to best advantage. Of the
three islands that lie close to Naples, Procida is the least known or
visited by strangers, so that when the Tarantella is danced by the
Procidani, the old-fashioned popular orchestra is employed to give the
necessary music. This consists of five quaint instruments (obviously of
Oriental origin as their counterparts can still be seen amongst the
Kabyles of Northern Africa): the first being a fife (_siscariello_); the
second a tin globe covered with skin pierced by a piece of cane
(_puti-puti_); the third a wooden saw and a split stick, making a
primitive bow and fiddle (_scetavaiasse_); the fourth an arrangement of
three wooden mallets, that are rattled together like a gigantic pair of
bones (_tricca-ballache_); and the fifth a Jew’s harp
(_scaccia-pensieri_). A tarantella danced to the accompaniment of so weird
a medley of instruments and by real peasants full of gaiety is naturally a
thing altogether diverse from the stilted, though graceful and decorous
performance that can be observed any day for payment in a Sorrentine or
Neapolitan hotel; yet it must ever be borne in mind that the Tarantella
proper, whether danced _con amore_ by Procidan peasants or performed for
lucre by costumed professionals, is no vulgar frenzied _can-can_, but a
musical love-dance expressive of primitive courtship.
“The Tarantella is a choregraphic love-story, the two dancers representing
an enamoured swain and his mistress. It is the old theme—‘the quarrel of
lovers is the renewal of love.’ Enraptured gaze, coy side-look, gallant
advance, timid retrocession, impassioned declaration, supercilious
rejection, piteous supplication, softening hesitation; worldly goods
oblation, gracious acceptation; frantic jubilation, maidenly resignation.
Petting, wooing, billing, cooing. Jealous accusation, sharp recrimination,
manly expostulation, shrewish aggravation; angry threat, summary
dismissal. Fuming on one side, pouting on the other. Reaction,
approximation, exclamation, exoneration, reconciliation, osculation,
winding up with a grand _pas de circomstance_, expressive of confidence
re-established and joy unbounded. That’s about the figure of it; but no
word-painting can give an idea of the spirit, the ‘go’ of the tarantella
when danced for love and not for money.”(9)
On a modest scale Sorrento can lay claim to be called an eternal city, for
the Surrentum of the ancient Romans was a place of no small importance,
filled with villas of wealthy citizens and boasting a fair-sized
population, as its numerous remains of antiquity can easily testify;
whilst its crumbling ivy-clad walls and towers point to its prosperity
during the Middle Ages, when Sorrento shared the political fortunes of
Naples. It is now a busy thriving little cathedral town, and the possessor
of silk and _tarsia_ work industries, so that like Imperial Rome it can
boast a continuous existence as a city from remote times to the present
day. Its chief local Saint—for what Italian town does not boast a special
patron?—is Sant’ Antonio, whose most famous feat is said to have been the
administering of a severe drubbing to Sicardo, Duke of Benevento, for
daring to interfere with the liberties of his city in the ninth century.
It would appear from the legend that all arguments as to ancient rights,
the quality of mercy and the honour of keeping faith having been vainly
exhausted upon the cruel and obstinate prince, Bishop Antonio came forward
with a stout cudgel and belaboured the tyrant in order to obtain a
favourable answer to the people’s petition. The sanctity of the pugnacious
prelate and the force of this _argumentum ad baculum_ were evidently too
much for the Duke of Benevento, who at once conceded the popular demands,
whilst Antonio’s name has deservedly descended to posterity as the capable
protector of his native city.
* * * * * *
But the name which above all others Sorrento will cherish as her own, “so
long as men shall read and eyes can see,” is that of the famous Italian
poet, Torquato Tasso, whose interesting but melancholy life-story is
closely associated with this, the town of his birth. Tasso is reckoned as
the fourth greatest bard of Italy, ranking after Dante and Petrarch, and
being esteemed on a level with rather than below his rival and
contemporary, Ludovico Ariosto. In one sense however he may be described
as the most truly national poet of this immortal quartet, for his career
is connected with his native country as a whole, rather than with any one
of the little cities or states then comprising that “geographical
expression” which is now the Kingdom of Italy. His father’s family was of
Lombard origin, having been long settled in the neighbourhood of Bergamo,
where a crumbling hill-set fortress known as the Montagno del Tasso still
recalls the name of the poet’s ancestors. His mother, Porzia de’ Rossi,
was Tuscan by birth, her family haling from Pistoja at the foot of the
Apennines, but owning property near Naples; whilst the poet himself was
destined to spend his years of childhood at Sorrento and at Naples, his
youth at Rome and Verona, his brilliant period of fame and prosperity at
Ferrara and the Lombard courts, and again some of his closing years of
disgrace and disappointment amidst the familiar scenes of his infancy. Of
good ancient stock the Tassi owed their acquisition of wealth to the
re-establishment of the system of posting throughout Northern Italy in the
thirteenth century, when the immediate progenitor of the poet, one Omodeo
de’ Tassi, was nominated comptroller, and it is curious to note that owing
to this circumstance the arms of the family containing the posthorn and
the badger’s skin—_Tasso_ is the Italian for badger—continued to be borne
for many centuries upon the harness of all Lombard coach-horses.
Torquato’s father, Bernardo Tasso, himself a poet of no mean calibre and
the composer of a scholarly but somewhat prolix work, the _Amadigi_,
formed for many years a prominent member of that brilliant band of
literary courtiers within the castle of Vittoria Colonna, the Lady of
Ischia, of whom we shall speak more fully in another place. But for the
overwhelming and all-eclipsing fame of his distinguished son, Bernardo
might have been able to claim a high place in the list of Italian writers
of the Renaissance; as it was, the father’s undoubted talents were quickly
forgotten in the blaze of his own beloved “Tassino’s” popularity, so that
he is now chiefly remembered as the sire of a poetic genius, as one of the
great Vittoria’s favourite satellites and as the author of an oft-quoted
sonnet to his intellectual mistress. Bernardo Tasso did not marry until
the somewhat mature age of forty-seven, when, as we have already said, he
espoused the daughter of the Tuscan house of Rossi, by whom he had two
children; a daughter, Cornelia, and the immortal Torquato, who was born in
1544, three years before the death of the divine poetess of Ischia.
But Bernardo was not merely a bard and a courtier, for he was also,
unfortunately for himself and his ill-fated family, a keen politician in
an age when politics offered anything but a safe pursuit, and as his views
invariably coincided with those of his chief friend and patron, the head
of the powerful Sanseverino family, Tasso the Elder found himself in
course of time an exile from Neapolitan territory on account of his
dislike of the new Spanish masters of Naples. The poet-politician
therefore took up his abode at Rome, whilst his wife and two young
children continued to reside at Naples and Sorrento. The boy was a born
student, almost an infant prodigy of learning, and so great was his desire
for knowledge that he would insist upon rising long before it was
day-light, and would even make his way to school through the dark dirty
streets of Naples, conducted by a servant with a torch in his hand. The
Jesuits, who had just set up their first academy at Naples, soon
discovered in the future poet an ideal pupil, and not only did they impart
to the child all the lore of ancient Greece and Rome, but they also imbued
his mind, at an age when it was “wax to receive and marble to retain,”
with their own peculiar theological tenets. It is obvious indeed that the
faith implanted by the Fathers in his tender years was largely, if not
wholly answerable for the unswerving belief and firm religious convictions
that ever stood Tasso in good stead throughout the whole of his chequered
career. “Give me a child of seven years old,” had once declared the great
Founder of the Society of Jesus, “and I care not who has the
after-handling of him”; and in this case the Jesuit professors did not
fail to carry out Loyola’s precept. But his home life with his mother,
whom he loved devotedly, and his course of study at the Jesuit school were
suddenly interrupted when he was barely ten years of age, for the elder
Tasso was anxious for his little son to join him in Rome, there to be
educated under his own eye. The boy left his mother, but after his
departure the Rossi family brutally refused to allow their sister access
to her absent husband, who had lately been declared a rebel against the
Spanish government and deprived of his estates. Thus persecuted by her
unfeeling brothers, Porzia Tasso sought refuge together with Cornelia in a
Neapolitan convent, where, deprived of her erratic but beloved husband and
pining for her absent son, the poor woman died of a broken heart a year or
two later. As for Cornelia, she became affianced when of a marriageable
age to a gentleman of Sorrento, the Cavaliere Marzio Sersale, and
consequently returned to live in the home of her childhood.
Of Tasso’s many adventures, of his universal literary fame, of the honours
heaped upon him by his chief patron, Duke Alfonso of Ferrara, and of his
subsequent disgrace and imprisonment for daring to lift his eyes in love
to a princess of the haughty House of Este, we have no space to speak
here. Let it suffice to say that he was one of the most charming,
virtuous, brilliant, manly figures, as he was also almost the last true
representative, of the great Italian Renaissance, the end of which may be
described as coinciding with his decease. According to his biographer
Manso, the author of the _Gerusalemme Liberata_ was singularly noble and
refined in appearance, though always possessed of an air of melancholy; he
was well-built, strong, active and resourceful, anything in fact but a
carpet-knight who spent his days in writing verse and dallying with
Italian court beauties:
“Colla penna e colla spada,
Nessun val quanto Torquato;”
sang the populace of Ferrara in honour of their illustrious Sorrentine
guest, for the Ferrarese delighted in the handsome stranger who could in
an emergency wield the sword as skilfully as he could ply his quill. Twice
only however did Tasso revisit the city of his birth, and each return home
was occasioned by deep tragedy. In 1577, wounded by the attacks of his
literary rivals and humiliated by the Duke Alfonso’s discovery of his
infatuation for the Princess Leonora d’Este, the unhappy poet travelled
southward, reaching Sorrento in the disguise of a shepherd. Making his way
to the Casa Sersale, the house of his sister, now a widow with two sons,
Torquato passed himself off as his own messenger, and so eloquently did he
relate the story of his own grief and wrongs, that the tender-hearted
Cornelia fainted away at this recital. Having satisfied his mind as to his
sister’s genuine affection, the pseudo-shepherd now revealed his true
character, whereupon the pair embraced with transports of joy, though it
was deemed prudent not to acquaint their friends with the arrival of
Torquato, who was represented to the good people of Sorrento as a distant
relative from Bergamo. Cornelia Sersale now entreated the poet to take up
his abode permanently in her house, and to forget the rebuffs of the cruel
world without in the enjoyment of family ties and affections; and well
would it have been for Torquato, had he accepted his sister’s advice and
passed the succeeding years in simple rural pleasures. But restless and
inconsequent despite all his virtues, the poet must needs return to
Ferrara to bask in the presence of his beloved Leonora, with the dire and
undignified result that all the world knows. Tasso’s second visit took
place not long before his death, when his strength was rapidly failing, so
that it seems strange that he did not decide to end his days amidst these
lovely and well-remembered scenes of his early boyhood, instead of
deliberately choosing for the last stage of his earthly journey the Roman
convent of Sant’ Onofrio, where the death-chamber and various pathetic
relics of the poet are still pointed out.
Students of Tasso’s immortal epic are apt to overlook the immense
influence exercised on its author by his early Sorrentine days and
surroundings. The _Gerusalemme Liberata_ contains, as we know, a full
account of the First Crusade and constitutes an apotheosis of Godfrey de
Bouillon, first Christian King of Jerusalem; but it is also something more
than a mere poetical description of a departed age of chivalry. For there
can be little doubt that the poet aspired to be the singer of a new
movement which should wrest back the Holy City from the clutches of the
Saracens, and set a second Godfrey upon the vacant throne of Palestine. To
this important end the experiences of his infancy and his training by the
Jesuits had undoubtedly tended to urge the precocious young poet. The
servants of his father’s house at Sorrento must many a time have regaled
his eager boyish mind with harrowing tales of the infidel pirates who
scoured the Tyrrhene Sea within sight of the watch-towers on the coast;
within ken, perchance, of Casa Tasso itself, perched on the commanding
cliff above the waters. Scarcely a family dwelling on the Marina below but
was mourning one or more of its members that had been seized by the
blood-thirsty marauders, perhaps to be brutally slain on the spot or to
languish in the dungeons of Tripoli and Smyrna, eking out a life of
slavery that was far worse than death itself. Stories of tortured
Christians, like that of the pious Geronimo of Algiers who was tied with
cords and flung into a mass of soft concrete, were common enough topics
among the Sorrentine folk, all of whom lived in constant dread of a
successful raid by the Barbary pirates. For, despite the efforts of the
great Emperor Charles the Fifth to protect his maritime subjects, the
swift galleys of Tunis and Tripoli out-stripped the Imperial men-of-war,
and continued to carry on their vile commerce of slavery. Such a state of
terrorism must have appeared intolerable to the highly romantic, deeply
religious spirit of the young poet; and his Jesuit preceptors, working on
the boy’s imagination, were soon able to instil into his youthful brain
the notion of a new Crusade which would not only sweep the infidel ships
from off the Italian seas, but would also recapture the Holy City itself.
The Church, beginning at last to recover from the effects of Luther’s
schism, was once more in a position to re-assert its ancient authority
over Catholic Christendom, and in Torquato Tasso it found an able
trumpeter to call together the scattered forces of the Faithful, and to
reunite them in a holy war. Astonished and delighted, all Italy was swept
by the golden torrent of Tasso’s impassioned verses, that were intended to
urge the Catholic princes of Europe to the inauguration of a new Crusade.
Nor were the times unpropitious for such an event. Tunis, that hot-bed of
infidelity, piracy and iniquity, was in the hands of the Christians; and
the fleets of the Soldan had been well-nigh annihilated by Don John of
Austria at the glorious battle of Lepanto:—to convince a doubting and
hesitating world that the actual moment had come wherein to recover the
city of Jerusalem was the main object of the author of the _Gerusalemme
Liberata_. And it was his infancy spent upon this smiling but
pirate-harassed coast that was chiefly responsible for this desired end in
the epic of the Crusades; it was Tasso’s early acquaintance with the Bay
of Naples, combined with his special training by the Jesuits, that forced
the poet’s genius and ambition into this particular channel.
It is pleasant to think that Sorrento is still appreciative of its honour
as the birth-place of the great Italian poet. The citizens have erected a
statue of marble in one of their open spaces; they have called street,
hotel and _trattoria_ by his illustrious name; and can the modern spirit
of grateful acknowledgment go further than this? His father’s house has
perished, it is true, through “Nature’s changing force untrimmed,” for the
greedy waves have undermined and swallowed up the tufa cliff which once
supported the old Tasso villa. But there is still standing in Strada di
San Nicola the old Sersale mansion, wherein the good Cornelia received her
long-lost brother in his peasant’s guise, an unhappy exile from haughty
Ferrara. Of more interest however than the old town house of the Sersale
family is the ancient farm, known as the Vigna Sersale, which once
belonged to Donna Cornelia, and supplied her household with wine and oil.
It is a lovely sequestered spot lying on the breezy hill-side not far down
the Massa road, facing towards Capri and the sunset. Hallowed by its
historic connection with the poet and his devoted sister, the Vigna
Sersale can claim perhaps to be one of the most interesting and beautiful
places of literary pilgrimage upon earth. Ascending by the steep pathway
that leads upward from the broad high road, it is not long before we reach
the old _podere_, amidst whose olive groves and vineyards the poet was
wont to sit dreamily gazing at the glorious view before him. Here are the
same ancient spreading stone-pines, the same gnarled olive trees that
sheltered the gentle love-lorn poet, whilst Cornelia and her sons sate
beside him in the shade, endeavouring—alas! only too vainly—by their
caresses to detain the roving Torquato in their midst. Could not, we ask
ourselves, the erratic poet have been content to remain in this spot, “in
questa terra alma e felice” as he himself styles it, instead of plunging
once more into the dangers and dissipation of that Vanity Fair of distant
Ferrara? Why could he not have brooded over his ill-starred infatuation
for the high-born Leonora in this soothing corner of the earth, allowing
its quiet and beauty to sink into his soul, until the recollection of his
Innamorata declined gradually into a fragrant memory that could be
embalmed in never-dying verse? But like his own favourite hero, the
Christian King of Jerusalem, the poet must in his inmost heart have
preferred a changing storm-tossed life to the ideal existence of rustic
ease; and had he not returned to the treacherous splendours of Alfonso’s
court, how much less entrancing would his own life-story have appeared to
after ages! Unconsciously he seems to have composed his own epitaph in
describing Godfrey’s death; for the crusading king lived and died like a
true Christian knight, for whom the world has afforded many adventures,
and but few intervals of peace until the final call to endless rest.
