It may well be true. What were the moralists doing there?
Festivals like this are relics of paganism, and have my cordial
approval. We English ought to have learnt by this time that the
repression of pleasure is a dangerous error. In these days when even
Italy, the grey-haired _cocotte,_ has become tainted with
Anglo-Pecksniffian principles, there is nothing like a little
time-honoured bestiality for restoring the circulation and putting
things to rights generally. On ethical grounds alone—as
safety-valves—such
nocturnal feasts ought to be kept up in regions such as these, where
the country-folk have not our “facilities.” Who would grudge them these
primordial joys, conducted under the indulgent motherly eye of Madonna,
and hallowed by antiquity and the starlit heavens above? Every one is
so happy and well-behaved. No bawling, no quarrelsomeness, no
staggering tipplers; a spirit of universal good cheer broods over the
assembly. Involuntarily, one thinks of the drunkard-strewn field of
battle at the close of our Highland games; one thinks of God-fearing
Glasgow on a Saturday evening, and of certain other aspects of Glasgow
life. . . .
I accepted the kindly proffered invitation of the priests to share
their dinner; they held out hopes of some sort of sleeping
accommodation as well. It was a patriarchal hospitality before that
fire of logs (the night had grown chilly), and several other guests
partook of it, forestal inspectors and such-like notabilities—one lady
among them who, true to feudal traditions, hardly spoke a word the
whole evening. I was struck, as I have sometimes been, at the
attainments of these country priests; they certainly knew our
Gargantuan novelists of the Victorian epoch uncommonly well. Can it be
that these great authors are more readable in Italian translations than
in the original? One of them took to relating, in a strain of autumnal
humour, experiences of his life in the wilds of Bolivia, where he had
spent many years among the Indians; my neighbour, meanwhile, proved to
be steeped in Horatian lore. It was his pet theory, supported by a
wealth of aptly cited lines, that Horace was a “typical Italian
countryman,” and great was his delight on discovering that I shared his
view and could even add another—somewhat improper—utterance of the
poet’s to his store of illustrative quotations.
They belonged to the old school, these sable philosophers; to the days
when the priest was arbiter of life and death, and his mere word
sufficient to send a man to the galleys; when the cleverest boys of
wealthy and influential families were chosen for the secular career and
carefully, one might say liberally, trained to fulfil those responsible
functions. The type is becoming extinct, the responsibility is gone,
the profession has lost its glamour; and only the clever sons of pauper
families, or the dull ones of the rich, are now tempted to forsake the
worldly path.
Regarding the origin of this festival, I learned that it was
“tradition.” It had been suggested to me that the Virgin had appeared
to a shepherd in some cave near at hand—the usual Virgin, in the usual
cave; a cave which, in the present instance, no one was able to point
out to me. _Est traditio, ne quaeras amplius._
My hosts answered questions on this subject with benignant ambiguity,
and did not trouble to defend the divine apparition on the sophistical
lines laid down in Riccardi’s “Santuari.” The truth, I imagine, is that
they have very sensibly not concerned themselves with inventing an
original legend. The custom of congregating here on these fixed days
seems to be recent, and I am inclined to think that it has been called
into being by the zeal of some local men of standing. On the other
hand, a shrine may well have stood for many years on this spot, for it
marks the half-way house in the arduous two days’ journey between San
Severino and Castrovillari, a summer _trek_ that must date from hoary
antiquity.
Our bedroom contained two rough couches which were to be shared between
four priests and myself. Despite the fact that I occupied the place of
honour between the two oldest and wisest of my ghostly entertainers,
sleep refused to come; the din outside had grown to a pandemonium. I
lay awake till, at 2.30 a.m., one of them arose and touched the others
with a whispered and half-jocular _oremus!_ They retired on tiptoe to
the next room, noiselessly closing the door, to prepare themselves for
early service. I could hear them splashing vigorously at their
ablutions in the icy water, and wondered dreamily how many Neapolitan
priests would indulge at that chill hour of the morning in such a
lustral rite, prescribed as it is by the rules of decency and of their
church.
After that, I stretched forth at my ease and endeavoured to repose
seriously. There were occasional lulls, now, in the carnival, but
explosions of sound still broke the stillness, and phantoms of the
restless throng began to chase each other through my brain. The exotic
costumes of the Albanian girls in their green and gold wove themselves
into dreams and called up colours seen in Northern Africa during still
wilder festivals—negro festivals such as Fromentin loved to depict. In
spectral dance there flitted before my vision nightmarish throngs of
dusky women bedizened in that same green and gold; Arabs I saw, riding
tumultuously hither and thither with burnous flying in the wind;
beggars crawling about the hot sand and howling for alms; ribbons and
flags flying—a blaze of sunshine overhead, and on earth a seething orgy
of colour and sound; methought I heard the guttural yells of the
fruit-vendors, musketry firing, braying of asses, the demoniacal groans
of the camels——
Was it really a camel? No. It was something infinitely worse, and
within a few feet of my ears. I sprang out of bed. There, at the very
window, stood a youth extracting unearthly noises out of the Basilicata
bagpipe. To be sure! I remembered expressing an
interest in this rare instrument to one of my hosts who, with subtle
delicacy, must have ordered the boy to give me a taste of his
quality—to perform a matutinal serenade, for my especial benefit. How
thoughtful these people are. It was not quite 4 a.m. With some regret,
I said farewell to sleep and stumbled out of doors, where my friends of
yesterday evening were already up and doing. The eating, the dancing,
the bagpipes—they were all in violent activity, under the sober and
passionless eye of morning.
A gorgeous procession took place about midday. Like a many-coloured
serpent it wound out of the chapel, writhed through the intricacies of
the pathway, and then unrolled itself freely, in splendid convolutions,
about the sunlit meadow, saluted by the crash of mortars, bursts of
military music from the band, chanting priests and women, and all the
bagpipers congregated in a mass, each playing his own favourite tune.
The figure of the Madonna—a modern and unprepossessing image—was
carried aloft, surrounded by resplendent ecclesiastics and followed by
a picturesque string of women bearing their votive offerings of
candles, great and small. Several hundredweight of wax must have been
brought up on the heads of pious female pilgrims. These multi-coloured
candles are arranged in charming designs; they are fixed upright in a
framework of wood, to resemble baskets or bird-cages, and decked with
bright ribbons and paper flowers.
Who settles the expenses of such a festival? The priests, in the first
place, have paid a good deal to make it attractive; they have improved
the chapel, constructed a number of permanent wooden shelters (rain
sometimes spoils the proceedings), as well as a capacious reservoir for
holding drinking water, which has to be transported in barrels from a
considerable distance. Then—as to the immediate outlay for music,
fireworks, and so forth—the Madonna-statue is “put up to auction”:
_fanno l’incanto della Madonna,_ as they say; that is, the privilege of
helping to carry the idol from the church and back in the procession is
sold to the highest bidders. Inasmuch as She is put up for auction
several times during this short perambulation, fresh enthusiasts coming
forward gaily with bank-notes and shoulders—whole villages competing
against each other—a good deal of money is realized in this way. There
are also spontaneous gifts of money. Goats and sheep, too, decorated
with coloured rags, are led up by peasants who have “devoted” them to
the Mother of God; the butchers on the spot buy these beasts for
slaughter, and their price goes to swell the funds.
[Illustration: The Valley of Gandolino]
This year’s expenditure may have been a thousand francs or so, and the
proceeds are calculated at about two-thirds of that sum.
No matter. If the priests do not make good the deficiency, some one
else will be kind enough to step forward. Better luck next year! The
festival, they hope, is to become more popular as time goes on, despite
the chilling prophecy of one of our friends: “It will finish, this
comedy!” The money, by the way, does not pass through the hands of the
clerics, but of two individuals called “Regolatore” and “Priore,” who
mutually control each other. They are men of reputable families, who
burden themselves with the troublesome task for the honour of the
thing, and make up any deficiencies in the accounts out of their own
pockets. Cases of malversation are legendary.
