SAN REMO
Two San Remos—The Pinecone—Earthquakes—Matuta—Sold to the
Genoese—Church of S. Syro—Domestic architecture unchanging—Narrow
streets—Leprosy—San Romolo—Lampedusa—River names—Taggia—Doctor
Antonio—Home of Ruffini—The Bresca family—Raising of the obelisk in
the piazza of S. Peter—Palms—How bleached—The date-palm.
THERE are two San Remos, that of to-day, with its pretentious villas
rivalling each other in ugliness, and the old San Remo. The former
is clean with open spaces, a broad main street, and is dotted about
with palms and agaves in sub-tropical gardens. The old San Remo is a
network, a labyrinth of narrow, tortuous lanes. This old portion goes
by the name of _la Pigna_, the Pinecone, because of the manner in which
the ancient houses are grouped, pressed together one on another, rising
towards a culminating conical point.
[Illustration: A STREET IN BORDIGHERA]
The old town is built upon a hill that descends gently to the sea,
and whose summit is crowned by a sanctuary. The streets twist about,
are steep, with steps, and paved with bricks or rolled stones. The
old houses elbow one another away to get a little breath, or sustain
themselves from falling by stretching out a flying buttress, each
against its _vis-à-vis_, like tipsy men with linked arms hoping to keep
their feet by mutual support. For all this coast is liable to be shaken
by earthquakes. Diano Marina was the central point of one in February,
1887, that shook down half the village. Baiardo was completely ruined,
and church and houses have all been rebuilt. Numerous lives were lost
on this occasion. This portion of the Riviera, though more sheltered
than the French Côte d’Azur, cannot boast the beauty of mountain
outline. It is only when a river comes down from the Alps that a view
of the snowy peaks is obtained up its course. The rock is all limestone
and conglomerate, and the slopes are terraced and studded with olives.
The general tints have a sameness and dulness that is not found on the
French Riviera. The hills seem to have been enveloped in sail-cloth and
rolled in powdered sage-leaves. San Remo lies in the lap of a crescent
bay, of which Cap Verde on the West and Cap Nera on the East are the
two horns. It faces the South, and a double reef of mountains to the
North arrests the winds from that cold quarter of the heavens. The
shelter thus afforded, the focussing of the sun’s rays on this spot,
and the fertility of the soil, unite to make the vegetation luxuriant
and varied.
By the shore we have orange and lemon groves, the delicious mandarin
orange, and the pomegranate, tropic palms, agaves, and cactus mingled
with cedars. Higher up are olive gardens, chestnuts. “_Tenens media
omnia silvæ_,” the pine woods stretch to the top of the hills that
engirdle San Remo.
M. Reclus observes:—
“Strange to say, trees do not ascend to the same height on these
slopes of the Apennines as on the Alps, though the mean temperature is
far higher; and at an altitude at which the beech still attains noble
proportions in Switzerland we find it here stunted in growth. Larches
are hardly ever seen. The sea is as sterile as the land. There are
neither shallows, islands, nor seaweed, affording shelter for fish.
The cliffs descend precipitously to the sea, and the narrow strips of
beach, extending from promontory to promontory, consist of sand only,
without the admixture of a single shell.”
The ancient name of the place was Matuta, but it had been destroyed
again and again by the Saracens till the year 1038, when the Count of
Ventimiglia made the place over to the Archbishop of Genoa; he disposed
of it to two nobles, Doria and Mari. But the Dorias were Ghibelline and
the Maris belonged to the opposed faction, leading to terrible broils.
Finally, in 1361 the Genoese Republic became sole possessors. The town
took the name of S. Romulus, as possessing the bones of that saint,
and the old name of Matuta fell into desuetude. Saint Romulus has been
altered and corrupted into San Remo. Doubtless whilst under the rule of
the Archbishop of Genoa the interesting church of S. Syro was built.
The style is Lombardic Romanesque. It was frightfully mutilated in or
about 1620, when the apse was altered and lengthened, and a hideous
baroque façade was erected, like the canvas-painted frontage to a show
in a fair. At the same time the interior features were disguised under
plaster and paint. In 1745 an English fleet bombarded San Remo, and the
spire was knocked to pieces and replaced by a hideous structure. But
recently a complete restoration has been effected; the façade has been
pulled down, revealing the original features, and the whole, externally
and internally, treated with such scrupulous fidelity to what was the
original style, that the result is that the church of S. Syro is now
one of the finest monuments of Christian art on the Riviera.