“Vivesti qual guerrier cristiano e santo,
E come bel sei morto: ei godi, e pasci
In Dio gli occhi bramosi, o felice alma,
Ed hai del ben oprar corona e palma.”
CHAPTER XI
CAPRI AND TIBERIUS THE TYRANT
Lying between the classic capes of Misenum and Minerva, the island of
Capri appears like a couched lion, guarding the entrance of the Bay of
Naples; his majestic head being formed by the stupendous cliffs of the
Salto that face the sunrise, whilst his back and loins are represented by
the long broad slope which stretches from the summit of Monte Solaro to
the most westerly headland of Vitareta. Nor is it only as a guardian to
their Bay that Capri serves the Neapolitans, for it also presents them
with a gigantic natural barometer. In fine settled weather a soft haze
invariably lies over the sea, so that Capri is only faintly visible from
the shores of Parthenope, save at sunrise and sunset, when for a short
time the graceful form of the islet looms out clear-cut like a jagged
amethyst upon a sapphire bed; but before rain or storm it yields up its
inmost secrets to the public gaze of Naples. The northern Marina, the
towns of Capri and Ana-Capri, even the little terraced fields become
discernible to the naked eye: “It will be wet to-morrow” augur the
weather-wise of Naples, and the prediction is rarely falsified.
[Illustration: FARAGLIONI ROCKS, CAPRI]
It is an easy matter to cross from Sorrento to the island, whether it be
by the little steamer that plies daily between Naples and Capri, putting
in at Sorrento on its journeys backwards and forwards, or—far pleasanter
if somewhat slower way—by engaging a boat with four rowers, who on a calm
day ought to make the Marina of Capri in less than two hours. Nothing can
be more delightful or exhilarating than this old-fashioned method of
transit; and it gives also a feeling of superiority over less enterprising
persons who prefer the quicker passage on a smoky steamer, crammed with
tourists and attendant touts. It is the very morning for a row on the cool
glassy water, as we step joyfully into our boat with its four stalwart
Phrygian-capped sailors in attendance:
“Con questo zeffiro
Cosi soave,
Oh, com’ e bello
Star su la nave!
Mare si placido,
Vento si caro,
Scordar fa i triboli
Al marinaro.”
Bending with a will to their oars, our genial mariners quickly impel our
barque round the first jutting headland, so that the thickly populated
Piano di Sorrento is at once lost to view. Making good headway over the
clear water, it is not long before we find ourselves passing beneath the
wave-washed precipices of the Salto, and well within our time limit of two
hours we reach the roadstead of the Marina, to find ourselves in a bright
and busy world of traffic and pleasure. Between the houses coloured
coral-pink, white, blue, and yellow, and the pale green transparent water
lies a long stretch of beach covered with every sort of craft that sails
the Mediterranean, and with a motley crowd of fishermen, tourists and
noisy children; whilst the whole atmosphere rings with raucous voices
raised in giving directions, in quarrelling, or in addressing the many
perplexed strangers. We disembark, and cross the intervening beach with
its sea-weed veiled boulders and masses of tawny fishing nets; we reach
the village, and here we meet with our first disappointment in romantic
Capri. It was not so very many years ago, barely thirty in point of fact,
that this island was roadless, and in those primitive days the visitor was
met at the Marina Grande by tall strapping Capriote women, who were wont
to seize the traveller’s pieces of baggage as though they had been light
parcels, and to march up the old stone staircase poising these burdens on
their heads with the carriage of an empress. The stranger’s own entrance
into Capri was less dignified, for either he had to toil painfully in the
blazing sun up that steep picturesque flight of steps and reach the
plateau above, perspiring and probably out of temper; or else he was
compelled to bestride a miserable ass which a bare-footed damsel steered
upward by means of the quadruped’s tail. Nowadays, we are spared this
original and somewhat humiliating manner of arrival at our journey’s end.
There are little _carrozzelle_, drawn by clever black Abruzzi cobs
awaiting us, and even one or two hotel conveyances. We find ourselves
being driven rapidly up the excellent winding road constructed only a
quarter of a century ago, past the domed Church of San Costanzo, the
patron Saint of the Caprioti, past hedges of aloe and prickly pear, until
we gain the saddle of the island-mountain, where stands the small capital
perched upon a ledge that overlooks the Bay of Naples to the north, and to
the south the endless expanse of the unruffled Tyrrhene.
It is evident even to the most casual untrained eye, that this huge mass
of sea-girt rock whereon we stand must in remote ages have formed part of
the mainland opposite, until some fierce convulsion of nature, common
enough in this region that is ever changing its outward face through
subterranean forces, tore what is now Capri asunder from the Punta della
Campanella, and placed the sea as an eternal barrier between the riven
headlands of continent and new-formed island. The charm of this rocky
fragment, thus placed in mid ocean by volcanic action, was first
discovered by the great Emperor Augustus, who chancing to visit the island
for some obscure reason was greatly affected by the spectacle of a
withered ilex tree, that revived and burst into foliage at the auspicious
moment of his setting foot at the Marina. Flattered at the compliment paid
by Nature’s self to his august presence and drawing a happy omen from the
incident, the Emperor at once proposed to the people of Neapolis, who then
owned the island, that they should exchange barren Capreae for the larger
and more fertile imperial appanage of Aenaria (Ischia)—a bargain to which
the shrewd Neapolitans readily agreed. Here then in a spot at once so
salubrious and so convenient for the management of affairs of state, the
Emperor sought rest and relaxation at such times as he could escape the
cares of government. At his bidding villas and pleasaunces were
constructed; roads were carried by means of viaducts across the airy
plateau lying between the Salto and the Solaro; and the able bodied
inhabitants of the island were enrolled as a sort of honorary bodyguard
for the person of Augustus during his occasional visits. In this secluded,
yet accessible retreat, the ruler of the Roman world could easily lay his
finger, as it were, upon the beating pulse of his mighty empire, for
Capreae was at no great distance from Rome itself, and from the heights of
the island note could be made of the movements of the Imperial fleet lying
at Baiae or of the arrival of the corn ships from Egypt and Asia Minor.
But the name of the good Augustus is scarcely remembered in connection
with Capreae, which alone recalls its association with Tiberius the
Tyrant, who spent the last nine years of his reign upon the rocky islet
that was so beloved of his predecessor. To this spot “Timberio” (as the
natives invariably misname the Emperor) feeling the rapid approach of
senile decay, weary of the thankless task of ruling an ungrateful people,
sick of family dissensions and of court intrigue, at last came in the
cherished hope of spending the few remaining years of his life in cultured
leisure and in comparative solitude. An enthusiastic student of astronomy
and of its sister science, or rather pseudo-science, astrology, Tiberius
proposed to study the heavens in the company of chosen mathematicians and
soothsayers. Twelve buildings—palaces, villas, pavilions, call them what
you will—were now constructed for the special examination of the planets,
and in consequence the whole of the island, whose limited area after all
is exceeded by many an English park, was practically turned into one vast
maritime residence, for all the Imperial pleasure-houses seem to have been
connected with each other by means of viaducts or secret stair-ways. Yet
whilst immersed in astronomy and occultism, the aged Emperor contrived to
find time for the routine of public business, and, like Augustus, he was
still able to direct from his rocky retreat the policy of the Empire. The
reports of governors of provinces, for example, were received, read, and
commented upon by Tiberius in his Capriote home, and amongst these there
must have been included a certain official document from one Pontius
Pilatus, Procurator of Judaea, relating how a Jewish prophet from Nazareth
had been condemned, scourged and crucified by his orders at the special
request of the Jews themselves. How eloquent is this bald statement of a
simple fact, that here in this tiny barren islet was brought the casual
news of the death of Jesus Christ to the then ruler of the Roman world!
Surely an historical incident such as this is of more value than all the
hazy legends or pointless miracles of St Januarius or of San Costanzo,
upon which the imagination of the islanders has been fed for generations.
[Illustration: CAPRI FROM THE VILLA JOVIS]
Remnants of Tiberius’ palaces, all of which are said to have been razed to
the ground by order of the Roman Senate at his death, are scattered thick
as fallen leaves in Vallombrosa over the whole surface of the island, and
it is to the ruins of the Villa Jovis at its eastern crest that the
visitor will in all probability first direct his steps. The way thither
from the little city of Capri leads through narrow lanes along a stony but
populous hill-side, to which the flat-roofed dazzling white houses with
their small iron-barred windows lend an oriental aspect; an illusion that
is aided by the appearance of an occasional date-palm over-topping some
low wall, and by clumps or hedges of the prickly pear. This latter plant,
of Indian extraction as its name of _Ficus Indica_ betrays, grows in
profusion over the sun-baked rocky slopes of southern Italy, especially in
the neighbourhood of the sea. The peasants find it most useful, for it
makes impenetrable hedges, and its coarse pulpy leaves when pounded up
afford good provender for their goats and donkeys. The fruits of the
prickly pear, those quaint crimson or yellow knobs attached to the edges
of the leaves, are likewise gathered and eaten by the people, or else
cleaned of their protecting layers of spiny hairs and despatched in
baskets to Naples, where the cactus-fruit forms an important item of the
popular fare. The fruit itself has a lovely colour and a fragrant scent,
which give promise of a better flavour than it actually possesses, for it
is hopelessly insipid to the taste, although the Neapolitans declare that
the pulp, when mashed up into patties and iced, is very palatable.
A long up-hill ramble over rough paths leads eventually to the Villa of
Jupiter, perched on the Salto—the _Saltus Caprearum_, the “Wild Goats’
Leap,” of the ancients. There is little of interest to be seen in the
existing portions of Tiberius’ chief villa, for the building has been
despoiled centuries ago of its rich marbles, its slabs of _giallo_ and
_verde antico_, its pillars of red porphyry and _serpentino_, some
fragments of which may be found imbedded in the pavement of the
mosque-like little Duomo of Capri. But it is evident from the immense
extent of its substructures, now used for humble enough purposes, that the
Villa Jovis must have been a palace of remarkable size. A hermit who
offers sour wine, a fat middle-aged woman, a figure of fun in her gay
be-ribboned dress who begins languidly dancing a _tarantella_, and a
vulgar pestilent guide who produces a spy-glass usually haunt these
caverns on the look-out for any chance visitor. Buy them off, O stranger!
with _soldi_, is our advice, for you cannot otherwise escape their
importunities, and then mounting to the highest point, peer down into the
clear depths of the water nearly a thousand feet below. For it was here,
if we can credit serious Roman historians, that the Imperial tyrant, half
crazy with terror and ever thirsting for human blood, was wont to hurl the
objects of his hate into the sea; “from this eminence,” Suetonius gravely
tells us, “after the application of long drawn-out and exquisite tortures,
Tiberius used to order his executioners to fling their victims before his
eyes into the water, where boats full of mariners, stationed below, were
waiting in readiness to beat the bruised bodies with oars, in case any
spark of life might yet be left in them.” The terrible legend fits in
aptly with the appearance of this forbidding dizzy precipice, especially
on a dark stormy afternoon, when the dull roar of the waves dashing
against the cliffs below, mounts upward to the Villa Jovis like the angry
bellowing of some insatiable sea-monster.
It was whilst brooding here after the death of Sejanus in Rome, that the
Emperor, not daring to move beyond the walls of his palace, shunning the
society of all save his familiar friends and attendants, and with his face
disfigured by an eruption of the skin of which he was painfully sensitive,
that there took place an incident (which may or may not be true) mentioned
by Suetonius. In the privacy of this villa Tiberius was one day surprised
by an ingenious Capriote fisherman, who in ignorance or defiance of the
Emperor’s wishes had managed to scale with his naked feet the steep cliffs
from the sea below, in order to present a fine mullet for the imperial
table, and of course to earn a high reward for his “gift.” Terrified at
the mere notion of anybody being able thus to penetrate into his most
secret domain, the irate Emperor at once gave orders for the intruder’s
face to be scrubbed with the mullet he had brought, a sentence that the
imperial minions performed without delay. The intrepid fisherman might
have congratulated himself on so mild a punishment for having disturbed a
tyrant’s repose, had he not been possessed of an unusually strong sense of
humour. For at the close of the mullet-scrubbing episode, the foolish
fellow remarked by way of a jest to the officer on duty, that he was
thankful he had not also offered the emperor a large crab which he had
likewise brought in his basket. This imprudent speech was immediately
reported to Tiberius, who thereupon commanded the man’s face to be
lacerated with the aforesaid crab’s claws; but whether this pleasing
incident ended with a cold plunge from the Salto, the Roman historian does
not relate.
Other tales of Timberio’s vices and cruelties have been handed down from
generation to generation, so that the dark deeds committed at the Salto
have almost passed into a local article of faith; and such being the case,
it would seem almost a pity to pronounce these picturesque horrors untrue
or exaggerated. Nevertheless, of recent years there has arisen amongst
scholars a certain degree of scepticism as regards these highly coloured
anecdotes of Roman historians known to be prejudiced. The Emperor was
nearly seventy years old at the time he came to reside in Capreae, and
until that date his life had been orderly and above reproach; it is not
likely therefore, argue these modern writers, that Tiberius should
suddenly, at so extreme an age, have flung himself into a whirl of vices
and crimes that he had hitherto shunned. The thing is of course possible,
but it sounds improbable. That he was moody and morose; that he loved
solitude and hated formal society in the spot he had especially chosen as
the retreat of his declining years; that he practised certain of the
mystic arts, as well as studied astronomy, are all likely enough
conjectures; and these circumstances probably formed the foundation for
the extravagant legends which now surround the Emperor’s memory. Very
shocking and reprehensible were the doings at Villa Jovis, if they really
occurred there, but to try and dispute their authenticity would be a task
quite outside the scope of this work.(10)
If, despite the negative theories held to-day concerning the private life
and character of the second Emperor of Rome during his residence on
Capreae, the traveller be still inclined to trace the sites of the
remaining eleven Imperial villas, he will find little difficulty in
meeting with numberless Roman remains scattered over all parts of the
island. On the beach, for example, a little to the west of the Marina
Grande, are clearly visible the sunken foundations of the great
sea-palace, which in the Roman manner jutted into the water and ranked
probably second in size to the Villa Jovis. The neighbourhood of Ana-Capri
also, and in fact the whole western portion of the island, is likewise
plentifully besprinkled with ancient ruins, one of which is still known by
the suggestive title of Timberino. But most people will prefer to explore
the unrivalled natural beauties of Capri, rather than to make themselves
acquainted with its archaeological points of interest.
First and foremost of the many wonders that Capri has to show must be
ranked the Grotta Azzurra. The pleasantest way of reaching this
world-famous cavern is by small boat from the Marina, rather than by the
daily steamer from Naples; and a perfectly calm and bright morning must be
selected for the expedition, for if the surface of the sea appears in the
least degree ruffled by northerly winds, it becomes impossible for any
craft to make the low entrance of the grotto. Capriote boatmen are as a
rule intelligent and pleasant to deal with, and not a few of the denizens
of the Marina own to some knowledge of English, or rather of American,
since several of the inhabitants are the sons of emigrants who have
settled in the cities of the United States or the Argentine, but whose
love for their island home is still so strong that they contrive to send
their children back to Capri, in order that they may retain their Italian
citizenship and be ready to serve their expected term of years in the
Army.