This procession marked the close of the religious gathering. Hardly was
it over before there began a frenzied scrimmage of departure. And soon
the woodlands echoed with the laughter and farewellings of pilgrims
returning homewards by divergent paths; the whole way through the
forest, we formed part of a jostling caravan along the
Castrovillari-Morano track—how different from the last time I had
traversed this route, when nothing broke the silence save a chaffinch
piping among the branches or the distant tap of some woodpecker!
So ended the _festa._ Once in the year this mountain chapel is rudely
disquieted in its slumbers by a boisterous riot; then it sinks again
into tranquil oblivion, while autumn dyes the beeches to gold. And very
soon the long winter comes; chill tempests shake the trees and leaves
are scattered to earth; towards Yuletide some woodman of Viggianello
adventuring into these solitudes, and mindful of their green summer
revels, discovers his familiar sanctuary entombed up to the door-lintle
under a glittering sheet of snow. . . .
There was a little episode in the late afternoon. We had reached the
foot of the Gaudolino valley and begun the crossing of the plain, when
there met us a woman with dishevelled hair, weeping bitterly and
showing other signs of distress; one would have thought she had been
robbed or badly hurt. Not at all! Like the rest of us, she had attended
the feast and, arriving home with the first party, had been stopped at
the entrance of the town, where they had insisted upon fumigating her
clothes as a precaution against cholera, and those of her companions.
That was all. But the indignity choked her—she had run back to warn the
rest of us, all of whom were to be treated to the same outrage. Every
approach to Morano, she declared, was watched by doctors, to prevent
wary pilgrims from entering by unsuspected paths.
During her recital my muleteer had grown thoughtful.
“What’s to be done?” he asked.
“I don’t much mind fumigation,” I replied.
“Oh, but I do! I mind it very much. And these doctors are so dreadfully
distrustful. How shall we cheat them? ... I have it, I have it!”
And he elaborated the following stratagem:
“I go on ahead of you, alone, leading the two mules. You follow, out of
sight, behind. And what happens? When I reach the doctor, he asks
slyly: ‘Well, and how did you enjoy the festival this year?’ Then I
say: ‘Not this year, doctor; alas, no festival for me! I’ve been with
an Englishman collecting beetles in the forest, and see? here’s his
riding mule. He walks on behind—oh, quite harmless, doctor! a nice
gentleman, indeed—only, he prefers walking; he really _likes_ it, ha,
ha, ha!——”
“Why mention about my walking?” I interrupted. The lady-mule was still
a sore subject.
“I mention about your not riding,” he explained graciously, “because it
will seem to the doctor a sure sign that you are a little”—here he
touched his forehead with a significant gesture—“a little like some
other foreigners, you know. And that, in its turn, will account for
your collecting beetles. And that, in its turn, will account for your
not visiting the Madonna. You comprehend the argument: how it all hangs
together?”
“I see. What next?”
“Then you come up, holding one beetle in each hand, and pretend not to
know a word of Italian—not a word! You must smile at the doctor, in
friendly fashion; he’ll like that. And besides, it will prove what I
said about——” (touching his forehead once more). “In fact, the truth
will be manifest. And there will be no fumigation for us.”
It seemed a needlessly circuitous method of avoiding such a slight
inconvenience. I would have put more faith in a truthful narrative by
myself, suffused with that ingratiating amiability which I would
perforce employ on such occasions. But the stronger mind, as usual, had
its way.
“I’ll smile,” I agreed. “But you shall carry my beetles; it looks more
natural, somehow. Go ahead, and find them.”
He moved forwards with the beasts and, after destroying a considerable
tract of stone wall, procured a few specimens of native coleoptera,
which he carefully wrapped up in a piece of paper. I followed slowly.
Unfortunately for him, that particular doctor happened to be
an _americano_ a snappy little fellow, lately returned from the States.
“Glad to make your acquaintance, sir,” he began, as I came up to where
the two were arguing together. “I’ve heard of your passing through the
other day. So you don’t talk Italian? Well, then, see here: this man of
yours, this God-dam son of Satan, has been showing me a couple of bugs
and telling me a couple of hundred lies about them. Better move on
right away; lucky you struck _me!_ As for this son of a ——, you bet
I’ll sulphur him, bugs and all, to hell!”
I paid the crestfallen muleteer then and there; took down my bags,
greatly lightened, and departed with them. Glancing round near the
little bridge, I saw that the pair were still engaged in heated
discussion, my man clinging despairingly, as it seemed, to the
beetle-hypothesis; he looked at me with reproachful eyes, as though I
had deserted him in his hour of need.
But what could I do, not knowing Italian?
Moreover, I remembered the “lady-mule.”
Fifteen minutes later a light carriage took me to Castrovillari,
whence, after a bath and dinner that compensated for past hardships, I
sped down to the station and managed, by a miracle, to catch the
night-train to Cosenza.
XXI
MILTON IN CALABRIA
you may spend pleasant days in this city of Cosenza, doing nothing
whatever. But I go there a for set purpose, and bristling with energy.
I go there to hunt for a book by a certain Salandra, which was printed
on the spot, and which I have not yet been able to find, although I
once discovered it in an old catalogue, priced at 80 _grani._ Gladly
would I give 8000 for it!
The author was a contemporary of that Flying Monk of whom I spoke in
Chapter X, and he belonged to the same religious order. If, in what I
then said about the flying monk, there appears to be some trace of
light fooling in regard to this order and its methods, let amends be
made by what I have to tell about old Salandra, the discovery of whose
book is one of primary importance for the history of English letters.
Thus I thought at the time; and thus I still think, with all due
deference to certain grave and discerning gentlemen, the editors of
various English monthlies to whom I submitted a paper on this subject—a
paper which they promptly returned with thanks. No; that is not quite
correct. One of them has kept it; and as six years have passed over our
heads, I presume he has now acquired a title by “adverse possession.”
Much good may it do him!
Had the discovery been mine, I should have endeavoured to hide my light
under the proverbial bushel. But it is not mine, and therefore I make
bold to say that Mr. Bliss Perry, of the “Atlantic Monthly,” knew
better than his English colleagues when he published the article from
which I take what follows.
“Charles Dunster (‘Considerations on Milton’s Early Reading,’ etc.,
1810) traces the _prima stamina_ of ‘Paradise Lost’ to Sylvester’s ‘Du
Bartas.’ Masenius, Cedmon, Vondel, and other older writers have also
been named in this connection, while the majority of Milton’s English
commentators—and among foreigners Voltaire and Tiraboschi—are inclined
to regard the ‘Adamus Exul’ of Grotius or Andreini’s sacred drama of
‘Adamo’ as the prototype.
This latter can be consulted in the third volume of Cowper’s ‘Milton’
(1810).
The matter is still unsettled, and in view of the number of recent
scholars who have interested themselves in it, one is really surprised
that no notice has yet been taken of an Italian article which goes far
towards deciding this question and proving that the chief source of
‘Paradise Lost’ is the ‘Adamo Caduto,’ a sacred tragedy by Serafino
della Salandra. The merit of this discovery belongs to Francesco
Zicari, whose paper, ‘Sulla scoverta dell’ originale italiano da cui
Milton trasse il suo poema del paradiso perduto,’ is printed on pages
245 to 276 in the 1845 volume of the Naples ‘Album
scientifico-artistico-letterario’ now lying before me. It is in the
form of a letter addressed to his friend Francesco Ruffa, a native of
Tropea in Calabria.[1]
[1] Zicari contemplated another paper on this subject, but I am
unaware whether this was ever published. The Neapolitan
Minieri-Riccio, who wrote his ‘Memorie Storiche’ in 1844, speaks of
this article as having been already printed in 1832, but does not say
where. This is corroborated by N. Falcone (‘Biblioteca
storica-topo-grafica della Calabria,’ 2nd ed., Naples, 1846, pp.
152-154), who gives the same date, and adds that Zicari was the author
of a work on the district of Fuscaldo. He was born at Paola in
Calabria, of which he wrote a (manuscript) history, and died in 1846.
In this Milton article, he speaks of his name being ‘unknown in the
republic of letters.’. He is mentioned by Nicola Leoni (‘Della Magna
Grecia,’ vol. ii, p. 153).