[Illustration: CERIANA]
The visitor from the north of Europe is perplexed how to determine
approximately the dates of the domestic buildings in every one of
these Ligurian towns and villages. The architecture has a modern look,
and yet the houses are decrepit, ruinous, and shabby. The windows
and doors are square-headed, with scarce a moulding to differentiate
them, and the pointed arch is only seen in the bridges that tie the
houses together. Rarely, only in some palace or town hall, does the
swallow-tail crenelation, or a feeble imitation of Gothic cornice,
speak of the Middle Ages. The fact is that the streets are so narrow
that there is no room for display of street architecture in these
lanes, _culs de sac_, and thoroughfares, that allow no wheeled
conveyance to pass up and down. The houses set their noses against each
other and stare into each other’s eyes. There is no privacy there, not
even in smells. If a man eats garlic, every one sniffs it in the house
opposite. If a woman administers a curtain lecture, all the occupants
of the houses _vis-à-vis_ prick up their ears, listen to every word,
and mark every intonation of voice. Into no single room has the sun
looked for a thousand years, and air has been but grudgingly admitted,
and never allowed to circulate. The houses run up five, six, even seven
storeys, and are tenanted by many families. Those nearest the pavement
partake of the first whiff of the garbage of the street, the dejections
of the tenants in the tenements above; and those in the topmost storey
inhale the flavour of stale humanity ascending from all the flats below.
But to revert to the architecture. I do not suppose that it has altered
since classic times. We know how it was in Rome among the _insulæ_,
blocks of dwellings crowding the densely occupied lower parts of the
town, running up to great heights, and swarming with people living
on the several stages. The palaces of the nobility, where facing the
street, looked like the fronts of modern factories. Happily, in Rome
one such remains, in the wall of the church of SS. John and Paul, on
the Monte Clivo. It is a lofty red-brick front, without an ornament,
pierced formerly with square-headed windows or windows very slightly
arched with bricks, precisely such a face as may be seen to a factory
in a side lane of Manchester, Birmingham, or Leeds.
The Roman noble kept all his decoration for the inside of his house;
his colonnade was towards his enclosed garden, his marbles about his
atrium; externally his mansion was a barrack. Pointed architecture
never was assimilated by the Italian. He endured it; he used it for
churches, always with a difference. But for his home he would have
none of it. He was surrounded by remains of the period of Roman
domination over the world, vast structures, solid and enduring. Temples
fell and were despoiled to decorate churches, but private dwellings,
though they might be gutted, could not be defaced, when they had no
face to be mutilated. Vandal, Lombard, Saracen, swept over the land,
burnt and pillaged, but left the solid walls standing to be re-roofed
and re-occupied after they were gone. Nothing but the recurrent
earthquake affected these structures. And when a house was shaken down
it was rebuilt on the same lines. If a bit of ornament were desired
it was copied, and badly copied, from some relic of classic times.
Consequently there has been incessant reproduction of one type. Thus
all these old Ligurian towns and villages appear as if built at one
and the same time, in one and the same style, and all to have fallen
simultaneously into the same disorder, dirt, and raggedness.
[Illustration: BUSSANA]
Near to S. Syro is a hospital for leprosy, a disease which long
lingered on in San Remo. Happily it has disappeared—at all events from
this town—and in 1883 the building became the Civic Hospital. But
leprosy is by no means extinct on the Ligurian coast;
“it is hopelessly incurable, the limbs and the faces of the lepers
being gradually eaten away, so that with several, while you look upon
one side of the face, and see it apparently in the bloom of health
and youth, the other has already fallen away and ceased to exist. The
disease is hereditary, having remained in certain families of this
district almost from time immemorial. The members of these families
are prohibited from intermarrying with those of others, or indeed
from marrying at all, unless it is believed that they are free from
any seeds of the fatal inheritance. Sometimes the marriages, when
sanctioned by magistrates and clergy, are contracted in safety, but
often, after a year or two of wedded life, the terrible enemy appears
again, and existence becomes a curse; thus the fearful legacy is
handed on.”—HARE.
The marvel is that plague, leprosy, and typhoid fever are not endemic
in these Ligurian towns. But the winter visitor to San Remo may be at
ease, he will see no lepers in the place now. Should a case occur, it
would at once be removed out of sight.