Past the gay-coloured shipping of the noisy Marina, past the wave-washed
halls of Tiberius’ _palazzo a mare_, our boat swiftly glides over the
pellucid expanse until it reaches those vast towering cliffs of limestone
that spring almost perpendicular from the waters’ edge to the plateau of
Ana-Capri, fully a thousand feet above our heads. Clumps of palmetto, of
cytizus, and of various hardy shrubs manage to sprout and to exist in the
crannies of this sheer wall of rock; and on some of the larger ledges, far
out of reach of a despoiling human hand, we see masses of the odorous
narcissus, though whence they draw their sustenance it is hard to tell. At
length we reach the entrance of the Grotto, and here, at a signal from our
boatman, we crouch down low in the body of the boat, whilst our rower,
skilfully taking advantage of a gentle surging wave, guides our craft with
his hands through an opening in the sheer wall, so low that the gunwales
grate against the rocky surface of the natural arch. At once we find
ourselves in a scene of mystical beauty, in an extravagant voluptuous
dream of loveliness, such as the Arabian Nights alone could dare to
suggest. Above us, around us, behind us, before us lies a luminous azure
atmosphere, which produces the effect of a gigantic molten sapphire, whose
secret blue fires we have actually tracked to their lurking-place in the
very heart of the gem. Against the all-pervading shimmering light our own
forms stand out distinct of an intense and velvety blackness, yet the
blades of the oars that cleave the melted sapphire of the water, the tips
of our fingers that dabble in the celestial liquid, appear as if coated
with tiny globules of silver. Our boatman’s son, a picturesque lad of
fifteen or there-abouts, has, we notice, been engaged in hastily casting
off his scanty attire; for a moment his slight graceful figure is outlined
against the blue light like some antique bronze of Pompeii or Herculaneum,
and then there is a splash as the youthful form, diving into the pool, is
instantaneously changed by the genius of the place into a
silver-glistening sea-god, the very image of the fisherman Glaucus sung of
old by Ovid, who became an Immortal and dwelt ever afterwards, according
to the ancient myth, in an azure palace beneath the sea. As the stripling
rises to the surface all glittering to breathe the air, his head turns
from frosted silver to ebon blackness, as does likewise his hand, raised
from the water to clasp the boat’s prow. Slowly we are propelled round the
lofty domed cavern, and are shown the little beach at its further
extremity with its mysterious and unexplored flight of stone steps, down
which, so our mariner informs us, the wicked Timberio used to descend from
his villa at Damecuta, hundreds of feet overhead, to take a plunge in
these enchanted waters. The Emperor and his friends may or may not have
gambolled in this jewelled bath; but certain it is that Tiberius knew of
the existence of this unique cavern; and equally certain that an artistic
but demented potentate of our own days was so smitten with the idea of
owning a secret staircase descending to a blue grotto, that he must needs
construct within the walls of a fantastic castle in the highlands of
Bavaria an artificial counterpart of the Grotta Azzurra, with metal swans
moved by clockwork swimming thereon!
Our genial boatman beguiles the time of our returning by a long story,
told him in his boyhood by his old grandfather, of how two English
_Signori_ had managed to rediscover the entrance to the Blue Grotto, which
had been lost since the days of the Emperor Timberio, and how in
expectation of the Englishmen’s reward a plucky sailor, named Ferrara, had
made his way all round the island in a cask, trying to force an entrance
into every possible cavern, until at last he hit upon the mouth of the
Grotta Azzurra itself, and thus gained the prize. But as a matter of fact
the existence of the Grotto was never wholly forgotten, for its beauties
were certainly known to the old Italian chronicler Capaccio. Yet doubtless
during the long period of the Napoleonic wars, when Capri from its
strategic position became a choice bone of contention between French,
English and Neapolitan forces, there were few if any persons who possessed
the courage or curiosity to visit the cavern; with the result that its
_exact_ locality became temporarily lost. It was known, however, to exist
somewhere at the base of the great northern cliff, so that only a very
small portion of the coast-line had to be explored, before its tiny
inconspicuous entrance could be rediscovered. A far more exciting event
than the refinding of the Blue Grotto was the genuine discovery of the
beautiful Grotta Verde on the southern side of the island by two
Englishmen, Mr Reid and Mr Lacaita, in the summer of 1848. This grotto,
esteemed the second in importance of the many caves that Capri boasts,
consists of a huge natural archway formed in the cliffs wherein the water
and rocks appear of an emerald hue, contrasting strangely with the opaque
blue of the sea beyond, and suggesting in its dual colouring the
marvellous combination of dark blue and iridescent green in the peacock’s
tail.
[Illustration: IN THE BLUE GROTTO, CAPRI]
Capri is a pleasant enough place of residence for a short time,
particularly if one invests in a pair of the rope-soled shoes affected by
the people, which enables the wearer to follow with greater ease the rough
stony tracks, often at a dizzy height above the sea, that form the only
walks in the eastern portion of Capri, except the villa-lined Tragara road
leading to the Guardiola, now become the fashionable promenade of the many
foreign residents upon the island. There are some delightfully peaceful
nooks to be sought near the water’s edge, not far from the Faraglioni,
that picturesque trio of rocks lying off the south-eastern corner of
Capri. Here we can find a sheltered corner, unfrequented alike by the
pestering native or by the ubiquitous tourist; perchance the deserted hall
of some maritime villa, for the caverns near the Piccola Marina abound in
traces of Roman architecture. In such a retreat, with a book on one’s
knees and with one’s own thoughts for sole company, how fascinating it is
to lie
“... on Capri’s rocks, close to their snowy streak
Of ambient foam, and watch the restless sea
Tossing and tumbling to Eternity,
Feeling its salt kiss fall upon the cheek.”
But to those who prefer to take long tramps afield rather than to linger
in meditation on the sunny beaches near the Piccola Marina, there is
always the ascent to Ana-Capri by the broad smooth winding road that
affords a fresh view of the Bay of Naples at every one of its many twists
and turnings. Over a ravine filled with masses of ilex and myrtle; past
the fragment of the pirate Barbarossa’s aerial castle, perched on a rocky
pinnacle and looking like some fantastic creation of Gustave Doré’s brush;
the broad ribband of road leads across the steep northern flank of Monte
Solaro, until it ends at Ana-Capri with its white houses nestling round a
domed church. It is an easy ascent, taking no great space of time, yet
strange to relate, well within living memory the only approach to this
hill-set village was by means of the interminable stone staircase with
some five hundred steps that connected it with the Marina Grande below. A
charming writer on Neapolitan life and character thus shrewdly sums up the
general opinion concerning this altered aspect of conditions with regard
to Ana-Capri, now brought at last into close touch with modern
civilization and its accruing benefits:
“Before the culminating point is reached, the road crosses the old
staircase, which has unfortunately been almost completely destroyed by the
huge masses of rock dislodged from the cliff above by the workmen. It
makes one sad to look at it, and almost regret that the new road ever was
constructed. Were every invective that has been vented on those same steps
turned into a paving-stone, there would be more than sufficient to pave
the streets of Naples anew; were every drop of sweat that has fallen upon
them collected, there would be enough water to flood them. And yet now
that this dreadful staircase has been superseded by a good macadamised
road, every one seems to regret the change. Says the heavily laden
_contadina_: ‘The old way was the shortest;’ says the artist: ‘It was
infinitely more picturesque; that new parapet wall is a dreadful
eye-sore;’ says the archaeologist: ‘It had the merit of antiquity; it is
not everywhere that one can tread in the footprints of a hundred
generations.’ Even those whose every step in the olden time was
accompanied by a malediction, can remember how good a glass of very
inferior wine tasted on reaching Ana-Capri.”(11)
But whether Ana-Capri has or has not been really benefited by the Italian
Government’s finely engineered road, there can be no doubt that the
primitive charm of the island, which in by-gone days constituted one of
its chief attractions, has greatly declined with the wholesale
introduction of modern conventions and improvements. With the sudden
influx of wealthy strangers, Anglo-Saxon, German, French and Russian, it
is not surprising to learn that the islanders have become somewhat
demoralized under the changed conditions of life, and that not a small
proportion of them have grown venal and grasping. The happy old days when
artists and inn-keepers, peasants and such chance visitors as loved the
simple unsophisticated life, hob-nobbed together on terms of equality are
gone for ever. Fashion, that merciless deity, has annexed the Insula
Caprearum to her ever-growing dominions;—there are smart villas on the
Tragara road and even at Ana-Capri; there are British tea-rooms and
Teutonic _Bierhälle_ in the town. At the present time the tourists and
foreign residents form the chief source of wealth to the islanders, now
that the quails have more or less deserted these shores. Instead of
awaiting in due season with nets ready prepared the advent of the plump
little feathered immigrants from the African coast, the modern Caprioti
are continually on the look-out for the steamers that bear hundreds of
money-spending tourists to the Marina, and these they proceed to enmesh
with proffered offers of service. And, speaking of the quails, in the days
before breech-loading guns and reckless extermination had injured this
valuable source of revenue, the arrival of the birds winging their way
northward was the signal for every sportsman on the island to hasten to
collect the annual harvest of game. High poles, supporting nets twenty
feet broad and sixty feet long, were erected on the grassy slopes of the
Solaro or in the plateau of the Tragara, towards which, by dint of
judicious scaring and shouting from expectant watchers stationed at
various points, the flight of the on-rushing birds was directed. Dashing
themselves with force against this wall of netting, the poor quails fell
stunned to the ground, where they were easily taken by hand, whilst scores
of guns were levelled ready to bring down such birds as had escaped the
snare prepared for them. From the thousands of quails thus captured the
islanders were enabled to pay their taxes to the Bourbon Government, as
well as to provide the income of their Bishop—for in those distant days a
prelate dwelt at Capri—who in allusion to his chief source of income was
jocularly known at the Roman court as “Il Vescovo delle Quaglie.”
From Ana-Capri to the western shore extends the most fertile stretch of
land in the island: a broad slope set with vineyards and groves of
silver-grey olives, that are interspersed here and there with clumps of
almond and plum trees. Fine oil is yielded by the _poderi_ of Ana-Capri
and Damecuta, whilst the grapes produce the highly prized red and white
Capri vintages, choice wine of which the casual traveller rarely tastes a
good sample, for it is usually doctored and “improved” for purposes of
keeping by the wine-merchants of Naples. Thus the rasping red liquid that
appears on the table of a London restaurant, and the scented
strong-tasting white stuff that is sold in the hotels of the island itself
or of Naples under the name of Capri, have little in common with the pure
unadulterated product of these sunny breezy vineyards. But besides wine
and oil, the island is likewise celebrated for its beautiful and varied
flora, and it is amongst the olive groves and lanes of the western side of
the island that the wild flowers can be found in the greatest profusion.
Amongst the tender green shoots of the young springing corn are set
myriads of brilliant hued anemones, purple, scarlet, and white with a
crimson centre; and even in January can be found in warm sheltered nooks
the pretty mauve wind-flower, one of the earliest of spring blossoms in
Italy. The grassy pathways that intersect the various holdings are gay
with rosy-tipped daisies, white “star-of-Bethlehem,” dark purple
grape-hyacinth, and the tiny strong-scented marigold, that seems to bloom
the whole twelve-month round. Amongst the loose stone-work of the walled
lanes, where beryl-backed lizards peep in and out of every crevice, can be
found fragrant violets and the delicate fumitory with its pink waxy bells.
In moist places flourish patches of the wild arum or of the stately great
celandine, the “swallow-wort” of old-fashioned herbalists, who believed
that the swallow made use of the thick yellow juice that runs in the veins
of this plant to anoint the eyes of her fledgelings! And with the
disappearance of the anemones as the season advances, their place is taken
by blood-red poppies, by golden hawkweeds and by masses of tall
magenta-coloured blooms of the wild gladiolus, the “Jacob’s Ladder” of our
own English gardens. Strange enough amongst these familiar homely flowers
appear the sub-tropical clumps of prickly pear, and the hedges of aloe
which here and there have thrown up a gigantic spike of blossom eight or
ten feet in height, a triumphal favour of Nature that the plant itself
must pay for by its subsequent death.
From Ana-Capri we ascend to the peak of the lofty Solaro, by no means an
arduous climb from this point, for we have but to follow a narrow
goat-track leading across slopes covered with coarse grass and some low
thickets of stunted lentisk and myrtle. The rosemary too grows plentifully
on the dry wind-swept soil, and the soft sea breeze wafts its refreshing
scent to our nostrils. There is a pretty legend of the people which
relates the cause of this plant obtaining its perfume of unearthly
sweetness:—how the Madonna one day hung the swaddling clothes of the
Infant Christ to dry upon a common pot-herb in the garden at Nazareth—the
rosemary is freely used in Italian cookery, and its taste is as unpleasant
as its scent is delicious—whereupon the humble plant thus honoured was
ever afterwards endowed with the delicate odour that is so highly prized.
And beyond this, the rosemary was likewise permitted to put forth masses
of flowers of the Madonna’s own colour of blue, concerning which a
tradition—Celtic, not Italian—avers that on Christmas morning upon every
plant of rosemary will be found by those who care to seek them expanded
blooms in honour of St Joseph, the Virgin and the Holy Child. Reaching the
crest of the Solaro, we are well rewarded for our climb over the stony
slopes by a wide-spreading view. Owing to the central position of the
island, we can from its airy summit, some sixteen hundred feet above
sea-level, command a glorious panorama of the three bays of the Neapolitan
Riviera, each teeming with a thousand associations of classical or modern
history. Upon those dancing waters of the Bay of Naples appeared in the
dim ages of the heroic world the Trojan galleys that were bearing the
founder of the Roman race towards the beach by Cumae yonder, where dwelt
the venerable Sibyl; the fleets of ancient Rome and Carthage, the
war-ships of the great Emperor Charles V., the pirate galleys of the
Soldan’s vassals, the men-of-war of Nelson have all rode and fought upon
the bosom of the bay beneath us. What a marvellous perspective of the
whole naval history of the Mediterranean does a survey of the Bay of
Naples suggest!
Exquisite and inspiring as is the view on a clear cloudless day, with the
keen _tramontana_ off the distant Abruzzi flecking the azure waves with
streaks of creamy foam and driving the white-sailed feluccas merrily
towards the open sea, the landscape is even more impressive in dull
lowering weather, when the inky clouds that envelop the sky give promise
of the approaching hurricane. At such times a striking phenomenon, said to
be peculiar to the Parthenopean shores, may be observed. From out the
purple threatening masses that fill the heavens there suddenly falls a
shaft of rosy light, as though directed by some vast celestial lens fixed
aloft in the sky, upon a small portion of the opposite shore. The plateau
of Sorrento with its many white hamlets first becomes illuminated; then
the light rapidly passes towards Vesuvius, which is instantly revealed
with marvellous clearness, whilst Sorrento returns to its former dark
brooding shadows. For some moments we watch the circlet of towns that
fringe the base of the burning mountain and Camaldoli erect on its wooded
height, and then our gaze is diverted towards Naples, so clearly revealed
that one can almost fancy it possible to detect the carriages driving
along the white line of the Caracciolo. From the city this weird
fairy-like light glides swiftly towards the headland of Posilipo and the
great sombre mass of Ischia, and then finally seems to vanish altogether
in the leaden-hued expanse of the watery horizon. Storm, rain, wind, hail
and thunder will certainly follow the appearance of this fantastic
rose-coloured glow, and the visitor to Capri may in consequence be
compelled to remain willy-nilly upon the island until such time as
communication with Naples shall be once more restored, for rough weather
on Capri means complete isolation from the mainland and the outside world.
A spell of four or five days without a letter or a newspaper may in
certain cases be restful and even beneficial, but it can also be highly
inconvenient.