Salandra, it is true, is named among the writers of sacred tragedies in
Todd’s ‘Milton’ (1809, vol. ii, p. 244), and also by Hayley, but
neither of them had the curiosity, or the opportunity, to examine his
‘Adamo Caduto’; Hayley expressly says that he has not seen it. More
recent works, such as that of Moers (‘De fontibus Paradisi Amissi
Miltoniani,’ Bonn, 1860), do not mention Salandra at all. Byse (‘Milton
on the Continent,’ 1903) merely hints at some possible motives for the
Allegro and the Penseroso.
As to dates, there can be no doubt to whom the priority belongs. The
‘Adamo’ of Salandra was printed at Cosenza in 1647. Richardson thinks
that Milton entered upon his ‘Paradise Lost’ in 1654, and that it was
shown, as done, in 1665; D. Masson agrees with this, adding that ‘it
was not published till two years afterwards.’ The date 1665 is fixed, I
presume, by the Quaker Elwood’s account of his visit to Milton in the
autumn of that year, when the poet gave him the manuscript to read; the
two years’ delay in publication may possibly have been due to the
confusion occasioned by the great plague and fire of London.
The castigation bestowed upon Lauder by Bishop Douglas, followed, as it
was, by a terrific ‘back-hander’ from the brawny arm of Samuel Johnson,
induces me to say that Salandra’s ‘Adamo Caduto,’ though extremely
rare—so rare that neither the British
Museum nor the Paris Bibliothèque Nationale possesses a copy—is _not_
an imaginary book; I have had it in my hands, and examined it at the
Naples Biblioteca Nazionale; it is a small octavo of 251 pages (not
including twenty unnumbered ones, and another one at the end for
correction of misprints); badly printed and bearing all the marks of
genuineness, with the author’s name and the year and place of
publication clearly set forth on the title-page. I have carefully
compared Zicari’s references to it, and quotations from it, with the
original. They are correct, save for a few insignificant verbal
discrepancies which, so far as I can judge, betray no indication of an
attempt on his part to mislead the reader, such as using the word
_tromba_ (trumpet) instead of Salandra’s term _sambuca_ (sackbut). And
if further proof of authenticity be required, I may note that the
‘Adamo Caduto’ of Salandra is already cited in old bibliographies like
Toppi’s ‘Biblioteca Napoletana’ (1678), or that of Joannes a S. Antonio
(‘Biblioteca universa Franciscana, etc.,’ Madrid, 1732-1733, vol. iii,
p. 88). It appears to have been the only literary production of its
author, who was a Franciscan monk and is described as ‘Preacher, Lector
and Definitor of the Reformed Province of Basilicata.’
We may take it, then, that Salandra was a real person, who published a
mystery called ‘Adamo Caduto’ in 1647; and I will now, without further
preamble, extract from Zicari’s article as much as may be sufficient to
show ground for his contention that Milton’s ‘Paradise Lost’ is a
transfusion, in general and in particular, of this same mystery.
Salandra’s central theme is the Universe shattered by the disobedience
of the First Man, the origin of our unhappiness and sins. The same with
Milton.
Salandra’s chief personages are God and His angels; the first man and
woman; the serpent; Satan and his angels. The same with Milton.
Salandra, at the opening of his poem (the prologue), sets forth his
argument, and dwells upon the Creative Omnipotence and his works. The
same with Milton.
Salandra then describes the council of the rebel angels, their fall
from heaven into a desert and sulphurous region, their discourses. Man
is enviously spoken of, and his fall by means of stratagem decided
upon; it is resolved to reunite in council in Pandemonium or the Abyss,
where measures may be adopted to the end that man may become the enemy
of God and the prey of hell. The same with Milton.
Salandra personifies Sin and Death, the latter being the child of the
former. The same with Milton.
Salandra describes Omnipotence foreseeing the effects of the temptation
and fall of man, and preparing his redemption. The same with Milton.
Salandra depicts the site of Paradise and the happy life there. The
same with Milton.
Salandra sets forth the miraculous creation of the universe and of man,
and the virtues of the forbidden fruit. The same with Milton.
Salandra reports the conversation between Eve and the Serpent; the
eating of the forbidden fruit and the despair of our first parents. The
same with Milton.
Salandra describes the joy of Death at the discomfiture of Eve; the
rejoicings in hell; the grief of Adam; the flight of our first parents,
their shame and repentance. The same with Milton.
Salandra anticipates the intercession of the Redeemer, and the
overthrow of Sin and Death; he dwells upon the wonders of the Creation,
the murder of Abel by his brother Cain, and other human ills; the vices
of the Antediluvians, due to the fall of Adam; the infernal gift of
war. The same with Milton.
Salandra describes the passion of Jesus Christ, and the comforts which
Adam and Eve receive from the angel who announces the coming of the
Messiah; lastly, their departure from the earthly paradise. The same
with Milton.
So much for the general scheme of both poems. And now for a few
particular points of resemblance, verbal and otherwise.
The character of Milton’s Satan, with the various facets of pride,
envy, vindictiveness, despair, and impenitence which go to form that
harmonious whole, are already clearly mapped out in the Lucifero of
Salandra. For this statement, which I find correct, Zicari gives
chapter and verse, but it would take far too long to set forth the
matter in this place. The speeches of Lucifero, to be sure, read rather
like a caricature—it must not be forgotten that Salandra was writing
for lower-class theatrical spectators, and not for refined readers—but
the elements which Milton has utilized are already there.
Here is a coincidence:
Here we may reign secure . . .
Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven.
MILTON (i, 258).
. . . Qui propria voglia,
Son capo, son qui duce, son lor Prence.
SALANDRA (p. 49).
And another:
. . . Whom shall we find
Sufficient? ... This enterprise
None shall partake with me.—MILTON (ii, 403, 465).
A chi basterà l’ anima di voi?
. . . certo che quest’ affare
A la mia man s’ aspetta.—SALANDRA (p. 64).
Milton’s Terror is partially taken from the Megera of the Italian poet.
The ‘grisly Terror’ threatens Satan (ii, 699), and the office of
Megera, in Salandra’s drama, is exactly the same—that is, to threaten
and chastise the rebellious spirit, which she does very effectually
(pages 123-131). The identical monsters—Cerberus, Hydras, and
Chimæras—are found in their respective abodes, but Salandra does not
content himself with these three; his list includes such a mixed
assemblage of creatures as owls, basilisks, dragons, tigers, bears,
crocodiles, sphynxes, harpies, and panthers. Terror moves with dread
rapidity:
. . . and from his seat
The monster moving onward came as fast
With horrid strides.—MILTON (ii, 675).
and so does Megera:
In atterir, in spaventar son . . .
Rapido sì ch’ ogni ripar è vano.—SALANDRA (p. 59).
Both Milton and Salandra use the names of the gods of antiquity for
their demons, but the narrative epic of the English poet naturally
permitted of far greater prolixity and variety in this respect. A most
curious parallelism exists between Milton’s Belial and that of
Salandra. Both are described as luxurious, timorous, slothful, and
scoffing, and there is not the slightest doubt that Milton has taken
over these mixed attributes from the Italian.[2]
[2] This is one of the occasions in which Zicari appears, at first
sight, to have stretched a point in order to improve his case,
because, in the reference he gives, it is Behemoth, and not Belial,
who speaks of himself as cowardly _(imbelle)._ But in another place
Lucifer applies this designation to Belial as well,
The words of Milton’s Beelzebub (ii, 368):
Seduce them to our party, that their god
May prove their foe . . .
are copied from those of the Italian Lucifero (p. 52):
. . . Facciam
Acciò, che l’ huom divenga
A Dio nemico . . .
Regarding the creation of the world, Salandra asks (p. 11):
Qual lingua può di Dio,
Benchè da Dio formato
Lodar di Dio le meraviglie estreme?
which is thus echoed by Milton (vii, 112):
... to recount almighty works
What words or tongue of Seraph can suffice?
There is a considerable resemblance between the two poets in their
descriptions of Paradise and of its joys. In both poems, too, Adam
warns his spouse of her frailty, and in the episode of Eve’s meeting
with the serpent there are no less than four verbal coincidences. Thus
Salandra writes (p. 68):
Ravviso gli animal, ch’ a schiera a schiera
Già fanno humil e _reverente_ inclino . . .