As already said, San Remo takes its name from S. Romulus, a bishop,
whose festival is on October 13th. Almost nothing is certainly known
of this Bishop of Genoa, who is thought to have died in the year 350.
The story goes that in old age he retired from his charge to a cave or
Barma in the mountains, about five miles from San Remo. Here formerly
was a Benedictine convent, now the very modern building is occupied
by sisters, and the cave of S. Romolo has been converted into a church
with an ugly façade. On the fête day plenty of Sanremois visit the
shrine, some out of devotion, some for the sake of a picnic, and many
from mixed motives.
But the most delightful excursion that may be made from San Remo is to
Lampedusa, above the Taggia. For that no better guide can be had than
Ruffini’s delightful novel, _Dr. Antonio_:—
“A broad, smooth road, opening from Castellaro northwards, and
stretching over the side of the steep mountains in capricious
zig-zags, now conceals, now gives to view, the front of the sanctuary,
shaded by two oaks of enormous dimensions. The Castellini, who made
this road in the sweat of their brows, point it out with pride, and
well they may. They tell you with infinite complacency how every one
of the pebbles with which it is paved was brought from the sea-shore,
those who had mules using them for that purpose, those who had none
bringing up loads on their own backs; how every one, gentleman and
peasant, young and old, women and boys, worked day and night with
no other inducement than the love of the Madonna. The Madonna of
Lampedusa is their creed, their occupation, their pride, their
_carroccio_, their fixed idea.
“All that relates to the miraculous image, and the date and mode
of its translation to Castellaro, is given at full length in two
inscriptions, one in Latin, the other in bad Italian verses, which
are to be seen in the interior of the little chapel of the sanctuary.
Andrea Anfosso, a native of Castellaro, being the captain of a
privateer, was one day attacked and defeated by the Turks, and carried
to the Isle of Lampedusa. Here he succeeded in making his escape,
and hiding himself until the Turkish vessel which had captured him
left the island. Anfosso, being a man of expedients, set about
building a boat, and finding himself in a great dilemma what to do
for a sail, ventured on the bold and original step of taking from
the altar of some church or chapel of the island a picture of the
Madonna to serve as one; and so well did it answer his purpose, that
he made a most prosperous voyage back to his native shores, and, in
a fit of generosity, offered his holy sail to the worship of his
fellow townsmen. The wonder of the affair does not stop here. A place
was chosen by universal acclamation, two gun-shots in advance of
the present sanctuary, and a chapel erected, in which the gift was
deposited with all due honour. But the Madonna, as it would seem, had
an insurmountable objection to the spot selected, for, every morning
that God made, the picture was found in the exact spot where the
actual church now stands. At length the Castellini came to understand
that it was the Madonna’s express wish that her headquarters should
be shifted to where her resemblance betook itself every night; and
though it had pleased her to make choice of the most abrupt and the
steepest spot on the whole mountain, just where it was requisite to
raise arches in order to lay a sure foundation for her sanctuary, the
Castellini set themselves _con amore_ to the task so clearly revealed
to them, and this widely-renowned chapel was completed. This took
place in 1619. In the course of time some wings were annexed for the
accommodation of visitors and pilgrims, and a terrace built; for
though the Castellini have but a small purse, theirs is the great
lever which can remove all impediments—the faith that brought about
the Crusades.
“To the north a long, long vista of deep, dark, frowning gorges,
closed in the distance by a gigantic screen of snow-clad Alps—the
glorious expanse of the Mediterranean to the south-east and west,
range upon range of gently undulating hills, softly inclining towards
the sea—in the plain below the fresh, cozy valley of Taggia, with
its sparkling track of waters, and rich belt of gardens, looking like
a perfect mosaic of every gradation of green, chequered with winding
silver arabesques. Ever and anon a tardy pomegranate in full blossom
spreads out its oriflamme of tulip-shaped dazzling red flowers. From
the rising ground opposite frowns mediæval Taggia, like a discontented
guest at a splendid banquet. A little farther off westward, the eye
takes in the campanile of the Dominican church, emerging from a group
of cypresses, and farther still, on the extreme verge of the western
cliff, the sanctuary of Our Lady of the Guardia shows its white
silhouette against the dark blue sky.”