* * * * * *
Comparatively few persons are aware that in the history of Capri is to be
found a page, not a particularly glorious one perhaps, of the annals of
our own nation. In the spring of 1806, the year after Trafalgar, whilst
our fleet was blockading Naples on behalf of its worthless monarch, King
Ferdinand, then skulking in cowardly ease at Palermo, Admiral Sir Sidney
Smith, the hero of Acre, managed to capture the island after a sharp
struggle with the French troops then holding it in the name of Joachim
Murat, King of Naples and brother-in-law of the great Napoleon. Sir Hudson
(then Colonel) Lowe—afterwards famous as the Governor of St Helena during
Buonaparte’s captivity—was now put in command of the newly conquered
island with some 1500 English and Maltese troops at his disposal. Lowe and
his second in command, Major Hamill, at once set to work to put the place
into a strong state of defence, and so satisfied were they with their work
of fortification, that Lowe in his confidence nick-named the islet “Little
Gibraltar.” For more than two years the Union Jack floated in triumph from
the fort-crowned heights of Capri, much to the annoyance of the monarch on
the mainland, who finally determined at all costs to recapture the
stronghold facing his capital. Fancying himself perfectly secure in his
“Little Gibraltar,” now deemed impregnable by a combination of art and
nature against any hostile descent, Lowe made light of any possible
expedition from Naples, and when Neapolitan warships actually appeared as
though making to land troops at the Marinas on either side of the saddle
of the island, the British commandant was delighted at the ease with which
these attempts were repelled. But whilst the garrison was busied in
thwarting the movements on the Marinas, which in reality only constituted
a feint on Murat’s part, transports were engaged in disembarking at the
low cliffs of Orico, the western extremity of the island, boat-loads of
men, who quickly swarmed up the terraced slopes towards Ana-Capri and
surprised its garrison. On the following day, October 6th 1808, in spite
of Lowe’s efforts, Ana-Capri with its eight hundred men surrendered to the
French and Neapolitan troops led by General Lamarque, who at once set up a
battery on the crest of the Solaro, so as to command the town of Capri and
the English head-quarters, fixed at the Convent of the Certosa that lies
between the Tragara Road and the southern shore. The eastern half of the
island still of course remained in the hands of the British; and failing
to reduce the town itself and the Convent of the Certosa by bombardment
from above, General Lamarque decided upon taking the place by storm, so as
to forestall the arrival of the English fleet, which was hourly expected
to come to the rescue of the beleaguered garrison. As we have already
mentioned, there was no road existing upon the whole island in those days
a hundred years ago, so that in order to attack the capital, the French
general had to march his victorious troops by the precipitous flight of
stone steps down to the Marina Grande and then try to carry the position
from below. Before however the Frenchmen, now further aided by supplies
sent by Murat’s order from Sorrento, could arrange for the projected
assault upon the town, the delayed British fleet suddenly appeared in the
offing, evidently with the intention of bearing down upon the island. But
on this occasion the luck was all on the side of the French, for scarcely
had the eagerly expected ships hove in sight, than the besieged garrison
had the mortification to see their hopes of succour overthrown by the
uprising of one of those sudden squalls, so common on the Mediterranean,
which drove the warships southward. More than one assault was repulsed
with heavy loss by the small English garrison, which had already been
deprived of half its numbers at Ana-Capri, including the gallant Major
Hamill, whose death is commemorated in a marble tablet set in the little
piazza of the town. But with the retirement of the relieving fleet and the
continuance of foul weather, Colonel Lowe deemed it useless to resist
further, and like a sensible man decided to capitulate on the best terms
he could obtain. In return for his immediate surrender of Capri the
British commandant accordingly stipulated that his garrison should be
allowed to embark and sail for Sicily unmolested, and that the persons and
property of the islanders, who seem to have appreciated the British
occupation, should be respected. But Lamarque, on communicating Colonel
Lowe’s request to King Murat, received peremptory orders to demand an
unconditional surrender, whereupon an aide-de-camp of the King’s, a
certain Colonel Manches, was sent to interview Lowe with the royal letter
in his pocket. Had the missive been delivered to him, the British Governor
would in all probability have decided to fight to the bitter end rather
than to submit to such severe and humiliating conditions. Happily so
terrible a catastrophe, which must have involved heavy loss of life on
both sides, followed by a sack of the town, was unexpectedly, averted at
the last moment, for whilst Manches was actually advancing with a flag of
truce, the approach of the British fleet was again signalled from the
look-out on the hill now called the Telegrafo. Before the Governor could
be made aware of this piece of news, Colonel Manches, cunningly keeping
his master’s imperious letter in his pocket, told Colonel Lowe that King
Murat was ready to accept the terms of surrender offered. The weather
being propitious, the British fleet would have been able this time to
reach the island, but its nearer approach was prevented by Colonel Lowe
himself, who sent to acquaint the Admiral, much to his chagrin, of the
compact already concluded with the besiegers, a compact which, as Hudson
Lowe himself very properly pointed out, was binding upon the British
Government. On October 26th, three weeks from the date of the first
attack, the English troops embarked for Sicily, and the island was
formally handed over to the French and Neapolitan forces, who held it
undisturbed until the close of the Napoleonic Wars.
[Illustration: A GATEWAY. CAPRI]
CHAPTER XII
ISCHIA AND THE LADY OF THE ROCK
Embarking at Torregaveta, the little terminus of the _Ferrovia Cumana_,
which traverses the classic district of the Phlegraean Fields, we are
quickly transported in a small coasting steamer past the headland of
Misenum to the island and port of Procida, the “alta Prochyta” of Virgil.
Although the poet calls the island lofty, it is remarkably flat
considering its volcanic origin, for Procida and Ischia were undoubtedly
one in remote ages, as the learned Strabo rightly conjectured. Its only
eminence is the Rocciola, the castle-crowned hillock to the north-east of
the island, but as this hill must first have caught the expectant eye of
Aeneas’ steersman, perhaps the epithet is after all not so misplaced as
would appear at first sight. Carefully tilled and densely populated, the
island produces a large proportion of the fruit, vegetables, and olive
oil, that are sold in the Naples market, and as it possesses no remains of
antiquity, no medieval churches, no works of art, and but few beauties of
nature to recommend it for inspection, Procida is rarely visited by
strangers. Its inhabitants, who are chiefly husbandmen, are hard working
and independent, and content also to retain the manners and customs of
their frugal forefathers, and even to a certain extent to continue the use
of their national dress, so that the festivals of Procida have more
interest and local colour than those observed in tourist-haunted Capri or
Sorrento. Unconcerned at the progress of the world without, unspoiled by
the gold of the _forestiere_, the Procidani pursue the even tenor of their
old-fashioned ways, unenvious of and unenvied by their neighbours on the
mainland.
“O fortunatos nimium, sua si bona nôrint,
Agricolas!”
We halt at the port of Procida, with its flat-roofed gaily coloured houses
lining the quay and ascending the gentle slope towards the Rocciola.
Thence, skirting the low-lying fertile shores of the island, and passing
the olive-clad islet of Vivara, we soon come in sight of the steep
headland on which are perched the grey masses of the Castle of Ischia,
“the Mount St Michael of Italy.”
Covered from base to summit with fume-weed, lentisk, aromatic cistus, and
every plant that loves the sun, the wind and the salt foam of the
Mediterranean, the huge solitary cliff rises majestically from the deep
blue water. Whether viewed in brilliant sunshine under a cloudless sky, or
in foul weather, when the sea is hurling its waves over the stone causeway
that connects the isolated crag with the little city of Ischia, the first
sight of this historic castle is singularly impressive. Nor is its
grandeur lessened on a near approach, for the ascent to its topmost tower
takes us through a labyrinth of staircases and mysterious subterranean
passages, through vaulted chambers and curious hanging gardens to an airy
platform, which commands a glorious view in every direction over land and
sea.
Built by Alphonso V. of Aragon in the fifteenth century, this massive
pile, half-fortress and half-palace, is famous in Italian annals for its
long association with the noble poetess Vittoria Colonna, Marchioness of
Pescara. Born in the old Castle of Marino, near Rome, one of the
strongholds of the great feudal house of Colonna, the poetess, who was
great-great-niece to Pope Martin V., was betrothed in her infancy at the
instigation of King Ferdinand of Naples to the youthful heir of the
d’Avalos family, hereditary governors of the island of Ischia. The elder
sister of Vittoria’s affianced husband, Constance d’Avalos, the widowed
Duchess of Francavilla, was the “châtelaine” of Ischia during her
brother’s minority, so that it was but natural that his Colonna
bride-elect should be sent to dwell with Constance in this castle. Here
Vittoria under her sister-in-law’s excellent tutelage grew up to womanhood
amidst the intellectual atmosphere of the Italian Renaissance, and here
she was trained to develop into one of the most learned, the most
interesting and the most attractive figures that all Italy produced at
this period. Childless in her early marriage at eighteen, and with her
husband frequently, not to say usually, engaged in military expeditions on
the mainland, Vittoria had every opportunity of cultivating her mind and
of filling her sea-girt palace with men of genius. The poets Cariteo and
Bernado Tasso (the father of Torquato Tasso), were frequent visitors at
this
“Superbo scoglio, altaro e bel ricetto,
Di tanti chiari eroi, d’ imperadori,
Orde raggi di gloria escono fuori,
Ch’ ogni altro lume fan scuro e negletto.”
Strange to relate, her husband, the Marquis of Pescara, was destined to
forestall his learned lady in the matter of poetry, for during his
imprisonment at Milan in the year 1512, he composed a “Dialogo d’Amore” to
send to his sorrowing wife at Ischia, a production which the learned Paolo
Giovio, the historian and bishop of Nocera, pronounced as being “summae
jucunditatis,” though in reality it seems to have been feeble enough. But
however halting and commonplace the warrior’s verses, Pescara’s
composition had the immediate effect of opening the flood-gates of his
wife’s poetic temperament, for she replied at once to her spouse’s effort
with an epistle conceived in the _terza rima_ employed by Dante, and
though the poem is turgid in diction and shallow in thought, full of
classical names and allusions, “a parade of all the treasures of the
school-room,” it exhibits the graceful ease and high scholarship which
mark all Vittoria’s writings. Meanwhile, unblest with offspring of her own
and ever separated by the cruel circumstance of war from the husband she
seemed perfectly content to admire from a distance, Vittoria did not
expend all her time at Ischia in sacrificing to Apollo and the Muses, for
she now undertook the education of her husband’s young cousin and heir,
Alphonso d’Avalos, Marchese del Vasto, whose manhood certainly did credit
to his instructress, for del Vasto under her influence grew up to be a
brave soldier and a tolerable scholar.
After sixteen years of married life with a husband who, although
professing deep devotion to his brilliant and virtuous consort, was almost
invariably absent from her side, Vittoria found herself left a widow
shortly after the great battle of Pavia in 1525 wherein Francis I. of
France surrendered to the Emperor Charles V. The Marquis of Pescara, after
the usual career of bloodthirsty adventures which passed in those days for
a life of knight-errantry, died at Milan towards the close of this year,
leaving behind him an unenviable reputation for treachery towards his
master. But however hard were the things said of the deceased Fernando
d’Avalos by the outside world, no breath of suspicion seems ever to have
penetrated to the heart of the faithful if placid Vittoria, who mourned
bitterly if somewhat theatrically over her departed hero. The Lady of the
Rock was now in her thirty-fifth year, and her beauty, so we are told,
still remained undimmed; in fact it was rather improved by a tendency
towards plumpness, for sorrow and poetry are not necessarily associated
with a meagre appearance. Spending her time partly in the great Italian
cities, but chiefly on her beloved _scoglio superbo_, the widow of Pescara
now set herself to write that series of sonnets in memory of her dead
husband which have rescued his unworthy name from oblivion and have
rendered her own famous in Italian literature. For the sonnets of Vittoria
Colonna, though appearing cold classical and pedantic to our northern
ideas, evidently appeal to the Italian temperament, so that the praises of
Pescara and his widow’s stilted complaints, couched in the elegant
language of the Renaissance, are still read and appreciated to-day by her
compatriots. As time passed, and the ghost of sorrowful remorse was
supposed to be decently laid, the sonnets contain somewhat less of
hero-worship, and assume a religious and speculative character. Some
critics have even gone so far as to affect to perceive a latent spirit of
Protestantism underlying the graceful platitudes and commonplace but
grandly expressed ideas. Very likely the Lady of the Rock dabbled in the
fashionable heterodoxy of the hour, as it is at least certain that she was
on terms of intimacy with the celebrated Princess Renée, the “Protestant”
Duchess of Ferrara. On the other hand, several of her acquaintances and
correspondents were amongst the most prominent of the unyielding Churchmen
of the day; in their number being, it is interesting to note, Cardinal
Reginald Pole, great-nephew of King Edward IV. of England and afterwards
Queen Mary’s Archbishop of Canterbury, who was certainly not likely to
encourage Vittoria’s unorthodox or reforming tendencies. “The more
opportunity,” so writes the poetess to Cardinal Cervino, afterwards Pope
Marcellus II., “I have had of observing the actions of his Eminence the
Cardinal of England, the more clear has it seemed to me that he is a true
and sincere servant of God. Whenever, therefore, he charitably condescends
to give me his opinion on any point, I conceive myself safe from error in
following his advice.” And on the strength of Cardinal Pole’s astute
counsels, Vittoria promptly broke off all communication with the leading
reformer, Bernardino Ochino, and (a thing which does not strike us as
particularly honourable) forwarded his letters to herself unopened to his
spiritual adversaries. But it is evident that Vittoria’s “Protestantism”
was a mere pose, assumed at a time when adverse criticism from all sides
was being levelled at the political abuses of the Papacy and at the
various scandals in the Church which were patent to the eyes of all
onlookers. In short her religious verses are if anything more frigid and
artificial than those which compose the _In Memoriam_ to her husband, her
_Bel Sole_, as she usually terms him. Whilst admitting considerable merit
in Vittoria’s compositions, we find it at this distance of time very
difficult to understand the extravagant praise which was showered upon her
poems by the Italian critics of the day, or to conceive how a sonnet from
the gifted pen of the Marchioness of Pescara could possibly have been
considered an important event in the literary world by cardinals, princes,
poets, wits and scholars. From Naples to Rome, from Rome to Ferrara, from
Ferrara to Mantua and Milan, the precious manuscript containing the
last-born sonnet of the illustrious Lady of Ischia was eagerly passed
along. Court poets read aloud amidst breathless silence the divine
Vittoria’s fourteen lines of jejune sentiment draped in folds of elegant
verbiage; nobles and prelates applauded, hailing the authoress as a
heaven-sent genius. Sincere to a certain extent this strange admiration
undoubtedly was, although the homage was paid perhaps in equal proportions
to the excellence of the verse and to the high rank of the author. She was
a Colonna by birth; she was the widow of a petty despot; she was governor
of a large island;—any literary production, however indifferent, from so
high a personage would have been received throughout Italy with respect or
flattery. But Vittoria was no mean or careless aspirant to fame; it was
the fault of an artificial age rather than the lack of her own natural
ability that has made her poetry cold and soulless, for under healthy
conditions of life and thought, “the Divine Vittoria” was doubtless
capable of producing something warmer and more human than the lifeless but
graceful sonnets that bear her name.
It is chiefly through her close connexion with the great literary movement
of the Italian Renaissance and her intimacy with its leading artists and
writers, rather than through her own reputation as a poetess, that the
name of Vittoria Colonna herself is remembered outside the borders of
Italy. With her wealth, her culture, her virtue and her unique position in
the world of rank and of letters, it is nothing marvellous that so
fortunate and gifted a mortal should have become the idol of the leading
persons of her day. She belonged, in fact, to a brilliant and famous group
of which she was the soul and centre; of which she was at once the patron,
the disciple and the teacher. That great master of Italian prose, Pietro
Bembo, set a high value on her powers of criticism; other men, almost as
distinguished as the Venetian cardinal, besought her for advice on
literary subjects. Foremost in her circle of admirers appears of course
the great Michelangelo, with whom the immaculate Vittoria condescended to
indulge in one of those cold platonic pseudo-passions which constituted
the true _divino amore_ of the idealists of the Renaissance. So here was
nothing to cavil at, nothing to arouse base suspicion. Considered the
greatest man and the greatest woman in all Italy, both were of mature age,
he in the sixties and she in the forties, when Michelangelo first
professed himself seized with a pure but unquenchable love and devotion
for the widowed Lady of the Rock.
The last days of Vittoria, which were chiefly spent within the walls of
the Convent of Sant’ Anna at Rome, were clouded by ill-health and sorrow.
The death of the young Marchese del Vasto, “her moral and intellectual
son,” was an irreparable loss, for which her boundless fame and popularity
could offer little real consolation. At length the poetess, feeling death
approaching, moved to the house of Giulia Colonna, her relative, and there
expired in February 1547, in the fifty-seventh year of her age. To the
last her death-bed was surrounded by sorrowing and adoring friends,
amongst them being Michelangelo, who is said to have witnessed with his
own eyes the last moments of his beloved Lady. And the famous sculptor,
painter and poet—perhaps the most stupendous genius the world has yet
produced—is reported to have bitterly regretted in after years that on so
solemn an occasion he had not ventured to imprint one chaste kiss upon the
forehead of the woman he had adored so ardently, yet so purely during
life. By her expressed wish the body of the poetess was buried in San
Domenico Maggiore at Naples, the finest and least spoiled of all the
Neapolitan churches, where a velvet-covered coffin containing the ashes of
the Divine Vittoria and her “Bel Sole,” and surmounted by the sword,
banner and portrait of Fernando d’Avalos, is still pointed out to the
stranger, resting on a shelf in the sacristy of the church. We cannot but
regret that Vittoria’s body did not find a final resting-place in her
_superbo scoglio_, where all her happiest years were spent and where her
memory still survives so fresh.
Sadly deserted appear to-day the historic buildings, which are fast
falling into hopeless decay; even the large domed church of the Castle has
been desecrated and turned into a stable.
“Tocsins from yon bleak turrets never ring;
No knight or pages pace those galleries,
So sombre and so silent: ever cling
To that cold church and palace draperies
Of glaucous fume-weed; sea-birds ever sing
The vanished glories with low mournful cries.”
Ischia itself is a quaint, dirty, straggling town, possessing a small
cathedral of ancient foundation, but modernised within and without, its
sole object of interest being a curious font resting on marble lions. The
charm of the city lies chiefly in the busy scenes to be witnessed daily on
its sandy beach and on the stone causeway that leads to the Castle, where
a large part of the population seems to spend most of its time in mending
the deep brown fishing nets or in attending to the gaudily painted boats.
Almost adjoining the outskirts of the little capital of the island is
Porto d’Ischia, with a deep circular harbour that was once the crater of
an extinct volcano, wherein every variety of Mediterranean fishing craft
is to be seen at anchor. Close to the port, embowered among groves of
orange and lemon trees that in winter time are laden with bright or pale
yellow fruit, stands a fine old villa of the Bourbon kings of Naples, once
a favourite summer retreat of his Majesty King Bomba. Royalty has long
abandoned Ischia, and the villa has now been converted into a bath house.