Ravveggio il bel serpente _avvolto_ in giri;
O sei bello
Con tanta varietà che certo sembri
Altro stellato ciel, _smaltata_ terra.
O che sento, _tu parli?_
and Milton transcribes it as follows (ix, 517-554):
. . . She minded not, as used
To such disport before her through the field
From every beast, more _duteous_ at her call . . .
Curled many a wanton _wreath_ in sight of Eve.
His turret crest and sleek _enamelled_ neck . . .
What may this mean? Language of man _pronounced_
By tongue of brute?
Altogether, Zicari has observed that Rolli, although unacquainted with
the ‘Adamo Caduto,’ has sometimes inadvertently hit upon the same words
in his Italian translation of Milton which Salandra had used before
him.
Eve’s altered complexion after the eating of the forbidden fruit is
noted by both poets:
Torbata ne la faccia? Non sei quella
Qual ti lasciai contenta . . .—SALANDRA (p. 89).
Thus Eve with countenance blithe her story told;
But in her cheek distemper flushing glowed. —MILTON (ix, 886).
only with this difference, that the Italian Eve adds a half-lie by way
of explaining the change:
. . . Forse cangiata (del che non mi avveggio)
Sono nel volto per la tua partenza.—(p. 89).
In both poems Sin and Death reappear on the scene after the
transgression.
The flight of Innocence from earth; the distempered lust which
dominates over Adam and Eve after the Fall; the league of Sin and Death
to rule henceforward over the world; the pathetic lament of Adam
regarding his misfortune and the evils in store for his progeny; his
noble sentiment, that none can withdraw himself from the all-seeing eye
of God—all these are images which Milton has copied from Salandra.
Adam’s state of mind, after the fall, is compared by Salandra to a boat
tossed by impetuous winds (p. 228):
Qual agitato legno d’Austro, e Noto,
Instabile incostante, non hai pace,
Tu vivi pur . . .
which is thus paraphrased in Milton (ix, 1122):
. . . High winds worse within
Began to rise . . . and shook sore
Their inward state of mind, calm region once
And full of peace, now tossed and turbulent.
Here is a still more palpable adaptation:
... So God ordains:
God is thy law, thou mine.—MILTON (iv, 636)
. . . . Un voler sia d’ entrambi,
E quel’ uno di noi, di Dio sia tutto.—SALANDRA (p. 42).
After the Fall, according to Salandra, _vacillò la terra_ (i), _geme_
(2), _e pianse_ (3), _rumoreggiano i tuoni_ (4), _accompagnati da
grandini_ (5), _e dense nevi_ (6), (pp. 138, 142, 218). Milton
translates this as follows: Earth trembled from her entrails (1), and
nature gave a second groan (2); sky loured and, muttering thunders (4),
some sad drops wept (3), the winds, armed with ice and snow (6) and
hail (5). (‘Paradise Lost,’ ix, 1000, x. 697).
Here is another translation:
. . . inclino il cielo
Giù ne la terra, e questa al Ciel innalza.—SALANDRA (p. 242).
And Earth be changed to Heaven, and Heaven to Earth.—MILTON (vii, 160).
It is not to my purpose to do Zicari’s work over again, as this would
entail a complete translation of his long article (it contains nearly
ten thousand words), to which, if the thing is to be done properly,
must be appended Salandra’s ‘Adamo,’ in order that his
quotations from it can be tested. I will therefore refer to the
originals those who wish to go into the subject more fully, warning
them, _en passant,_ that they may find the task of verification more
troublesome than it seems, owing to a stupid mistake on Zicari’s part.
For in his references to Milton, he claims (p. 252) to use an 1818
Venice translation of the ‘Paradise Lost’ by Rolli. Now Rolli’s
‘Paradiso Perduto’ is a well-known work which was issued in many
editions in London, Paris, and Italy throughout the eighteenth century.
But I cannot trace this particular one of Venice, and application to
many of the chief libraries of Italy has convinced me that it does not
exist, and that 1818 must be a misprint for some other year. The error
would be of no significance if Zicari had referred to Rolli’s
‘Paradiso’ by the usual system of cantos and lines, but he refers to it
by pages, and the pagination differs in every one of the editions of
Rolli which have passed through my hands. Despite every effort, I have
not been able to hit upon the precise one which Zicari had in mind, and
if future students are equally unfortunate, I wish them joy of their
labours.[3]
[3] Let me take this opportunity of expressing my best thanks to Baron
E. Tortora Brayda, of the Naples Biblioteca Nazionale, who has taken
an infinity of trouble in this matter.
These few extracts, however, will suffice to show that, without
Salandra’s ‘Adamo,’ the ‘Paradise Lost,’ as we know it, would not be in
existence; and that Zicari’s discovery is therefore one of primary
importance for English letters, although it would be easy to point out
divergencies between the two works—divergencies often due to the
varying tastes and feelings of a republican Englishman and an Italian
Catholic, and to the different conditions imposed by an epic and a
dramatic poem. Thus, in regard to this last point, Zicari has already
noted (p. 270) that Salandra’s scenic acts were necessarily reproduced
in the form _of visions_ by Milton, who could not avail himself of the
mechanism of the drama for this purpose. Milton was a man of the world,
traveller, scholar, and politician; but it will not do for us to insist
too vehemently upon the probable mental inferiority of the Calabrian
monk, in view of the high opinion which Milton seems to have had of his
talents. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. The ‘Adamo
Caduto,’ of course, is only one of a series of similar works concerning
which a large literature has now grown up, and it might not be
difficult to prove that Salandra was indebted to some previous writer
for those words and phrases which he passed on to the English poet.
But where did Milton become acquainted with this tragedy? It was at
Naples, according to Cowper (‘Milton,’ vol. iii, p. 206), that the
English poet may first have entertained the idea of ‘the loss of
paradise as a subject peculiarly fit for poetry.’ He may well have
discussed sacred tragedies, like those of Andreini, with the Marquis
Manso. But Milton had returned to England long before Salandra’s poem
was printed; nor can Manso have sent him a copy of it, for he died in
1645—two years before its publication—and Zicari is thus mistaken in
assuming (p. 245) that Milton became acquainted with it in the house of
the Neapolitan nobleman. Unless, therefore, we take for granted that
Manso was intimate with the author Salandra—he knew most of his
literary countrymen—and sent or gave to Milton a copy of the manuscript
of ‘Adamo’ before it was printed, or that Milton was personally
familiar with Salandra, we may conclude that the poem was forwarded to
him from Italy by some other friend, perhaps by some member of the
_Accademia, degli Oziosi_ which Manso had founded.
A chance therefore seems to have decided Milton; Salandra’s tragedy
fell into his hands, and was welded into the epic form which he had
designed for Arthur the Great, even as, in later years, a chance
question on the part of Elwood led to his writing ‘Paradise
Regained.’[4] For this poem there were not so many models handy as for
the other, but Milton has written too little to enable us to decide how
far its inferiority to the earlier epic is due to this fact, and how
far to the inherent inertia of its subject-matter. Little movement can
be contrived in a mere dialogue such as ‘Paradise Regained’; it lacks
the grandiose _mise-en-scène_ and the shifting splendours of the
greater epic; the stupendous figure of the rebellious archangel, the
true hero of ‘Paradise Lost,’ is here dwarfed into a puny, malignant
sophist; nor is the final issue in the later poem _even for a moment_
in doubt—a serious defect from an artistic point of view. Jortin holds
its peculiar excellence to be ‘artful sophistry, false reasoning, set
off in the most specious manner, and refuted by the Son of God with
strong unaffected eloquence’; merits for which Milton needed no
original of any kind, as his own lofty religious sentiments, his
argumentative talents and long experience of political pamphleteering,
stood him in good stead. Most of us must have wondered how it came
about that Milton could not endure to hear ‘Paradise Lost’ preferred to
‘Paradise Regained,’ in view of the very apparent inferiority of the
latter. If we had known what Milton knew, namely, to how
large an extent ‘Paradise Lost’ was not the child of his own
imagination, and therefore not so precious in his eyes as ‘Paradise
Regained,’ we might have understood his prejudice.