The name of the river Taggia is synonymous with Tay, Taw, Tavy; as the
Roya is akin to the Irish Rye, the Spanish Riga. The Neva that mingles
its waters with the Arrosetta, has a cognate Neva in Russia, a Nahe
in Germany, a Never in Wales, and a diminutive Nivelle in France. The
brawling Loup does not take its name from a wolf. It is misspelled
through a false etymology. It should be Lou, like the river that enters
the Dordogne, and the Devon Lew, the Lee, and Lech by Ulm. Whence come
the many similar river names of Europe? They are doubtless the most
ancient designations we have, those that have least changed; they were
given by the earliest inhabitants of Europe, and have adhered to these
ever-flowing streams, modified here and there, but always showing how
ancient and primeval they are. Adam named the beasts, but who—what
race—named the rivers? It must have been a race that occupied almost
the whole of Europe. Was it those mighty men of old, who lie smothered
in red ochre in Barma Grande by Mentone, or was it the mysterious
people who reared the rude stone monuments, and who have left scanty
traces of their lost language embedded in Welsh and Irish?
Taggia itself surely deserves a visit from every one who has read
and loved _Dr. Antonio_; for there lived the gifted author Giovanni
Ruffini from 1875 to 1881, the year in which he died. The remains of
his house are shown. The church also deserves a visit, on account
of the paintings on wood by Brea and other artists of the fifteenth
century. One painting on a gold ground by Brea, or a disciple, in the
chapel of the tombs of the Curlo family, is specially noticeable for
its beauty. On the Piazza Umberto I. stands a monument erected in
1896 to the memory of the three Ruffini brothers, who strove for the
unification of Italy.
The story of the Bresca family of San Remo acquiring the privilege of
furnishing palms to Rome, granted by Sixtus V. in 1586, is well known,
but must not be left unnoticed here.
An obelisk was being elevated in the piazza before S. Peter’s. This
obelisk had been brought to Rome from Heliopolis by Caligula, in a
ship which Pliny describes as being “nearly as long as the left side
of the port of Ostia.” Sixtus V. was resolved on Christianising or
demolishing the relics of pagan Rome. The obelisk, if set up before S.
Peter’s, might serve to support a cross. It was removed from its place
in the Circus of Nero by 800 men and 150 horses, under the supervision
of Domenico Fontana, who was threatened with death if he failed. When
it was about to be reared, Sixtus threatened death to man, woman, or
child who should speak whilst the huge mass was being elevated by means
of forty-six cranes. The great stone was slowly rising to its base,
when suddenly it ceased to move, and it was evident that the ropes were
yielding. An awful moment of suspense ensued, when the dead silence was
broken by a shout: “_Acqua alle funi!_” (Throw water on the ropes!) The
workmen at once cast bucketfuls of the liquid over the cordage, that
at once began to shrink, and raised the monstrous mass, and settled it
upon its base.
The man who saved the obelisk was Bresca, a sea captain of a fishing
smack at San Remo. Sixtus V. inquired after him, and promised him, what
cost himself nothing, as a reward, that ever thenceforth his family and
his native village should have the privilege of furnishing the palms
for S. Peter’s on Palm Sunday.
In order to bleach the leaves for this purpose they are tied up in a
way very similar to that employed by market gardeners to obtain white
centres to lettuces. It cannot be said that the leaves are made more
beautiful by the process; on the contrary, they lose what little beauty
they had. The branches are bound up so as to form a vertical roll, in
the centre of which are the young leaves, that have to struggle up,
shut off from light and air, with the result that sickly, ugly strips
are produced, which are sent throughout the Catholic world for use on
the Sunday before Easter. Ten thousand times preferable are our pretty
“palms,” the catkin-bearing willow twigs.
The date palm is not indigenous. It was probably introduced by the
Crusaders. In an illustration to a MS. of the Geography of Strabo,
presented by Guarini to King Réné, the king is shown seated with a
full-grown palm tree in the background. Indeed, in the tympanum of the
north doorway of S. Syro, at San Remo, is a representation of a male
and a female palm tree with an Agnus Dei between them.
The date palm is multiplied by seed and by suckers. This last mode of
propagation is the most advantageous, as all the plants so produced are
females and fruit bearers; and they will bear at the age of five or
six years, whereas those raised from seed produce dates only after they
have attained an age of fifteen or twenty years.
But it is in a few nooks only of the Riviera that the date palm ripens
its fruit, and that but occasionally, for the winter comes on before it
has reached maturity, and it fails to acquire the flavour and sweetness
which is attained in Africa. It cannot be said that the huge bunches
of dates in their husks hanging on the trees, of a sickly yellow, are
beautiful.