Beyond its neglected park stretches an extensive pine forest, carpeted in
spring time with daisies, marigolds and anemones, and even in February gay
with yellow oxalis and redolent with the scent of hidden violets.
The road from Ischia to Casamicciola, a distance of four miles, leads
along the base of Monte Epomeo through olive groves and vineyards, the
whitewashed walls of the domed cottages, the flat roofs and cisterns, and
the frequent clumps of aloe or prickly pear giving an Eastern aspect to
the scenery, though the sharp tinklings of the goat bells among the
thickets of white heath and dark myrtle scrub on the hill-sides and the
continual murmur of the waves breaking on the rocks below, serve to remind
us we are upon the Neapolitan Riviera. Our destination at length is
reached, the roadway crossing the deep valley of the Gurgitello with its
sulphur baths, which once had a wide reputation and are still much
frequented in the summer months by the people of Naples. Although the
sources of the springs were certainly damaged by the earthquake of 1883,
new bathing establishments have been built, and a fair number of patients
are once more availing themselves of these beneficent waters, which of
course are warranted to heal every bodily evil under the sun. A course of
the Ischian waters therefore applied externally and internally (so the
local doctors inform us)
“Muove i paralitici,
Spedisce gli apopletici,
Gli asmatici, gli asfitici,
Gl’ isterici, i diabetici
Guarisce timpanitidi,
E scrofule e rachitidi.”
Formerly the most populous and prosperous township of the whole island,
Casamicciola consists to-day principally of a mass of shapeless ruins,
together with a number of dismal corrugated iron huts grouped round an
ugly modern church, nor can its exquisite views and luxuriant gardens make
amends for the settled air of melancholy which continues to brood over
this unlucky spot. Every reader will doubtless remember the story of the
terrible earthquake of July 28th 1883, when almost without warning the
whole town, then crowded with its usual influx of summer visitors, was
overthrown and engulfed in the space of a few seconds of time. Hotels,
villas, churches, cottages, all suffered equally, and though the exact
number of those who perished of all classes will never be known, the most
moderate accounts put the figure as high as 3000 souls. Several English
people lost their lives in that brief but terrible upheaval, and as many
of the bodies as were recovered from the wreckage were laid to rest in the
little cemetery outside the town, a plot of ground overhanging the sea,
and shaded by cypress and eucalyptus trees. Many and impressive are the
stories still to be heard from the lips of the present inhabitants, who
are wont to date all events from that fearful night of darkness and
destruction, and who all have piteous tales to tell of relations killed
and houses shattered. The English landlady of the _Piccola Sentinella_,
who herself had an almost miraculous escape on the occasion, gave us a
most vivid and heart-rending description of how her hotel and most of its
inmates were overwhelmed on that awful July night, and how the existing
inn is literally built upon foundations that are filled with many
unrecovered bodies of victims. It was on a dark sultry night after the
evening meal had been finished, when the many guests of the _Piccola
Sentinella_ were sitting in the public rooms or on the terrace overlooking
the hotel gardens. In the _salon_ a young Englishman, an accomplished
musician, had been playing for some time on the piano, when suddenly and
unexpectedly he plunged into the strains of Chopin’s _Marche Funèbre_,
which had the immediate effect of scattering his audience, since many of
his listeners, not caring for so melancholy a piece of music, deserted the
room for the garden. Lucky indeed were those persons driven forth by the
strains of Chopin’s dirge, for a few moments later came the earthquake,
when in a trice the whole hotel was swallowed up in the yawning chasm of
the earth. Everybody inside the walls was killed, and the body of the poor
pianist was actually discovered later amidst the wreckage, crushed down
upon the instrument which had struck the warning notes of impending
disaster. The horrors of that night still linger vividly in the memory of
the people, and many are the terrible incidents, and many also, we are
glad to say, the acts of bravery which are recorded of it. One elderly
English lady, who owned a small villa on the slope above the hotel, rushed
at the first suspicion of the catastrophe into the stone archway of a
window, whence she beheld the whole of her house collapse like a castle of
cards around her. Nothing daunted by the spectacle, this gallant woman, as
soon as the shock had ceased and the clouds of dust rising from the ruin
had cleared away, left her own dismantled home, of which nothing but the
one wall that had sheltered her remained standing, and joined the
_parrocco_, the parish priest of Casamicciola, in the task of succouring
the living and comforting the dying. To the darkness of the night was now
added a heavy rainfall, yet the good priest and this noble woman traversed
together the altered and devastated scene amidst the wet and gloom on
their errand of mercy. It is some satisfaction to learn that this piece of
unselfish heroism and devotion on the part of the priest was officially
acknowledged, for the humble curate of Casamicciola was afterwards made a
prelate by Pope Leo XIII. in recognition of his signal services. Even
to-day people are inclined to be somewhat chary of spending any length of
time in this unfortunate spot, where the ruined streets and shapeless
mounds of earth, only too suggestive of a latter-day Pompeii, speak so
eloquently of terrible experiences in the past and of possible dangers in
the future. Nevertheless, if one can triumph over these gloomy feelings,
Casamicciola affords a delightful centre whence to explore the whole
island, and many are the pleasant walks to be found on the overhanging
slopes of Mont’ Epomeo, and many the boating expeditions to be made from
the Marina below the upper town.
[Illustration: ON THE PICCOLA MARINA, CAPRI]
It is a two-mile walk through stony lanes overhung by branches of fig and
orange from Casamicciola to Lacco, a large village well situated on a
little bay which is distinguished by a curious mushroom-shaped rock, aptly
nicknamed “Il Fungo” by the natives. This place, which also suffered
severely in the earthquake of 1883, is the head-quarters of the
straw-plaiting industry of the island, the women and children noisily
beseeching every chance visitor to buy their wares in the guise of
baskets, hats and fans; the pretty coloured tiles (_mattoni_), which are
used with such good effect in the churches and houses of the island, are
likewise manufactured here. Lacco is particularly associated with the
great annual festival of St Restituta on May 17th, which is always marked
by religious processions and by universal merry-making, followed by
illuminations and fireworks at nightfall. This saint, of whom an early
mosaic portrait still exists in her ancient chapel within the Neapolitan
Cathedral, was once the patroness of the city of Naples, but since
medieval times she has been honoured as the special guardian of this
island, whither her body (so the legend runs) was miraculously conveyed
from Egypt in a boat rowed by angels. A local tradition also asserts that
on her landing by the beach of Lacco, an Egyptian lotus bloom was found in
the saint’s hand, as fresh as when it had been plucked months before from
the banks of the Nile.
Leaving the little bay with its sulphur-impregnated sands, and turning
inland, we proceed along a road across an ancient lava-stream over-grown
with pine trees, wild caper and a tangle of aromatic brushwood, to Forio,
which with its white domed houses, its palm trees, and its stately
bare-footed women bearing tall pitchers on their heads gives at first
acquaintance the full impression of an Oriental city. There is little to
be seen in Forio itself, with the exception of some fine vestments of
needlework that are preserved in the sacristy of its principal church, but
no traveller should fail to visit its wonderfully picturesque Franciscan
monastery, a barbaric-looking pile of dazzling white walls and cupolas set
against a background of cobalt waters, which stands outside the town on a
rocky platform jutting into the Mediterranean and is approached by a broad
flight of marble steps adorned with most realistic figures of souls
burning in brightly painted flames of Purgatory. This point too commands a
good view of the extreme north-eastern promontory of the island, a tall
cliff known as the Punta del Imperatore in honour of the great Emperor
Charles the Fifth, beyond which visitors rarely penetrate owing to the
roughness, or rather non-existence of roads, though the southern side of
the island, which lies between this cape and the castle of Ischia, is
fully as beautiful as the northern portion just described.
The chief attraction, however, of a visit to Ischia is the ascent of Mont’
Epomeo, an easy expedition on foot to the active, and feasible to the weak
or lazy on mule-back. This extinct volcano, whose broad lofty summit is
visible from many points of the Bay of Naples, is naturally rich in
classical associations, the ancients believing that within it lay
imprisoned the giant Typhoeus, whose agonised movements were wont to cause
the frequent eruptions of the crater that eventually drove away the early
Greek settlers from this island—the Aenaria or Inarime of antiquity—and in
later times accounted for the neglect of Ischia as a winter resort by the
luxurious Romans, in spite of its near presence to fashionable Baiae. So
destructive of life and property were these convulsions of nature, that
for long periods, notwithstanding its fertile soil and its lucrative
fisheries, the island remained uninhabited, and an old tradition,
mentioned by Ovid, derives one of its ancient names, Pithecusa, from a
race of apes (_pithēkoi_) that dwelt on its abandoned shores. Since the
great eruption of 1302, the effects of which can still be traced among the
large pine woods near Porto d’Ischia, the mountain has been quiescent, and
the population of the island has increased considerably, although the
constant shocks of earthquake have always made a permanent residence in
Ischia somewhat insecure. Nor can we rest assured that Typhoeus himself is
truly dead, not merely sleeping, but ready to renew his fierce efforts
after his long spell of slumber, and to change the face of nature as
unexpectedly as did the Demon of Vesuvius in the reign of Titus.
Like the great volcano of Etna, which the Ischian mountain somewhat
resembles on a tiny scale. Epomeo contains three distinct climatic zones.
The lowest is that of the coast line with its rich sub-tropical
vegetation, the early part of the ascent leading by steep stony paths
through sun-baked vineyards which produce the white wine of Ischia,
wholesome and light but somewhat acid in taste. For the storing of this
vintage the peasants make use of the numerous old stone towers, that once
served as safe retreats for the terrified inhabitants in times when the
Barbary pirates frequently descended on the Italian coasts to plunder and
enslave. Very curious it is to step out of the blinding sunlight into the
interior of one of these medieval buildings, where in the icy gloom stand
great barrels of the new white wine, each carefully inscribed with a
prayer in praise of St Restituta, from one of which the swarthy
_contadino_, in expectation of a few pence, draws a glassful of the sour
chilly liquid to offer his visitor. Leaving behind this region of houses
and of cultivation, the zone of forest is reached, covered with woods of
chestnut and oak, with a thick undergrowth of heather, myrtle, laurustinus
and sweet-scented yellow coronella; there is grass under our feet, and
long-stemmed daisies, violets, mauve anemones and small fragrant marigolds
everywhere. Through the trees comes the nasal but not unmelodious singing
of an unseen charcoal-burner, or the plaintive note of the little
goat-herd’s rustic pipe, accompanied by the musical jingling of his
goat-bells;—for a moment we try to fancy ourselves in the pastoral Italy
of Theocritus, where nymphs and shepherds, peasants and dryads, lived
together on terms of amity in the woods. But soon the chestnut trees
appear stunted, and the groves become less thick, and we finally gain the
last zone, the desolate expanse of naked rock and dark lava deposits of
the summit, where only a few hardy weeds can thrive. Here in some damp
mouldy chambers dwells a hermit, for nearly all the classic mountains of
Southern Italy are tenanted by an anchorite, generally an old and
ignorant, but pious peasant, of the type of Pietro Murrone, the holy
recluse of the Abruzzi, who was finally dragged from his cell to be
invested forcibly with the pontifical robes and tiara as Celestine the
Fifth. The present hermitage on Mont’ Epomeo dates however from
comparatively modern times, for its first occupant is said to have been a
German nobleman, a certain Joseph Arguth, governor of Ischia under the
first Bourbon king, who in consequence of a solemn vow made in battle
deliberately passed his last years of existence on the topmost peak of the
island he had lately ruled. His example has been followed and his cell
filled by many successors, who have endured the spring rains, the summer
heats, the autumn storms and the winter chills upon this airy height,
where the glorious view may be found a compensation for eternal
discomfort, if hermits condescend to appreciate anything so mundane as
scenery. The shrine and cell are dedicated to St Nicholas of Bari, and to
this circumstance is due the local uninteresting name of Monte San Niccolò
to the entire mountain, whose crest, some 3000 feet above sea-level, we
finally gain by means of steps roughly hewn in the lava.
The view from this height, embracing two out of the three historic bays of
the Parthenopean coast, is one of the noblest and most extensive in
Southern Italy. Looking southward, the fantastic cliffs of Capri are seen
to rise abruptly from the ocean; beyond them appears the graceful outline
of Monte Sant’ Angelo, with the crater of Vesuvius beside it, veiling the
clear blue sky with volumes of dusky smoke. Beneath extends the broken
line of shore, stretching north and south as far as the eye can travel,
with its classic capes and islands basking in the strong sunshine; whilst
behind the foam-fringed boundary of land and sea rises the jagged line of
the Abruzzi Mountains with the huge snow-clad mass of the Gran Sasso
d’Italia towering above the lower peaks. At our feet is spread the
beautiful and fertile island, in outward appearance little changed since
the days when the good Bishop Berkeley “of every virtue under Heaven”
penned its description nearly two centuries ago in a letter to Alexander
Pope, wherein he described Ischia as “an epitome of the whole earth.”
In spite of the good Bishop’s eloquent tribute to the genial climate and
the natural beauty of Ischia, it must be borne in mind that a residence on
the island possesses one or two serious drawbacks. Apart from the
ever-present fear of earthquakes, which hangs like the sword of Damocles
above the heads of the inhabitants, there is yet another disadvantage,
prosaic but very real, in the lack of pure water, every well and rivulet
on Ischia being more or less impregnated with sulphur, with the result
that water for drinking (and in summer even for domestic) purposes has to
be conveyed by boat from Naples. It is bad enough to be dependant on a
distant city for a food supply (which is to some extent also the case
here), but the possibility of enduring a water famine through storms or
misadventure would be a far more serious calamity; nevertheless as casual
visitors to this charming and little-known island, we can easily afford to
smile at such misfortunes.(12)
[Illustration: ISCHIA FROM CASTELLAMARE (SUNSET)]
CHAPTER XIII
PUTEOLI AND THE GRANDEUR THAT WAS ROME
Passing along the noisy thronged street of the Chiaja and plunging thence
into the chill gloomy recesses of the ancient grotto of Posilipo, we
emerge at its further side into a new world, as it were, into a district
where “there is scarcely a spot which is not identified with the poetical
mythology of Greece, or associated with some name familiar in the history
of Rome.” In truth, the headland of Posilipo presents a wonderful landmark
in the history of Naples, for it forms a barrier between the busy world of
to-day and the departed civilisation of the ancients: at the latter end of
this tunnel, the fierce life and movement of a great commercial city; at
its western exit, a tract of land teeming with recollections of the
glorious past.
As our carriage emerges once more into the warmth and sunlight, we find
ourselves in the miserable village of Fuorigrotta, which, by a strange
coincidence, is associated with the memory of a famous Italian poet. For
if the name and verses of Sannazzaro cling to Piedigrotta and the
Parthenopean shore on the eastern side of the hill, the genius of Count
Giacomo Leopardi sheds its melancholy radiance over the unlovely purlieus
of Fuorigrotta. Here in the vestibule of the parish church of San Vitale,
lie the ashes of that unhappy writer, the Shelley of Italian literature,
who so bewailed the Austrian and Bourbon fetters that enchained his native
land. Poor Leopardi! It was but eleven years before the first great
movement of the _Risorgimento_ swept over Italy in 1848 that he passed
away; his poems were indeed songs before sunrise, a sunrise of which he
failed to detect the far-off glimmering, so that he could only lament
without hope the sad condition of his dismembered country, once the
mistress and now the play-thing of the world, and the abject slave of
hated Austria:
“O patria mia, vedo le mure e gli archi
E le colonne e i simulacri e l’ erme
Torri degli avi nostri,
Ma la gloria non vedo;
Non vedo il lauro e’l ferro ond’ eran carchi
I nostri padri antichi.”
It is a flat dusty stretch of road that lies between Fuorigrotta and
Bagnoli; the high walls give only occasional glimpses of well-tilled
_parterres_—one cannot call these tiny patches of cultivation fields—with
thriving crops of brilliant green corn, of claret-red clover, of purple
lucerne, and of the white-flowered “sad lupin,” which Vergil has
immortalised in verse. The round bright yellow beans of the lupin crop,
known locally by the name of _spassa-tiempî_ (time-killers), afford an
article of food to the very poorest of the population. A quaint story runs
that one day an impoverished philosopher, reduced to making his dinner off
a handful of these beans, and imagining himself in consequence the most
wretched wight in existence, was cheered and comforted by observing
himself followed by a still more miserable fellow-mortal, who was engaged
in picking up and eating the husks of the beans that, _more italiano_, he
had thrown carelessly on to the pathway after their insipid farinaceous
contents had been sucked out!