[4] _Thou hast said much of Paradise Lost, but what hast thou to say
of Paradise Found?_ He made no answer, but sat some time in a muse. .
. .
Certain parts of ‘Paradise Lost’ are drawn, as we all know, from other
Italian sources, from Sannazario, Ariosto, Guarini, Bojardo, and
others. Zicari who, it must be said, has made the best of his case,
will have it that the musterings and battles of the good and evil
angels are copied from the ‘Angeleide’ of Valvasone published at Milan
in 1590. But G. Polidori, who has reprinted the ‘Angeleide’ in his
Italian version of Milton (London, 1840), has gone into this matter and
thinks otherwise. These devil-and-angel combats were a popular theme at
the time, and there is no reason why the English poet should copy
continental writers in such descriptions, which necessarily have a
common resemblance. The Marquis Manso was very friendly with the poets
Tasso and Marino, and it is also to be remarked that entire passages in
‘Paradise Lost’ are copied, _totidem verbis,_ from the writings of
these two, Manso having no doubt drawn Milton’s attention to their
beauties. In fact, I am inclined to think that Manso’s notorious
enthusiasm for the _warlike_ epic of Tasso may first of all have
diverted Milton from purely pastoral ideals and inflamed him with the
desire of accomplishing a similar feat, whence the well-known lines in
Milton’s Latin verses to this friend, which contain the first
indication of such a design on his part. Even the familiar invocation,
‘Hail, wedded Love,’ is bodily drawn from one of Tasso’s letters (see
Newton’s ‘Milton,’ 1773, vol. i, pp. 312, 313).
It has been customary to speak of these literary appropriations as
‘imitations’; but whoever compares them with the originals will find
that many of them are more correctly termed translations. The case,
from a literary-moral point of view, is different as regards ancient
writers, and it is surely idle to accuse Milton, as has been done, of
pilferings from Aeschylus or Ovid. There is no such thing as robbing
the classics. They are our literary fathers, and what they have left
behind them is our common heritage; we may adapt, borrow, or steal from
them as much as will suit our purpose; to acknowledge such ‘thefts’ is
sheer pedantry and ostentation. But Salandra and the rest of them were
Milton’s contemporaries. It is certainly an astonishing fact that no
scholar of the stamp of Thyer was acquainted with the ‘Adamo Caduto’;
and it says much for the isolation of England that, at a period when
poems on the subject of paradise lost were being scattered broadcast in
Italy and elsewhere—when, in short, all Europe was ringing with the
doleful history of Adam and Eve—Milton could have ventured to speak of
his work as ‘Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme’—an amazing verse
which, by the way, is literally transcribed out of Ariosto (‘Cosa, non
detta in prosa mai, nè in rima’). But even now the acquaintance of the
British public with the productions of continental writers is
superficial and spasmodic, and such was the ignorance of English
scholars of this earlier period, that Birch maintained that Milton’s
drafts, to be referred to presently, indicated his intention of writing
an _opera_ (!); while as late as 1776 the poet Mickle, notwithstanding
Voltaire’s authority, questioned the very existence of Andreini, who
has written thirty different pieces.
Some idea of the time when Salandra’s tragedy reached Milton might be
gained if we knew the date of his manuscript projects for ‘Paradise
Lost’ and other writings which are preserved at Cambridge. R. Garnett
(‘Life of Milton,’ 1890, p. 129) supposes these drafts to date from
about 1640 to 1642, and I am not sufficiently learned in Miltonian lore
to controvert or corroborate in a general way this assertion. But the
date must presumably be pushed further forward in the case of the
skeletons for ‘Paradise Lost,’ which are modelled to a great extent
upon Salandra’s ‘Adamo’ of 1647, though other compositions may also
have been present before Milton’s mind, such as that mentioned on page
234 of the second volume of Todd’s ‘Milton,’ from which he seems to
have drawn the hint of a ‘prologue spoken by Moses.’
Without going into the matter exhaustively, I will only say that from
these pieces it is clear that Milton’s primary idea was to write, like
Salandra, a sacred tragedy upon this theme, and not an epic. These
drafts also contain a chorus, such as Salandra has placed in his drama,
and a great number of mutes, who do not figure in the English epic, but
who reappear in the ‘Adamo Caduto’ and all similar works. Even Satan is
here designated as Lucifer, in accordance with the Italian Lucifero;
and at the end of one of Milton’s drafts we read ‘at last appears
Mercy, comforts him, promises the Messiah, etc.,’ which is exactly what
Salandra’s Misericordia (Mercy) does in the same place.
Milton no doubt kept on hand many loose passages of poetry, both
original and borrowed, ready to be worked up into larger pieces; all
poets are smothered in odd scraps of verse and lore which they ‘fit in’
as occasion requires; and it is therefore quite possible that some
fragments now included in ‘Paradise Lost’ may have been complete before
the ‘Adamo Caduto’ was printed. I am referring, more especially, to
Satan’s address to the sun, which Philips says was written before the
commencement of the epic.
Admitting Philips to be correct, I still question whether this
invocation was composed before Milton’s visit to Naples; and if it was,
the poet may well have intended it for some other of the multitudinous
works which these drafts show him to have been revolving in his mind,
or for none of them in particular.
De Quincey rightly says that Addison gave the initial bias in favour of
‘Paradise Lost’ to the English national mind, which has thenceforward
shrunk, as Addison himself did, from a dispassionate contemplation of
its defects; the idea being, I presume, that a ‘divine poem’ in a
manner disarmed rational criticism. And, strange to say, even the few
faults which earlier scholars did venture to point out in Milton’s poem
will be found in that of Salandra. There is the same superabundance of
allegory; the same confusion of spirit and matter among the
supernatural persons; the same lengthy astronomical treatise; the same
personification of Sin and Death; the same medley of Christian and
pagan mythology; the same tedious historico-theological disquisition at
the end of both poems.
For the rest, it is to be hoped that we have outgrown our
fastidiousness on some of these points. Theological fervour has abated,
and in a work of the pure imagination, as ‘Paradise Lost’ is now—is it
not?—considered to be, there is nothing incongruous or offensive in an
amiable commingling of Semitic and Hellenic deities after the approved
Italian recipe; nor do a few long words about geography or science
disquiet us any more. Milton was not writing for an uncivilized mob,
and his occasional displays of erudition will represent to a cultured
person only those breathing spaces so refreshing in all epic poetry.
That Milton’s language is saturated with Latinisms and Italianisms is
perfectly true. His English may not have been good enough for his
contemporaries. But it is quite good enough for us. That ‘grand manner’
which Matthew Arnold claimed for Milton, that sustained pitch of kingly
elaboration and fullness, is not wholly an affair of high moral tone;
it results in part from the humbler ministrations of words happily
chosen—from a felicitous alloy of Mediterranean grace and Saxon mettle.
For, whether consciously or not, we cannot but be influenced by the
_colour-effects_ of mere words, that arouse in us definite but
indefinable moods of mind. To complain of the foreign phraseology and
turns of thought in ‘Paradise Lost’ would be the blackest ingratitude
nowadays, seeing that our language has become enriched by steady gleams
of pomp and splendour due, in large part, to the peculiar _lustre_ of
Milton’s comely importations.
XXII
THE “GREEK” SILA
It was to be the Sila in earnest, this time. I would traverse the whole
country, from the Coscile valley to Catanzaro, at the other end.
Arriving from Cosenza the train deposited me, once more, at the
unlovely station of Castrovillari. I looked around the dusty square,
half-dazed by the sunlight—it was a glittering noonday in July—but the
postal waggon to Spezzano Albanese, my first resting-point, had not yet
arrived. Then a withered old man, sitting on a vehicle behind the sorry
skeleton of a horse, volunteered to take me there at once; we quickly
came to terms; it was too hot, we both agreed, to waste breath in
bargaining. With the end of his whip he pointed out the church of
Spezzano on its hilltop; a proud structure it looked at this distance,
though nearer acquaintance reduced it to extremely humble proportions.
The Albanian Spezzano (Spezzano Grande is another place) lies on the
main road from Castrovillari to Cosenza, on the summit of a
long-stretched tongue of limestone which separates the Crati river from
the Esaro; this latter, after flowing into the Coscile, joins its
waters with the Crati, and so closes the promontory. An odd
geographical feature, this low stretch, viewed from the greater heights
of Sila or Pollino; one feels inclined to take a broom and sweep it
into the sea, so that the waters may mingle sooner.
Our road ascended the thousand feet in a sinuous ribbon of white dust,
and an eternity seemed to pass as we crawled drowsily upwards to the
music of the cicadas, under the simmering blue sky. There was not a
soul in sight; a hush had fallen upon all things; great Pan was
brooding over the earth. At last we entered the village, and here, once
more, deathlike stillness reigned; it was the hour of post-prandial
slumber.
At our knocking the proprietor of the inn, situated in a side-street,
descended. But he was in bad humour, and held out no hopes of
refreshment. Certain doctors and government officials, he said, were
gathered together in his house, telegraphically summoned to consult
about a local case of cholera. As to edibles, the
gentlemen had lunched, and nothing was left, absolutely nothing; it had
been _uno sterminio_—an extermination—of all he possessed. The prospect
of walking about the burning streets till evening did not appeal to me,
and as this was the only inn at Spezzano I insisted, first gently, then
forcibly—in vain. There was not so much as a chair to sit upon, he
avowed; and therewith retired into his cool twilight.
Despairing, I entered a small shop wherein I had observed the only
signs of life so far—an Albanian woman spinning in patriarchal fashion.
It was a low-ceilinged room, stocked with candles, seeds, and other
commodities which a humble householder might desire to purchase,
including certain of those water-gugglets of Corigliano ware in whose
shapely contours something of the artistic dreamings of old Sybaris
still seems to linger. The proprietress, clothed in gaudily picturesque
costume, greeted me with a smile and the easy familiarity which I have
since discovered to be natural to all these women. She had a room, she
said, where I could rest; there was also food, such as it was, cheese,
and wine, and——
“Fruit?” I queried.
“Ah, you like fruit? Well, we may not so much as speak about it just
now—the cholera, the doctors, the policeman, the prison! I was going to
say _salami.”_
Salami? I thanked her. I know Calabrian pigs and what they feed on,
though it would be hard to describe in the language of polite society.
Despite the heat and the swarms of flies in that chamber, I felt little
desire for repose after her simple repast; the dame was so affable and
entertaining that we soon became great friends. I caused her some
amusement by my efforts to understand and pronounce her language—these
folk speak Albanian and Italian with equal facility—which seemed to my
unpractised ears as hopeless as Finnish. Very patiently, she gave me a
long lesson during which I thought to pick up a few words and phrases,
but the upshot of it all was:
“You’ll never learn it. You have begun a hundred years too late.”
I tried her with modern Greek, but among such fragments as remained on
my tongue after a lapse of over twenty years, only hit upon one word
that she could understand.
“Quite right!” she said encouragingly. “Why don’t you always speak
properly? And now, let me hear a little of your own language.”
I gave utterance to a few verses of Shakespeare, which caused
considerable merriment.
“Do you mean to tell me,” she asked, “that people really talk like
that?”
“Of course they do.”
“And pretend to understand what it means?”
“Why, naturally.”
“Maybe they do,” she agreed. “But only when they want to be thought
funny by their friends.”
The afternoon drew on apace, and at last the pitiless sun sank to rest.
I perambulated Spezzano in the gathering twilight; it was now fairly
alive with people. An unclean place; an epidemic of cholera would work
wonders here. . . .
At 9.30 p.m. the venerable coachman presented himself, by appointment;
he was to drive me slowly (out of respect for his horse) through the
cool hours of the night as far as Vaccarizza, on the slopes of the
Greek Sila, where he expected to arrive early in the morning. (And so
he did; at half-past five.) Not without more mirth was my leave-taking
from the good shopwoman; something, apparently, was hopelessly wrong
with the Albanian words of farewell which I had carefully memorized
from our preceding lesson. She then pressed a paper parcel into my
hand.
“For the love of God,” she whispered, “silence! Or we shall all be in
jail to-morrow.”
It contained a dozen pears.
Driving along, I tried to enter into conversation with the coachman
who, judging by his face, was a mine of local lore. But I had come too
late; the poor old man was so weakened by age and infirmities that he
cared little for talk, his thoughts dwelling, as I charitably imagined,
on his wife and children, all dead and buried (so he said) many long
years ago. He mentioned, however, the _diluvio,_ the deluge, which I
have heard spoken of by older people, among whom it is a fixed article
of faith. This deluge is supposed to have affected the whole Crati
valley, submerging towns and villages. In proof, they say that if you
dig near Tarsia below the present river-level, you will pass through
beds of silt and ooze to traces of old walls and cultivated land.
Tarsia used to lie by the river-side, and was a flourishing place,
according to the descriptions of Leandro Alberti and other early
writers; floods and malaria have now forced it to climb the hills.
The current of the Crati is more spasmodic and destructive than in
classical times when the river was “navigable”; and to one of its
inundations may be due this legend of the deluge; to the same
one, maybe, that affected the courses of this river and the Coscile,
mingling their waters which used to flow separately into the Ionian. Or
it may be a hazy memory of the artificial changing of the riverbed when
the town of Sybaris, lying between these two rivers, was destroyed. Yet
the streams are depicted as entering the sea apart in old maps such as
those of Magini, Fiore, Coronelli, and Cluver; and the latter writes
that “near the mouth of the Crati there flows into the same sea a river
vulgarly called Cochile.”[1] This is important. It remains to be seen
whether this statement is the result of a personal visit, or whether he
simply repeated the old geography. His text in many places indicates a
personal acquaintance with southern Italy—_Italiam_, says Heinsius,
_non semel peragravit—_and he may well have been tempted to investigate
a site like that of Sybaris. If so, the change in the river courses and
possibly this “deluge” has taken place since his day.
[1] In the earlier part of Rathgeber’s astonishing “Grossgriechenland
und Pythagoras” (1866) will be found a good list of old maps of the
country.
Deprived of converse, I relapsed into a doze, but soon woke up with a
start. The carriage had stopped; it was nearly midnight; we were at
Terranova di Sibari, whose houses were lit up by the silvery beams of
the moon.
Thurii—death-place of Herodotus! How one would like to see this place
by daylight. On the ancient site, which lies at a considerable
distance, they have excavated antiquities, a large number of which are
in the possession of the Marchese Galli at Castrovillari. I endeavoured
to see his museum, but found it inaccessible for “family reasons.” The
same answer was given me in regard to a valuable private library at
Rossano, and annoying as it may be, one cannot severely blame such
local gentlemen for keeping their collections to themselves. What have
they to gain from the visits of inquisitive travellers?
During these meditations on my part, the old man hobbled busily to and
fro with a bucket, bearing water from a fountain near at hand wherewith
to splash the carriage-wheels. He persisted in this singular occupation
for an unreasonably long time. Water was good for the wheels, he
explained; it kept them cool.
At last we started, and I began to slumber once more. The carriage
seemed to be going down a steep incline; endlessly it descended, with a
pleasant swaying motion. . . . Then an icy shiver roused me from my
dreams. It was the Crati whose rapid waves, fraught with unhealthy
chills, rippled brightly in the moonlight. We crossed the malarious
valley, and once more touched the hills.
From those treeless slopes there streamed forth deliciously warm
emanations stored up during the scorching hours of noon; the short
scrub that clothed them was redolent of that peculiar Calabrian odour
which haunts one like a melody—an odour of dried cistus and other
aromatic plants, balsamic by day, almost overpowering at this hour. To
aid and diversify the symphony of perfume, I lit a cigar, and then gave
myself up to contemplation of the heavenly bodies. We passed a solitary
man, walking swiftly with bowed head. What was he doing there?
“Lupomanaro,” said the driver.
A werewolf. . . .