Above us to the right are the heights of Monte Spina, covered with groves
of the umbrella pine, the typical tree of Naples; to our left extends the
verdant ridge of Posilipo, ending in Cape Coroglio, beyond which the
massive form of Nisida rises proudly from the blue expanse of water. All
the landscape shows somewhat hard in the glare of noontide, and we find
the enveloping clouds of fine white dust very oppressive and disagreeable.
From time to time a lumbering country cart is passed with its attendant
bare-footed peasant; otherwise there is little sign of life on the high
road. The bright sunlight flashes upon the horse’s polished brass harness,
and upon the elaborate erection of charms placed thereon, with the avowed
object of averting the dreaded Evil Eye, that everlasting bugbear of all
dwellers upon these southern shores. On his poor drooping head the
worn-out old steed carries a large bell with four jingling clappers and
two brazen crescents, the horns of one of which point upwards and of the
other towards the ground. On the off-side of the headgear is a bunch of
bright-coloured ribbands or woollen tassels, from which depends the single
horn, the invaluable Neapolitan talisman that is supposed to protect every
man, woman, child or beast, from the chance glance of a passing
_jettatore_. Above this glowing mass of colour some three or four feathers
of a pheasant’s tail are stuck, apparently with no ulterior purpose than
that of ornament; but beside the bunch of ribbands there is also fixed a
piece of wolf’s skin, to give strength to the jaded animal, for, remarks
the sapient Pliny, “a wolf’s skin attached to a horse’s neck will render
him proof against all weariness.” Personally, we should think a little
more consideration and some elementary knowledge of farriery would have
been of more service to the ill-used beasts round Naples than the
excellent Pliny’s highly original receipt. Besides this powerful battery
of charms to intercept the _jettatura_, there is the light brass headpiece
engraved with sacred figures, so that any evil glance must be fully
absorbed, baffled or exhausted, before it can fix itself upon the animal.
In addition however to this shining mass of headgear, the horse carries on
his back one of those curious high pommels that are peculiar to Southern
Italy and Sicily. The front of the pommel itself is of well-polished
brass, and covered with a number of studs, whilst at its back is fastened
a miniature barrel, upon which there stands erect the figure of some local
saint, generally that of San Gennaro. The exact part that the barrel and
the row of studs play in this mystic battle against the Evil Eye is
unknown, but the two revolving flags of brass that swing and creak above
the pommel itself are believed to represent “the flaming sword which
turned every way,” and finally expelled Adam and Eve from the Garden of
Eden. Certainly this shimmering metal has the appearance of a flaming
sword in the bright sunshine, so that it ought to prove efficacious in
catching and averting any baleful glance. A second patch of wolf skin on
the crest of the pommel, and some red worsted wound round the spindle of
the flags complete the list of strange charms that are considered
necessary to protect a Neapolitan horse from the pernicious influence of a
casual passer-by.
We soon reach the sea-shore at Bagnoli, a little watering-place much
frequented by Neapolitans of the middle classes, and on looking back we
obtain a charming view of the headland of Posilipo and of stately Nisida,
the Nesis of the ancients, with its memories of Brutus, “the noblest Roman
of them all,” who on this little island bade farewell for ever to his
devoted Portia. A very different tenant from the chaste Portia, however,
who once possessed a villa in this sea-girt retreat during the Middle
Ages, was Queen Joanna the Second, the last member of the Durazzo branch
of the Angevin royal house, and sister and heiress of King Ladislaus II.,
whose splendid monument in San Giovanni a Carbonara is one of the chief
artistic treasures of Naples. It is of course unnecessary here to remark
that there were two Queens of Naples, both Joanna by name, and that the
first of these, the contemporary of Petrarch (whose proper feeling she
contrived to shock) was certainly not a pattern of female virtue, but that
she shone as a moral paragon when contrasted with her name-sake and
successor, the sister of King Ladislaus. Of this second Queen, tradition
more or less accurate relates a host of stories, none of them to her
credit; how she dabbled in necromancy and was immersed in love intrigues,
the most celebrated of which was her amour with the handsome “Ser.
Gianni,” Giovanni Caracciolo, head of an eminent family that has figured
prominently in Neapolitan history from the days of Angevin monarchs to
those of King Ferdinand. Little good did the fickle Queen’s favour do Ser.
Gianni, who suffered an ignominious fate for having one day boxed Joanna’s
ears during a lovers’ tiff. Murdered secretly by four assassins,
Caracciolo’s body was laid to rest in the family chapel in San Giovanni a
Carbonara beneath a splendid monument which is surmounted by the luckless
favourite’s effigy. Joanna the First with all her faults was never guilty
of such light conduct as this, but the peasant mind is always impatient of
dry details of fact, so that in the popular imagination to-day both Queens
are blended into one personage, whose character, it is needless to say, is
about as vile as can be conceived. “Siccome la Regina Giovanna,” is a form
of peasant execration around Naples that has some historical affinity with
the time-honoured Irish malediction of the “Curse o’ Cromwell.”
Turning our backs on the island with its memories of Portia the Perfect
and of Queen Joanna the Improper, we pursue our course along the sea-shore
with rocks of ancient lava above us to the right, now heavily overgrown
with brushwood and plants, amongst which we notice tufts of the pretty
wild asparagus, that the observant Pliny centuries ago found flourishing
in this district. As an early herb, coming into season long before its
cultivated cousin is fit for cutting, this succulent vegetable is highly
prized in the South, and its flavour though somewhat bitter is most
palatable, so that an omelette _aux pointes d’asperges sauvages_ is a dish
not to be despised by those who get the opportunity of testing this local
delicacy. Before us lies our goal, Pozzuoli, with its ancient citadel
jutting into the placid waters and backed by the classic headland of
Misenum, above which in turn towers the crest of distant Epomeo.
Pozzuoli in recent years has been much neglected by strangers, so much so
that no inn worthy to be called an hotel now exists, and such _trattorie_
as the place offers are all equally extortionate and detestable. Some time
ago there was a comfortable _pension_ at the edge of the town on the road
to the Amphitheatre, but its English landlady has long since migrated
elsewhere, and the comfortable “Hotel Grande Bretagne” is no more; whilst
nowadays there are to be found no visitors hardy enough to endure a
prolonged sojourn in the wretched hostelries of the town itself. The
electric tram and the rail-road have in fact killed Pozzuoli as a winter
resort, more’s the pity, for it is not only a spot of singular interest in
itself but its climate is certainly superior to that of Naples, for the
great headland which shuts off the city from the Phlegrean Fields serves
also to act as a buffer against the icy _tramontana_ that sweeps along the
Chiaja in winter and early spring. Invalids used at one time to inhabit
Pozzuoli on account of its mild atmosphere, and even to visit the
Solfatara daily on mule-back, in order to inhale its sulphureous fumes,
which were then believed to be good for weak chests. But medical fashions
vary like all others, and consumptive patients now seek other places than
Pozzuoli for their cure.
Many are the walks outside the town, and none are without beauty or
interest, for, the neighbourhood of Syracuse excepted, we can think of no
place in Italy wherein one is brought so closely into touch with the
classical past. Nature has long clothed the ruined area of the ancient
city with her kindly drapery of foliage and flowers, so that the crumbling
masses of tawny brick that we come across in our rambles are all swathed
in garlands of clematis, myrtle, honey-suckle and coronella. It is a
delight to speculate upon the original use and appearance of these
shapeless blocks of creeper-clad masonry, which attract the eye on all
sides amidst the vineyards and orange groves, where the peasants delving
in the rich soil frequently alight upon treasures of the antique world.
What a delight it is to wander through the Street of Tombs—alas, long
rifled of their contents!—where the gay valerian and the pink silene
sprout from every fissure of the soft tufa rock, and lizards of unusual
size and brilliancy play games of hide-and-seek in the warm sunshine. We
moderns are afraid of graveyards and the paraphernalia of the dead: many a
stout-hearted Englishman objects to passing through a church-yard at
night; not so the pagan Romans, who placed their cemeteries in public
places and were wont to proceed through lines of tombs as they entered the
city of the living: a very salutary and practical reminder of the
transitory nature of life itself. The whole neighbourhood in short is
sprinkled with these memorials of Imperial Rome; there is not an orange or
lemon orchard but stands above some forgotten villa, not an acre of tilth
but must conceal some hidden mine of classical associations. Charming too
are the walks by the sea-shore—now sadly disfigured by the _Cantiere
Armstrong_, with its smoke and ugliness looking like a dirty smudge upon
the delicate landscape of the Bay—for here again we find endless traces of
the Imperial age. There can be no more fascinating employment than to
wander along the beach after one of the heavy winter storms that so often
vex the quiet of the Bay of Naples, and to search for fragments of
precious marbles that have been spied by the waves amidst the sunken
foundations of Roman villas, and thence idly flung upon the shore. Pieces
of the choicest white Parian, squares of speckled Egyptian porphyry, of
_verde_, _rosso_ and _giallo antico_, of the coal-black _Africano_, all
wet and glistening from the waves, can be picked up by the quick-sighted,
and the gathering of these beautiful trifles, cut and polished by skilled
hands nearly two thousand years ago, makes an interesting occupation. Nor
is its classical lore the only feature of the Bay of Baiae, for though its
actual scenery cannot compare with the grandeur of Capri nor its
vegetation with the rich luxuriance of Sorrento, yet these shores have a
quiet beauty of their own. Vine, olive and almond abound on all sides, and
everywhere we see the groves of orange and lemon that in spring time scent
the air with their perfumed blossoms. And in the early months of the year
every patch of warm-coloured, up-turned earth is gay with sheets of that
beautiful but rapacious weed, hated of the peasant, the oxalis, with its
clusters of pale yellow flowers: a species of sorrel that is allied to our
own white-blossomed variety. From many a point on the little ridges that
rise behind Pozzuoli magnificent views can be obtained, whilst to those
who care to study the scientific results of volcanic action the Phlegraean
Fields afford endless occupation and interest. Every one of course visits
the Solfatara, that curious semi-extinct crater, the _Forum Vulcani_ of
Strabo, which has remained for over seven hundred years in its present
condition of languor. A strange experience it is to enter the heart of a
volcano that is still comparatively active, and to observe woods of poplar
and a large pine tree beneath which grow masses of spring flowers—bright
blue bugloss, the crimson vetch, starch hyacinths, purple self-heal, and
golden spurge—and to pass from these thickets on to a space of bare
white-coloured ground that trembles and sways under the feet like a sheet
of insecure ice. Beyond, one sees the little fissures (_fumaroli_)
emitting fumes of sulphur, and the guides take us to stifling caverns in
the hill-side where we are shown the beautiful primrose-coloured crystals.
The Solfatara, the Amphitheatre and the Temple of Serapis, these are the
recognised “sights” of Pozzuoli, which strangers visit to-day in the space
of an hour or two, and then return to Naples comforted with the feeling
that they have exhausted the attractions of the place. Certainly their
reception in the town is not likely to inspire them with a wish to return,
for the guides and touts swarm here more than in any other spot in Italy;
“until he has spent half an hour in Pozzuoli,” says the author of _Dolce
Napoli_, “let no man say that he understands the signification of the verb
to pester.”
Putting aside even the objectionable habits of so many of its citizens, it
cannot be said that the town itself of Pozzuoli to-day is particularly
attractive, although its situation on the Bay of Baiae is charming and its
quays are full of picturesque life and movement. Lines of irregular
yellow-washed buildings, with faded green _persiani_ and balconies draped
with the domestic washing, with here and there a domed rococo church, look
down upon the clear tideless waters that gently lap the ancient stone-work
of the Mole, whilst a mixed crowd of fishermen with bare bronzed limbs, of
chattering women with gay handkerchiefs tied over their thick black hair,
and of blue uniformed dapper little customs officers,—_lupi marini_
(wolves of the sea) as the poor people facetiously term these revenue
officials of the coast—loiter in the sunlight amidst the piles of tawny
fishing nets or the pyramids of golden oranges. From the quay we make our
way to the Largo del Municipio, a typical square of a provincial town in
the South, enclosed by shabby houses and adorned by a couple of stunted
date-palms and a battered marble fountain, around which numberless
children and some slatternly women noisily converse or dispute. There is
an old proverb in the South, that a good housewife has no need to know any
thoroughfares save those leading to her church and her fountain, and as
conversation cannot well be carried on in the former, it is the daily
visits to the well that usually afford the required opportunity for
exchange of gossip or for the picking of quarrels. Two statues decorate
this unlovely but not uninteresting space; one is that of a Spanish
bishop, Leon y Cardeñas, one of King Philip the Third’s viceroys, which
serves as a reminder of the many vicissitudes this classic land has
experienced in the course of history:—Phoenician, Greek, Carthaginian,
Roman, Barbarian, Norman, German, French, Spanish conquerors have all left
“footprints on the sands of Time” in the coveted land of the Siren, which
all have possessed in turn but none have held in perpetuity. His
Excellency the Bishop Cardeñas stands therefore in the open as a solid
memento of the glory that once was Spain, when half Europe and all America
owned the sway of the Catholic King. The second statue, though not a thing
of beauty, has always had the attraction of an unsolved puzzle, for we
cannot decide whether it proves a complete absence or an abundant
superfluity of humour in the Puteolani of to-day. It is the figure of a
Roman senator, vested in his flowing toga, and owning (as the ancient
inscription informs us) the grandiose name of Quintus Flavius Mavortius
Lollianus, whose marble trunk was one of the earliest archaeological
“finds” made in the excavations at Pozzuoli some two hundred years ago.
Since the statue lacked a head and was otherwise of no especial value as a
work of art, the Viceroy of Naples very generously presented this object
to the place of its discovery, whose citizens, doubtless thinking the
appearance of the headless statue uncanny, popped a stray antique occiput
(of which a goodly number, more or less mutilated, are constantly brought
to light by the peasants) upon Lollianus’ vacant shoulders. Anything more
comical and at the same time more repellent than this hybrid statue it
would be impossible to imagine, yet Lollianus of the unknown head remains
a favourite with the people of Pozzuoli. Leaving the Largo del Municipio,
with its weird senator and its dusty palms, we ascend by a zigzag lane
between tall featureless houses to the Cathedral of San Proculo, which
occupies the site of a temple of Augustus, that once dominated the ancient
city and harbour below. Within, the cathedral of Proculus, who was a
companion of St Januarius and a fellow-martyr, is gaudy and painted, one
of those dismally gorgeous ecclesiastical interiors that are such a
disappointment to the antiquarian in Southern Italy. In opposition to the
memorial of Spanish conquest in the square below, we find here an
elaborate monument to a French viceroy, the Duke of Montpensier, who
served for some time as Governor of Naples after Charles VIII.’s capture
of the city. Except the tomb of the young musician Pergolese, who composed
the original _Stabat Mater_ there is little else to see, and we gladly
ascend the tower in order to gain a bird’s eye view of the town from a
point of vantage whither noisy coachmen, troublesome beggars and impudent
ragamuffins cannot pursue. Captured by the Greek colonists of Cumae, who
gave the city the name of Dicoearchia instead of its ancient one of
Puteoli,—a corruption, perhaps, of the Syriac word _petuli_
(contention)—this old Hellenic settlement was rechristened Puteoli by the
conquering Romans, under whose beneficent rule the place rapidly aspired
to wealth and prosperity. With the rise however of Naples, the fame of
Puteoli began to grow dim, and its importance to decline, although
throughout Imperial times it ranked after Ostia as the chief victualling
port of Rome. And of the two celebrated cities which adorned the shores of
this Bay in classical times, Puteoli was the seat of commerce, and Baiae
the resort of pleasure and luxury; yet both were doomed to dwindle and
almost perish in the disastrous years that followed the break-up of the
Empire. The invading hordes of Germany, the raids of Saracen pirates, and
the constant presence of malaria on this deserted coast were sufficient
causes in themselves to reduce in the course of time the thriving port of
Puteoli to the squalid town of to-day. From our lofty post we can easily
distinguish the limits of the city in the days of Tiberius and Caligula,
for to the north we turn our faces towards the ruined bulk of the
Amphitheatre, now lying amidst fields and gardens, but well within the
town walls at the time when Nero entertained the Armenian king Tiridates
and shocked his Asiatic guest by himself descending into the arena and
deftly performing the usual disgusting feats of a professional gladiator.