I had always hoped to meet with a werewolf on his nocturnal rambles,
and now my wish was gratified. But it was disappointing to see him in
human garb—even werewolves, it seems, must march with the times. This
enigmatical growth of the human mind flourishes in Calabria, but is not
popular as a subject of conversation. The more old-fashioned werewolves
cling to the true _versipellis_ habits, and in that case only the pigs,
the inane Calabrian pigs, are dowered with the faculty of
distinguishing them in daytime, when they look like any other
“Christian.” There is a record, in Fiore’s book, of an epidemic of
lycanthropy that attacked the boys of Cassano. (Why only the boys?) It
began on 31 July, 1210; and the season of the year strikes me as
significant.
After that I fell asleep in good earnest, nor did I wake up again till
the sun was peering over the eastern hills. We were climbing up a long
slope; the Albanian settlements of Vaccarizza and San Giorgio lay
before us and, looking back, I still saw Spezzano on its ridge; it
seemed so close that a gunshot could have reached it.
These non-Italian villages date from the centuries that followed the
death of Scanderbeg, when the Grand Signior consolidated his power. The
refugees arrived in flocks from over the sea, and were granted tracts
of wild land whereon to settle—some of them on this incline of the
Sila, which was accordingly called “Greek” Sila, the native confusing
these foreigners with the Byzantines whose dwellings, as regards
Calabria, are now almost exclusively confined to the distant region of
Aspromonte. Colonies of Albanians are scattered all over South Italy,
chiefly in Apulia, Calabria, Basilicata, and Sicily; a few are in the
north and centre—there is one on the Po, for instance, now reduced to
200 inhabitants; most of these latter have become absorbed into the
surrounding Italian element. Angelo Masci (reprinted 1846) says there
are 59 villages of them, containing altogether 83,000
inhabitants—exclusive of Sicily; Morelli (1842) gives their total
population for Italy and Sicily as 103,466. If these figures are
correct, the race must have multiplied latterly, for I am told there
are now some 200,000 Albanians in the kingdom, living in about 80
villages. This gives approximately 2500 for each settlement—a likely
number, if it includes those who are at present emigrants in America.
There is a voluminous literature on the subject of these strangers, the
authors of which are nearly all Albanians themselves. The fullest
account of older conditions may well be that contained in the third
volume of Rodotà’s learned work (1758); the ponderous Francesco Tajani
(1886) brings affairs up to date, or nearly so. If only he had provided
his book with an index!
There were troubles at first. Arriving, as they did, solely “with their
shirts and rhapsodies” (so one of them described it to me)—that is,
despoiled of everything, they indulged in robberies and depredations
somewhat too freely even for those free days, with the result that
ferocious edicts were issued against them, and whole clans wiped out.
It was a case of necessity knowing no law. But in proportion as the
forests were hewn down and crops sown, they became as respectable as
their hosts. They are bilingual from birth, one might almost say, and
numbers of the men also express themselves correctly in English, which
they pick up in the United States.
These islands of alien culture have been hotbeds of Liberalism
throughout history. The Bourbons persecuted them savagely on that
account, exiling and hanging the people by scores. At this moment there
is a good deal of excitement going on in favour of the Albanian revolt
beyond the Adriatic, and it was proposed, among other things, to
organize a demonstration in Rome, where certain Roman ladies were to
dress themselves in Albanian costumes and thus work upon the sentiments
of the nation; but “the authorities” forbade this and every other
movement. None the less, there has been a good deal of clandestine
recruiting, and bitter recriminations against this turcophile attitude
on the part of Italy—this “reactionary rigorism against every
manifestation of sympathy for the Albanian cause.” Patriotic
pamphleteers ask, rightly enough, why difficulties should be placed in
the way of recruiting for Albania, when, in the recent cases of Cuba
and Greece, the despatch of volunteers was actually encouraged by the
government? “Legality has ceased to exist here; we Albanians are
watched and suspected exactly as our compatriots now are by the Turks.
. . . They sequestrate our manifestos, they forbid meetings and
conferences, they pry into our postal correspondence. . . .
Civil and military authorities have conspired to prevent a single voice
of help and comfort reaching our brothers, who call to us from over the
sea.” A hard case, indeed. But Vienna and Cettinje might be able to
throw some light upon it.[2]
[2] This was written before the outbreak of the Balkan war.
The Albanian women, here as elsewhere, are the veriest beasts of
burden; unlike the Italians, they carry everything (babies, and wood,
and water) on their backs. Their crudely tinted costumes would be
called more strange than beautiful under any but a bright sunshiny sky.
The fine native dresses of the men have disappeared long ago; they even
adopted, in days past, the high-peaked Calabrian hat which is now only
worn by the older generation. Genuine Calabrians often settle in these
foreign villages, in order to profit by their anti-feudal institutions.
For even now the Italian cultivator is supposed to make, and actually
does make, “voluntary” presents to his landlord at certain seasons;
gifts which are always a source of irritation and, in bad years, a real
hardship. The Albanians opposed themselves from the very beginning
against these mediæval practices. “They do not build houses,” says an
old writer, “so as not to be subject to barons, dukes, princes, or
other lords. And if the owner of the land they inhabit ill-treats them,
they set fire to their huts and go elsewhere.” An admirable system,
even nowadays.
One would like to be here at Easter time to see the _rusalet_—those
Pyrrhic dances where the young men group themselves in martial array,
and pass through the streets with song and chorus, since, soon enough,
America will have put an end to such customs. The old Albanian guitar
of nine strings has already died out, and the double tibia—_biforem dat
tibia cantum_—will presently follow suit. This instrument, familiar
from classical sculpture and lore, and still used in Sicily and
Sardinia, was once a favourite with the Sila shepherds, who called it
“fischietto a pariglia.” But some years ago I vainly sought it in the
central Sila; the answer to my enquiries was everywhere the same: they
knew it quite well; so and so used to play it; certain persons in
certain villages still made it—they described it accurately enough, but
could not produce a specimen. Single pipes, yes; and bagpipes galore;
but the _tibiæ pares_ were “out of fashion” wherever I asked for them.
Here, in the Greek Sila, I was more fortunate. A boy at the village of
Macchia possessed a pair which he obligingly gave me, after first
playing a song—a farewell song—a plaintive ditty that required, none
the less, an excellent pair of lungs, on account of the two
mouthpieces. Melodies on this double flageolet are played
principally at Christmas time. The two reeds are about twenty-five
centimetres in length, and made of hollow cane; in my specimen, the
left hand controls four, the other six holes; the Albanian name of the
instrument is “fiscarol.”
From a gentleman at Vaccarizza I received a still more valuable
present—two neolithic celts (aenolithic, I should be inclined to call
them) wrought in close-grained quartzite, and found not far from that
village. These implements must be rare in the uplands of Calabria, as I
have never come across them before, though they have been found, to my
knowledge, at Savelli in the central Sila. At Vaccarizza they call such
relics “pic”—they are supposed, as usual, to be thunderbolts, and I am
also told that a piece of string tied to one of them cannot be burnt in
fire. The experiment might be worth trying.
Meanwhile, the day passed pleasantly at Vaccarizza. I became the guest
of a prosperous resident, and was treated to genuine Albanian
hospitality and excellent cheer. I only wish that all his compatriots
might enjoy one meal of this kind in their lifetime. For they are poor,
and their homes of miserable aspect. Like all too many villages in
South Italy, this one is depopulated of its male inhabitants, and
otherwise dirty and neglected. The impression one gains on first seeing
one of these places is more than that of Oriental decay; they are not
merely ragged at the edges. It is a deliberate and sinister chaos, a
note of downright anarchy—a contempt for those simple forms of
refinement which even the poorest can afford. Such persons, one thinks,
cannot have much sense of home and its hallowed associations; they seem
to be everlastingly ready to break with the existing state of things.
How different from England, where the humblest cottages, the roadways,
the very stones testify to immemorial love of order, to neighbourly
feelings and usages sanctioned by time!