To westward lies the Bay of Baiae, a semi-circle of glittering water
surrounded by low hills amidst which the Monte Nuovo, unknown to the
ancients, stands conspicuous. How completely have all traces of splendour
and extravagance disappeared from these shores! At fashionable Baiae
across the Bay there is nothing visible save a few shapeless ruins over
the identity of which scholars dispute; at busy Puteoli there survive
to-day but the ruined Amphitheatre, the Temple of Serapis, and the arches
of the famous Mole, to prove to wondering posterity how great were the
wealth, the population and the magnificence of a spot which is closely
associated with all the power and culture of the Roman Empire in its
zenith.
[Illustration: ON THE BEACH]
Of the various fragments of antiquity that are still standing in this
district of the Phlegrean Fields, the Mole of Puteoli is undoubtedly the
best preserved and the most interesting. So splendidly constructed is this
relic of the past, that but for continuous shocks of earthquake the whole
breakwater must have survived intact; as it is, more than half the Mole
has withstood the wear and tear of centuries of wind and storm. It is
built on the model of a Greek pier, a series of arches of massive masonry,
acting at once as a barrier against the force of the invading waves and as
a means of preventing the silting of the sand. Formed of brick, faced with
stone, and cemented with the local volcanic sand, which is consequently
known as _puzzolana_, this wonderful breakwater must originally have
stretched out into the Bay a total length of twenty-five arches, its
furthest extremity being crowned by a light-house. If we could only call
up in imagination the Bay of Baiae in the days of the Empire, when its
shores were fringed by sumptuous villas of famous or infamous Romans and
its expanse was thickly covered with every variety of vessel of pleasure
or merchandise, instead of the few fishing boats that now and again flit
across its glassy surface, we might better be able to realise the
extraordinary episode which is connected with this classical fragment in
the little port of Pozzuoli below us. For it was from the Mole of Puteoli
to the spit of land we see on the western shore opposite that the demented
tyrant, Caius Caligula, constructed his historic bridge of boats across
the Baiaean gulf. Every large vessel in the surrounding harbours had been
pressed into the service of the Emperor for this gigantic piece of folly,
so that the inhabitants of Rome were seriously inconvenienced by the
detention of their corn ships, and loud in consequence were the complaints
of the Roman populace, for whose anger, it is needless to state, the
Emperor cared not a fig. “History,” says Gibbon, “is but a record of the
crimes, follies and misfortunes of mankind;” and this smiling Bay of Baiae
will ever be memorable as the scene of what was perhaps the worst
exhibition of tyrannical caprice that the world has yet witnessed.
Using a double line of vessels well yoked together as a compact and solid
base, the Emperor now gave orders for a military road of the usual Roman
type to be constructed of planks of timber covered with earth and paved
with hewn stones. When this stupendous work was completed, the usual
station-houses were erected at various intervals, and fresh water was laid
on by means of pipes connected with the Imperial cisterns at Misenum. Upon
this broad road, laid across the Baiaean Gulf, the young Emperor now
advanced on horseback, followed by his whole army clad in array of battle.
Caligula on this occasion wore a historic coat of armour studded with rare
gems that had once belonged to Alexander the Great; a jewelled sword was
fastened to his thigh, and a crown of oak leaves bound his temples.
Solemnly the Emperor and his army crossed the broad expanse of water on
dry land and entered Puteoli with mock honours of war. After remaining a
day in the port to refresh his victorious troops, the Emperor was driven
back in a splendidly equipped chariot, which was surrounded by a number of
pretended captives of rank, some noble Parthian hostages being utilised
for the occasion. At the centre of the bridge the procession halted, and
the crazy prince next indulged in an absurd bombastic harangue, wherein he
congratulated his soldiers on their glorious campaign just concluded, and
declared to them that the famous feats of Xerxes and Darius had at length
been surpassed. Finally, he invited his troops to a magnificent banquet
upon this bridge of boats, an entertainment which lasted till far into the
night and was accompanied by lavish illuminations by land and sea. As
might only have been expected, the feast soon degenerated into a drunken
orgy, wherein every guest from the Master of the Roman world to his
meanest soldier became intoxicated, whilst many persons in their cups lost
their balance and fell into the waters, so that the sounds of music and
revelry throughout the midnight hours were mingled with groans and cries
of drowning men close at hand.
Apart from its senseless extravagance and innate folly, the story of the
bridging of the Baiaean Gulf, of this harnessing of old Ocean, affects us
moderns with astonishment at the extraordinary thoroughness of all the
ancient Roman feats of engineering; had this high road across the Bay been
intended to serve any useful purpose, instead of merely to satisfy the
passing whim of a selfish tyrant, we could have had no choice but to
admire the marvellous speed of the artificers and the completeness of the
scheme undertaken.
Quarter of a century later, and the Mole of Puteoli was destined to become
the scene of another event in the world’s history, which has left a far
more enduring impression on mankind than the so-called miracle of
Caligula. In the early spring of the year 62 A.D. there dropped anchor in
the port a certain Alexandrian corn-ship, the _Castor __and__ Pollux_,
coming from Malta after touching at Syracuse and Rhegium (Reggio) on her
way northward. Unnoticed amidst the vast phalanx of shipping that lined
the Mole and filled the broad harbour of Puteoli, the vessel emptied her
cargo on the quay, whilst there also disembarked from her hold a number of
prisoners of no great social consequence, who were on their way to Rome
under the guardianship of a kindly old centurion, named Julius, belonging
to the cohort _Prima Augusta Italica_. Amongst the persons under Julius’
charge was a Jew named Paul, who was accompanied by three of his friends,
Timothy, Luke and Aristarchus of Thessalonica, and all four, thanks to the
kindness of the centurion, who was evidently much attached to his
exemplary captive, were permitted to remain at this spot for seven days.
Paul himself was anxious to tarry at this spot, for of all the Italian
ports Puteoli was most frequented by men of his own nation, so that the
city possessed its little community of Christians, who naturally were
eager to detain the Apostle. So hopelessly intermingled are truth,
tradition and legend concerning the various places on Italian soil that St
Paul is known to have visited, that we cannot be too grateful for the
undoubted link with his journey to Rome that we possess in the existing
Mole of Puteoli, whose surface has undoubtedly been trodden by the
sandalled feet of the great Apostle of the West. Here Paul landed amid the
haughty scenes of Roman pride and power; above him he saw the pagan Temple
of Augustus, all gleaming with marble and gilded bronze that were mirrored
in the calm waters of the port: along this famous causeway he passed,
unmarked by the busy crowd, except perhaps to be mocked by some idler for
his nationality or his halting speech. Guided by Christian compatriots,
the Apostle with his three faithful friends was led through the noisy
jostling concourse of all countries that thronged the great Roman city to
the humble dwelling of his host. Where he lodged in that mighty city we
know not, but we do know for a certain fact that he landed on the Mole,
and that he passed along it to the shore; it is not much, perhaps, but
that little is very precious.
What a contrast do these two incidents connected with the Mole of Puteoli
afford! The Roman Emperor, glittering like the morning star in purple
mantle and jewelled cuirass, riding on his charger across the solid road
that to humour his own caprice had been flung across the buoyant waters,
accompanied by soldiery, by music, and by bands of wealthy sycophants; and
the Apostle, poor, in bonds, a despised prisoner in an alien land, meekly
threading his way through the crowds towards his mean lodging. Where is
the proud Temple of Augustus that beheld these two strange scenes, that
occurred with no great interval of time apart? Where are the villas and
quays that lined the Bay of Baiae? The very ruins of the palaces and
warehouses are swept away; the gorgeous temple is a Christian Cathedral
dedicated to a follower of the despised Jewish captive; the name of
Caligula lives but in human execration, whilst that of the Apostle is
enshrined in the hearts of the whole Christian world.
* * * * * *
It is but a three-mile walk along the beach from Pozzuoli to Baiae,
passing beside the Lucrine Lake and the southern slope of the Monte Nuovo,
which always seems to us a far more wonderful freak of Nature than the
Solfatara. Here we have a miniature mountain, a mile and a half round its
base and nearly five hundred feet high, that was made in the course of a
single night, and is to-day less than four hundred years old! The presence
of this brand-new intruder on the shore of the Baiaean Gulf must ever
remain a wholesome warning to all dwellers on these coasts, that their
tenure of King Pluto’s dominions is very insecure. One morning towards the
close of September 1538, after some days of earthquake shocks, “Pozzuoli
awoke,” says the flippant Alexandre Dumas, “and on looking about did not
recognise herself! She had left a lake the evening before, and lo! she
found a mountain; where she had owned a forest, she found ashes; and last
of all, where she had left a village, she perceived no trace!”
In one sense Dumas’ facetious description is correct: the New Mountain was
born with extraordinary celerity, and woods, lake and village—familiar and
beloved landmarks to the people of Baiae and Pozzuoli—disappeared at its
birth. But the event was no peaceful act of Nature; on the contrary, it
was accompanied by loud rumblings, by showers of red-hot stones, by clouds
of smoke, by torrents of scalding water, and by the retreating of the sea,
which left thousands of fish lying helpless on the exposed shore. The
village of Tripergola, a summer pleasaunce of the Angevin kings of Naples,
and many traces of ancient Roman villas and engineering works, all
perished in this notable cataclysm. Four eye-witnesses have left us
details of this strange scene of desolation, whilst only a few days after
Mother Earth had brought forth this new mountain, one of them, the Spanish
Viceroy of Naples, the valiant Don Pedro of Toledo, owned sufficient pluck
and curiosity to make the ascent of the Monte Nuovo, still smoking hot and
reeking of sulphur. Who can tell when this _parvenu_ volcano may spout
forth fire and ashes? Would any sane person have the courage ever to
settle within range of a possible eruption? No, the Phlegrean fields are
interesting to visit, but he must require a strong nerve who would fain
dwell beneath the shadow of this dormant crater.
It is a very short walk from the base of the Monte Nuovo to the “golden
shores” of Imperial Baiae, which is certainly not an imposing place in
these days. What with the destroying hand of time and the still more
obliterating action of the neighbouring volcano, there is little left for
the fancy to build upon; certainly the three ruined shells that are called
temples by courtesy, but served probably a much humbler purpose than that
of worship, are not particularly striking. It requires not only a good
classical knowledge, but also no small amount of imagination to picture
the Baiae of the Roman poets.
“If Pozzuoli has gone down in the world, still more so Baiae. It does not
require any more sinking; it is low enough as it is, so low that some of
its ancient villas and palaces can only be visited in a diving-bell. So
dreary and deserted is the site, that at first glance the visitor feels
mightily inclined to question the veracity of the historian, and to doubt
whether Baiae—Baiae the gay, the fashionable, the dissolute, the beloved
of emperors, statesmen and poets—ever existed. But when he is shown the
enormous sub-structures lying under water, and the masses of solid masonry
wherewith the surrounding hills are over-spread, incredulity gives place
to amazement. What towns of lath and plaster are Brighton, Newport and
Trouville, when compared with this ‘Rome by the sea,’ where the materials
used for the foundations of a single villa would more than suffice for the
construction of a dozen ‘genteel marine residences’ of the modern style!
What would a Roman architect think of the card-board streets and squares,
and the stucco crescents and terraces, of an English watering-place? of
those ‘eligible family mansions’ wherein dancing is dangerous, and to
venture on whose balconies is perilous in the extreme? Echo answers:
‘What!’ ”(13)
Here on this desolate strip of sea-shore, now dominated by the Spanish
viceroy’s frowning fortress on the hill above, the great and opulent of
ancient Rome founded a city composed wholly of palaces. Here were no noisy
market-places to annoy aristocratic nerves; no slums to afflict
plutocratic nostrils; no families of the proletariat to disturb the
refined senses of the jaded pleasure-seekers who retired hither in the
winter months. A writer, from whom we have just quoted, makes comparison
between Baiae and Brighton or Trouville; but in reality the fashionable
American resort of Newport has more in common with the old classical
watering-place than any modern European sea-side resort. The hot sulphur
baths on the Lucrine shore formed of course only a shallow excuse for the
annual migration of Roman fashionables to Baiae, where blue-blooded
senators and pushing plutocrats indulged in fierce social struggles for
individual pre-eminence. Yet certain of the natural warm springs had been
enclosed in splendid buildings, and were used by the luxurious citizens,
so that even to-day the Thermae of Nero (Stufe di Nerone) are pointed out
by the local guides. “Quid Nerone pejus? Quid thermis melius Neronianis?”
(what is worse than Nero? yet what more beneficent than his baths?) asks
the poet Martial, whose name will ever be bound up with the tales of
luxury and vice that are associated with this spot. Baiae in winter, Tibur
(Tivoli) in summer, the two names stand for the beau-ideal of a Roman
existence, the cynosure of every wealthy citizen.
But let us ascend out of the close and enervating air of low-lying Baiae
to the breezy heights of Misenum, which has immortalised the name of the
Trojan trumpeter whose end was mourned by the tears of pious Aeneas
himself. In gaining its summit and in gazing upon the landscape spread
around us, we have penetrated, so it seems, into the very heart of Italy:
not the Italy of Roman history, but the land of Ausonia itself, the fabled
shore that the Trojan hero sailed at his goddess-mother’s bidding to
discover, when all the world was young and the high dwellers of Olympus
still condescended to take a personal interest in the affairs of favourite
mortals. Surely the vine-clad terraces of Lake Avernus, the pools of the
Lucrine and the Mare Morto, the verdure-clad hillocks lying beneath us
must conceal the true secret of the antique Tyrrhenian country, in whose
history the rise and fall of Roman power afford but one amongst many
epochs. Looking to northward, beyond the little landing-stage of
Torregaveta, we behold the heights of Cumae, that was a flourishing city
with harbour and citadel hundreds of years before a certain Romulus built
a wall of mud near the banks of Tiber and slew his brother Remus for
leaping over his handiwork. The founding of Rome is enveloped in
impenetrable clouds of legend; the building of Cumae is a fact:—here then
we obtain a key to Italian history. Rome, whose origin is lost in mists of
obscurity, is a flourishing modern capital; Cumae is but a shapeless mass
of crumbling ruins, overgrown with ivy and cytizus, and inhabited by
lizards and serpents. But both cities, dead Cumae and living Rome, present
but passing events in the long slow progress of the centuries, which have
witnessed successive phases of civilisation and destruction in this
“Woman-country, wooed, not won,
Loved all the more by Earth’s male lands,
Laid to their hearts instead.”
Is the Genius of Italy, the Sibyl of Cumae, still living, we wonder, in
some dim recess, some secret cavern of Cimmerian gloom, beneath those
decaying heaps of the ancient Greek city? She was old, very old, we know,
when pious Aeneas found her shrieking her strange prophecies, and that was
long ages before Hellenic wanderers raised a fortress upon the wooded
heights above the dread lake of Avernus.—Venerable Mother of Italy! dost
thou still survive muttering thy strange warnings in some sunless
labyrinth, that the rapacious guides of Baiae have yet failed to
penetrate? Art thou, like King Arthur of romantic Wales, still keeping
watch over the destiny of thy country, ever ready to assist in the hour of
need?
“Thy cave was stored with scrolls of strange device,
The work of some Saturnian Archimage,
Which taught the expiations at whose price
Men from the gods might win that happy age
Too lightly lost, redeeming native vice;
And which might quench the earth-consuming rage
Of gold and blood—till men should live and move
Harmonious as the sacred stars above.”
For Italy has not wholly forgotten her ancient guardian and soothsayer,
who welcomed the founder of the victorious Roman race; nor did the artists
of the revived glories of the Renaissance neglect to honour the mysterious
priestess of the Cimmerian shore. With prophetic mien the Sibyl of Cumae,
that Michelangelo depicted, watches ever the come-and-go of humanity from
her lofty post within Pope Sixtus’ Chapel, bidding all remember her
ancient prophecy of the Judgment Day, which the Roman Church has included
in one of its most solemn canticles:
“Dies Irae! Dies illa!
Solvet saeclum in favilla,
Teste David cum Sibylla.”
INDEX
Abbondanza, Via dell’, 51
Abruzzi Mountains, 36, 122, 222
Acre, 270
Adrian IV., Pope, 156
Agerola, 123
Agropoli, 209
Alberada, 181
Albergo Cappuccini, 128
Alcubier, 11
Aleppo, 121
Alexander of Epirus, 206
Alexandria, 121
Alexius, Emperor, 179
Alfonso, Duke of Ferrara, 242
Algiers, 56
Alphonso V. of Naples, 277
Amalfi, 5, 36, 100, 106, 112, 126
Ana-Capri, 249, 259, 271
Angelo, Monte S., 28, 30, 63, 76
Annunziata, Torre, 19, 92, 94
Aosta, Duke and Duchess of, 93, 94
Appian Way, 62
Apulia, 181
—— William of, 135
Arabia, 134
Arco, 106
Arguth, Joseph, 292
Ariosto, Ludovico, 239
Aristarchus, 312
Arno, 2
Arnold of Brescia, 156
Arriengo, 123
Arthur, King, 318
Athens, 28, 39, 58
Atrani, 152
Atrio del Cavallo, 77
Augustus, Emperor, 59, 69
—— Temple of, 313
Aulus Vettius, Corvina, 55
—— —— Restitutus, 40, 55
Ausonius, 208
Avicenna, 177
Avvocata, Madonna dell’, 166
Baghdad, 121
Bagnoli, 296
Baiae, 253, 307
Bajalardo, Pietro, 117
Barbary, 209
Barisanus of Trani, 159
Barra, La, 8
Battipaglia, 198
Bembo, Cardinal, 282
Benevento, 111
Bergamo, 240
Berkeley, Bishop, 293
Bismarck, 186
Boccaccio, 137, 157
Bohemond, 179
Bomba, King, 6, 8, 16, 109, 284
Bosco-Trecase, 92, 97
Bowdler, Mr, 81
Braccini, Abate, 77
Breakspear, Nicholas, 156
Browning, R., 33, 36, 183
Brunetto Latini, 121
Butomilea, Landolfo, 182
Byzantium, 118, 142
Caecilius Jucundus, 40
Cairo, 121
Caligula, Emperor, 5, 308
Camaldoli, 18, 270
Campagna Felice, 66
Campanella, Punta della, 112
Canneto, 132, 140
Canossa, 180, 186
Capaccio, 209, 262
Capodimonte, 2
Capri, 4, 5, 13, 45, 63, 74, 90, 112, 249
Capua, 66
Capuano, Cardinal Pietro, 126, 143
Caracciolo, 2
Cardeñas, Bishop, 305
Cariteo, 277
“Carlo il Zoppo,” 102, 103, 121
Carmine, Church of the, 105
Casamicciola, 284
Casa Nuova, 53
Castellamare, 18, 25, 26, 100, 113
_ Castor and Pollux, The_, 311
Cathay, 121
Cava, La, 113
Celestine V., Pope, 292
Cellini, Benvenuto, 27
Cephalonia, 180
Cerrato, Monte, 168
Cetara, 134, 170
Chalcidicum, 49
Charles III. of Naples, 8
—— VIII. of France, 307
—— of Anjou, 102, 156, 167
Chiabrera, 89
Chiaja, 2
Chiosse, Monte di, 119
Cicero, 40
Clement VIII., Pope, 167
Clementia, Princess, 102
Clodius Glabrus, 70
Cluny, 184
Colonna, Giuliano, 104
—— Vittoria, 5, 277
Conca, Capo di, 125
Concordia Augusta, 51
Conradin, 156
Constantinople, 80, 134
Coppola, Monte, 28, 167
Corniche Road, 100
Costantinopoli, Strada, 2
Crassus, 70
Cumae, 4, 317
Damecuta, 261
Dante, 120, 121, 239, 278
Devonshire, 107
Domenichino, 161
Domitiana, Via, 62
Dragone, 152
Dumas, A., 9, 314
Durazzo, 178
Eboli, 198
Elbœuf, Prince d’, 11
Epidius Rufus, 40
Epirus, 178
Etna, 77, 291
Eumachia, 40, 49
Exeter, 40
Faito, Monte, 37
Falerio, Monte, 170
Faliero, Marino, 103
Farnese, Elizabeth, 27
—— Pier-Luigi, 5, 27
Ferdinand, King, 27, 270, 277
Ferrara, 240, 248
Filangieri, 103
Fiorelli, Signor, 53
Florence, 2, 112, 132, 148
Florus, 70
Forio, 289
Forsyth, J., 181
Francis, King, 109
Frederick II., Emperor, 27, 210
Fuga, 159
Fuorigrotta, 295
Furore, 123
Gaeta, 16, 36
—— Bay of, 4
Galen, 106, 177
Garibaldi, 6
Gaurus, Mons, 57, 76
Gavinius, 208
Gazola, Count, 211
Gell, Sir William, 44
Genoa, 157
Gibbon, Edward, 175, 309
Gioja, Flavio, 119
Glaucus, 261
Goethe, 13, 212
Gragnano, 20
Greco, Torre del, 8, 13, 18, 77
Gregory VII., Pope, 178
Grotta Azzurra, 259
Grotta Verde, 262
Guallo, 116
Guiscard, Robert, 5, 136, 155, 174
Gurgitello, 285
Hale, Sir Matthew, 110
Hamill, Major, 271
Hamilton, Sir William, 80
Hare, Augustus, 7
Hart, Emma, 80
Hauteville, House of, 174
Helbig, 44
Hélène, Princess, 94
Henry IV., Emperor, 180
Herculaneum, 1, 9
—— Gate of, 62
Hermolaus, 162
Hildebrand, 5, 180, 182, 184
Hippocrates, 177
Hohenstaufen, 163
Homer, 114
House of the Surgeon, 43, 56
—— Vettii, 53
Innocent IV., Pope, 152
Ischia, 4, 13, 78, 241, 252, 275
Joanna II., Queen, 144, 299
John XVI., Pope, 167
John of Procida, 184
Julius the Centurion, 311
Jupiter, Temple of, 52
Justinian, Emperor, 135
Keats, John, 229
La Barra, 8
La Cava, 172, 198
La Scala, 166
Lacaita, Mr, 262
Lacco, 288
Lactarian Hills, 101
Ladislaus II., King, 299
Lamarque, Gen., 271
Lauretta, 157
Lavoro, Terra di, 18
Lenormant, F., 214
Leo XIII., Pope, 288
Leonora d’Este, 243, 248
Leopardi, Giacomo, 295
Lepanto, 246
Libella, 64
Livia, 50
Livy, 73
Lowe, Sir Hudson, 271
Lubrense, Massa, 122
Lucrine Lake, 313
Ludius, 59
Luke, 312
Maddalena, Ponte della, 84
Majori, 166
Malta, 311
Mammia, 64
Manches, Colonel, 273
Manfred, King, 87, 152, 184
Manso, 243
Mansone II., Doge, 118
Macellum, 52
Marcellus II., Pope, 280
Margaret of Durazzo, 189
Marina, Porta, 39, 45
Martin V., Pope, 277
Matteucci, Professor, 94, 97
Matilda, Countess, 185
Mau, 44
Maurice, 142
Maximian, Emperor, 162
Melfi, 133
Mercato, Il, 2, 96
Mercury, Temple of, 52
Mergellina, 96
Messina, 91
Meta, 106
Metastasio, 8
Michelangelo, 283, 319
Milan, 278
Minerva, Cape of, 112, 117, 153
Minori, 166
Misenum, 71, 74, 249
Mole of Puteoli, 308
Monreale, 159
Mont’ Epomeo, 290
Montapertuso, 119
Monte Nuovo, 313
Montorio, S. Pietro in, 2
Montpensier, Duke of, 307
Murat, Joachim, 5, 8, 270
Muscettola, Sergio, 159
Museo Nazionale, 1
Naccarino, 145
Napoleon, 8, 270
Natale, Michele, 103
Nelson, 104, 269
Neptune, Temple of, 212
Nero, Emperor, 308
Nicholas II., Pope, 176, 185
Nicomedia, 162
Nisida, 297
Nola, 41
Nuceria, 41, 173
Ochino, Bernardino, 280
Oliveto, Monte, 96
Orico, 271
Orlando, Capo d’, 102
Oscan inhabitants, 41
Otranto, 178
Ottajano, 94, 98
Overbeck, 44
Ovid, 106, 261, 291
Oxford, 156
Paestum, 41, 57, 143, 173, 182, 198
Palermo, 91, 159
Palumbo, 155
Pansa, the Ædile, 40
Pantaleone, 142, 148, 161
Paolo Giovio, 278
Paris, Comte de, 94
Parthenope, 249
Paul III., Pope, 27
Pavia, 279
Pedimentina, La, 77
Pericles, 40
Pescara, Marquis of, 278
Petrarch, 116, 138, 239, 299
Philip the Bold, 102
Phillips, John, 68
Philodemus, 10
Piacenza, 185
Pimentel, Eleonora, 104
Piperno, Pietro, 111
Pisa, 136
Pistoja, 240
Pius II., Pope, 27, 144
Plato, 58
Pliny, 59, 71, 76
Pliny the younger, 71
Plutarch, 70
Pole, Cardinal, 280
Pompeii, 1, 5, 24, 38
Pomponianus, 72
Pontone, 152
Portici, 8, 80, 88, 97
Porzia de’ Rossi, 240
Posilipo, 1, 8, 37, 295
Positano, 119
Pozzano, 37
Pozzopiano, 106
Pozzuoli, 109, 301
Prajano, 124
Procida, 4, 237, 275
Puteoli, 5, 295
Quisisana, 27, 37
Ravello, 134, 152
Reggio, 311
Reid, Mr, 156, 262
Renée, Duchess of Ferrara, 280
Resina, 8, 79, 88, 98
Retina, 8, 72
Revigliano, 26
Rhegium, 311
Robert of Normandy, 178
—— the Wise, 116, 156
Roger, Count, 155, 180
—— King, 116, 136
Rome, 39, 94, 144, 156, 180, 312
Ruffo, Cardinal, 104
Rufolo, Niccolò, 155, 160
S. Agnello, 106
S. Alessio al Lavinaio, 105
S. Angelo, 13, 119, 122
S. Bridget of Sweden, 144
S. Brigida, 3
S. Chiara, 2
S. Costanzo, 251
S. Elia, Punta, 117
S. Elmo, 2, 67
S. Francis of Assisi, 144
S. Gennaro, 298
S. Giovanni a Teduccio, 8
S. Giovanni del Toro, 164
S. Giuseppe, 94
S. Luca, 124
S. Lucia, 3
S. Maria a Pozzano, 102
S. Maria del Gradillo, 162
S. Maria di Pompeii, 65
S. Martino, 2
S. Matteo, 173, 181
S. Michael, 35
S. Miniato, 2
S. Paul, 312
S. Pietro, Punta di, 123
S. Proculo, 307
S. Restituta, 291
S. Romualdo, 19
S. Salvatore a Bireta, 153
S. Trinità, 172
S. Vitale, 296
Salerno, 4, 36, 111, 117, 133, 172
Samnite Hills, 212
Sannazzaro, 295
Sanseverini, 169
Sardinia, 15
Sarno, 26, 41, 95
Scala, 134, 167
Scaletta, 152
Scaricotojo, Lo, 113, 118
Scutolo, Punta di, 106
Sebeto, 8
Sejanus, 256
Serapis, Temple of, 308
Serra, Gennaro, 104
Shelley, 13, 33, 64
Shrewsbury, 40
Sibyl of Cumae, 318
Sicily, 15
Sigilgaita, 161, 179
Silarus, 198
Sirens, Isles of the, 114
Sixtus IV., Pope, 318
Smith, Sir Sydney, 270
Soana, 184
Socrates, 40
Solaro, 268
Soldan, 246
Somma, Monte, 67, 94, 99
Sorrentine Plain, 5, 106
Sorrento, 5, 90, 221
Sottile, Cape, 123
Spartacus, 69, 76
Stabiae, 26, 72, 76
Stamer, W. J. A., 16, 52, 238, 265, 316
Staurachios, 142
Stolberg, Count, 202
Stowe, Mrs H. B., 16
Strabo, 69, 275
Strada Costantinopoli, 2
„ de’ Tribunali, 3
Stromboli, 91
Suetonius, 256
Syracuse, 58, 107, 311
Tacca, 51
Tacitus, 69, 71, 73
Tafuri, Bishop, 159
Tancred of Hauteville, 178, 180
Tarver, J. C., 258
Tasso, 5, 106, 145, 239
„ Bernardo, 106, 240, 277
Theocritus, 154, 292
Thermae of Nero, 316
Tiber, 116, 156
Tiberius, Emperor, 5, 50, 253, 308
Timgad, 38
Timothy, 312
Tiridates, 308
Titian, 27
Titus, Emperor, 10, 57, 71, 76
Toledo, The, 2
Torregaveta, 275, 317
Trafalgar, 270
Tragara, 263
Tripoli, 15
Tunis, 56, 246
Ulysses, 114
Urban IV., Pope, 144
Ustica, 91
Vaccaro, Il, 84
Valentinian, Emperor, 208
Valley of the Mills, 140, 149
Venice, 103, 112, 134, 148
Venosa, 181
Venus, Temple of, 52
Vergil, 208, 211, 275, 296
Vesuvius, 5, 11, 36, 66
Via Domitiana, 62
Vico Equense, 31, 102, 103
Victor III., Pope, 155
Victor Emmanuel III., King of Italy, 94
Vietri, 165, 171
Vigna Sersale, 247
Villa Jovis, 254
Villa Reale, 2
Vincenzo, 37
Vitruvius, 60, 69
Vittoria Colonna, 5, 277
Vivara, 276
Vomero, 3
Vozzi Family, 127
Wales, 107, 318
William Bras-de-Fer, 174
Wordsworth, 33
Worms, 185
Zampognari, 233
Zoppo, Carlo il, 102, 103, 121
FOOTNOTES
1 W. J. A. Stamer: _Dolce Napoli_.
2 W. J. A. Stamer: _Dolce Napoli_.
3 Professor John Phillips: _Vesuvius_.
4 Pliny’s Letters. (_Church’s and Brodribb’s Translation._)
_ 5 La Nazione_, April 24, 1906.
_ 6 The Decameron._ Novel IV. of the Second Day.
_ 7 The Decameron_—Novel I, of the Fourth Day.
8 F. Lenormant: _A travers l’Apulie et la Lucanie_.
9 W. J. A. Stamer: _Dolce Napoli_.
10 For an able defence of the Emperor Tiberius, the reader is referred
to Mr J. C. Tarver’s _Tiberius the Tyrant_, chap. xviii.
11 W. J. A. Stamer: _Dolce Napoli_.
12 A portion of this chapter has already appeared in an article by the
Author, entitled _The Island of Ischia_, in the _Westminster
Review_, December 1905.
13 W. J. A. Stamer: _Dolce Napoli_.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE
The caption of two images (frontispiece, page 288) has been supplied from
the List of Images.
The following obvious typographical errors have been corrected:
page xi, “Republiques” changed to “Républiques”
page 55, “castastrophe” changed to “catastrophe”
page 90, quote mark added after “vendemmia?”
page 158, footnote, italics added to “The Decameron”, removed from
“Novel IV. of the Second Day”. (Other inconsistencies between the
two citations of the _Decameron_ were not changed.)
page 159, “mosiac” changed to “mosaic”
page 189, “gradully” changed to “gradually”
page 206, “Pæstum” changed to “Paestum” (twice)
page 212, “wheron” changed to “whereon”
page 238, “circomstane” changed to “circomstance”
page 241, double “the” removed
page 275, “costing” changed to “coasting”
page 300, “maledicton” changed to “malediction”
page 301, “then” changed to “than”
page 311, “aud” changed to “and”
In the Index, the following words have been changed to the spelling used
in the main text:
“Baiae” (was: “Baiæ”)
“Caecilius Jucundus” (was: “Cæcilius”)
“Cumae” (was: “Cumæ”)
“Hohenstaufen” (was: “Hohenstauffen”)
“Matteucci” (was: “Mateucci”)
“Paestum” (was: “Pæstum”)
“Pimentel” (was: “Pimental”)
“Rufolo, Niccolò” (was: “Nicoló”)
“Sannazzaro” (was: “Sannazaro”)
“Stabiae” (was: “Stabiæ”)
“Staurachios” (was: “Straurachios”)
“Thermae of Nero” (was: “Thermæ”)
“William Bras-de-Fer” (was: “Bras de Fer”)
“Zoppo, Carlo il” (was: “Zoppo, Carlo Il”)
Apart from the index and two occurrences of “Pæstum” in the main text, all
“æ” ligatures have been maintained: “ædile” (and “aedile”), “archæologist”
(and “archaeologist”), “æsthetic”, “Cannæ”, “Mediæval” (in a quotation,
otherwise “medieval”), “mærens”, “Prætor”, “tesseræ”.
Not changed or normalized were small errors in Italian or German
quotations (“a riverderla”, “Kultur-kampf”, “Bierhälle”), inconsistent
hyphenation (e. g. “boat-man”/“boatman”, “sea-shore”/“seashore”), spelling
variations (“Phlegraean”/“Phlegrean”) and unusual spellings (“elegible”
[in a quotation], “pleisosaurus”, “innoculating”, “choregraphic”).
*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Naples Riviera" ***
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