They lack the sense of home as a fixed and old-established
topographical point; as do the Arabs and Russians, neither of whom have
a word expressing our “home” or “Heimat.” Here, the nearest equivalent
is _la famiglia._ We think of a particular house or village where we
were born and where we spent our impressionable days of childhood;
these others regard home not as a geographical but as a social centre,
liable to shift from place to place; they are at home everywhere, so
long as their clan is about them. That acquisitive sense which
affectionately adorns our meanest dwelling, slowly saturating it with
memories, has been crushed out of them—if it ever existed—by hard blows
of fortune; it is safer, they think,
to transform the labour of their hands into gold, which can be moved
from place to place or hidden from the tyrant’s eye. They have none of
our sentimentality in regard to inanimate objects. Eliza Cook’s
feelings towards her “old arm-chair” would strike them as savouring of
childishness. Hence the unfinished look of their houses, within and
without. Why expend thought and wealth upon that which may be abandoned
to-morrow?
The two churches of Vaccarizza, dark and unclean structures, stand side
by side, and I was shown through them by their respective priests,
Greek and Catholic, who walked arm in arm in friendly wise, and meekly
smiled at a running fire of sarcastic observations on the part of
another citizen directed against the “bottega” in general—the _shop,_
as the church is sometimes irreverently called. The Greco-Catholic cult
to which these Albanians belong is a compromise between the Orthodox
and Roman; their priests may wear beards and marry wives, they use
bread instead of the wafer for sacramental purposes, and there are one
or two other little differences of grave import.
Six Albanian settlements lie on these northern slopes of the Sila—San
Giorgio, Vaccarizza, San Cosimo, Macchia, San Demetrio Corone, and
Santa Sofia d’ Epiro. San Demetrio is the largest of them, and thither,
after an undisturbed night’s rest at the house of my kind host—the
last, I fear, for many days to come—I drove in the sunlit hours of next
morning. Along the road one can see how thoroughly the Albanians have
done their work; the land is all under cultivation, save for a dark
belt of trees overhead, to remind one of what once it was. Perhaps they
have eradicated the forest over-zealously, for I observe in San
Demetrio that the best drinking water has now to be fetched from a
spring at a considerable distance from the village; it is unlikely that
this should have been the original condition of affairs; deforestation
has probably diminished the water-supply.
It was exhilarating to traverse these middle heights with their aerial
views over the Ionian and down olive-covered hill-sides towards the
wide valley of the Crati and the lofty Pollino range, now swimming in
midsummer haze. The road winds in and out of gullies where rivulets
descend from the mountains; they are clothed in cork-oak, ilex, and
other trees; golden orioles, jays, hoopoes and rollers flash among the
foliage. In winter these hills are swept by boreal blasts from the
Apennines, but at this season it is a delightful tract of land.
XXIII
ALBANIANS AND THEIR COLLEGE
San Demetrio, famous for its Italo-Albanian College, lies on a fertile
incline sprinkled with olives and mulberries and chestnuts, fifteen
hundred feet above sea-level. They tell me that within the memory of
living man no Englishman has ever entered the town. This is quite
possible; I have not yet encountered a single English traveller, during
my frequent wanderings over South Italy. Gone are the days of Keppel
Craven and Swinburne, of Eustace and Brydone and Hoare! You will come
across sporadic Germans immersed in Hohenstaufen records, or searching
after Roman antiquities, butterflies, minerals, or landscapes to
paint—you will meet them in the most unexpected places; but never an
Englishman. The adventurous type of Anglo-Saxon probably thinks the
country too tame; scholars, too trite; ordinary tourists, too dirty.
The accommodation and food in San Demetrio leave much to be desired;
its streets are irregular lanes, ill-paved with cobbles of gneiss and
smothered under dust and refuse. None the less, what noble names have
been given to these alleys—names calculated to fire the ardent
imagination of young Albanian students, and prompt them to valorous and
patriotic deeds! Here are the streets of “Odysseus,” of “Salamis” and
“Marathon” and “Thermopylae,” telling of the glory that was Greece;
“Via Skanderbeg” and “Hypsilanti” awaken memories of more immediate
renown; “Corso Dante Alighieri” reminds them that their Italian hosts,
too, have done something in their day; the “Piazza Francesco Ferrer”
causes their ultra-liberal breasts to swell with mingled pride and
indignation; while the “Via dell’ Industria” hints, not obscurely, at
the great truth that genius, without a capacity for taking pains, is an
idle phrase. Such appellations, without a doubt, are stimulating and
glamorous. But if the streets themselves have seen a scavenger’s broom
within the last half-century, I am much mistaken. The goddess “Hygeia”
dost not figure among their names, nor yet that Byzantine Monarch whose
infantile exploit might be re-enacted in ripest maturity without
attracting any attention in San Demetrio. To the pure all things are
pure.
The town is exclusively Albanian; the Roman Catholic church has fallen
into disrepair, and is now used as a shed for timber. But at the door
of the Albanian sanctuary I was fortunate enough to intercept a native
wedding, just as the procession was about to enter the portal. Despite
the fact that the bride was considered the ugliest girl in the place,
she had been duly “robbed” by her bold or possibly blind lover—her
features were providentially veiled beneath her nuptial _flammeum,_ and
of her squat figure little could be discerned under the gorgeous
accoutrements of the occasion. She was ablaze with ornaments and
embroidery of gold, on neck and shoulders and wrist; a wide lace collar
fell over a bodice of purple silk; silken too, and of brightest green,
was her pleated skirt. The priest seemed ineffably bored with his task,
and mumbled through one or two pages of holy books in record time;
there were holdings of candles, interchange of rings, sacraments of
bread and wine and other solemn ceremonies—the most quaint being the
_stephanoma,_ or crowning, of the happy pair, and the moving of their
respective crowns from the head of one to that of the other. It ended
with a chanting perlustration of the church, led by the priest: this is
the so-called “pesatura.”
I endeavoured to attune my mind to the gravity of this marriage, to the
deep historico-ethnologico-poetical significance of its smallest
detail. Such rites, I said to myself, must be understood to be
appreciated, and had I not been reading certain native commentators on
the subject that very morning? Nevertheless, my attention was diverted
from the main issue—the bridegroom’s face had fascinated me. The
self-conscious male is always at a disadvantage during grotesquely
splendid buffooneries of this kind; and never, in all my life, have I
seen a man looking such a sorry fool as this individual, never;
especially during the perambulation, when his absurd crown was
supported on his head, from behind, by the hand of his best man.
[Illustration: San Demetrio Corone]
Meanwhile a handful of boys, who seemed to share my private feelings in
regard to the performance, had entered the sacred precincts, their
pockets stuffed with living cicadas. These Albanian youngsters, like
all true connaisseurs, are aware of the idiosyncrasy of the classical
insect which, when pinched or tickled on a certain spot, emits its
characteristic and ear-piercing note—the “lily-soft voice” of the Greek
bard. The cicadas, therefore, were duly pinched and then let loose;
like squibs and rockets they careered among the congregation, dashing
in our faces and clinging to our garments; the church resounded like an
olive-copse at noon. A hot little hand conveyed one of these
tremulously throbbing
creatures into my own, and obeying a whispered injunction of “Let it
fly, sir!” I had the joy of seeing the beast alight with a violent buzz
on the head of the bride—doubtless the happiest of auguries. Such
conduct, on the part of English boys, would be deemed very naughty and
almost irreverent; but here, one hopes, it may have its origin in some
obscure but pious credence such as that which prompts the populace to
liberate birds in churches, at Easter time. These escaping cicadas, it
may be, are symbolical of matrimony—the individual man and woman freed,
at last, from the dungeon-like horrors of celibate existence; or, if
that parallel be far-fetched, we may conjecture that their liberation
represents the afflatus of the human soul, aspiring upwards to merge
its essence into the Divine All. . . .
The pride of San Demetrio is its college. You may read about it in
Professor Mazziotti’s monograph; but whoever wishes to go to the
fountain-head must peruse the _Historia Erectionis Pontifici Collegi
Corsini Ullanensis, etc.,_ of old Zavarroni—an all-too-solid piece of
work. Founded under the auspices of Pope Clement XII in 1733 (or 1735)
at San Benedetto Ullano, it was moved hither in 1794, and between that
time and now has passed through fierce vicissitudes. Its president,
Bishop Bugliari, was murdered by the brigands in 1806; much of its
lands and revenues have been dissipated by maladministration; it was
persecuted for its Liberalism by the Bourbons, who called it a
“workshop of the devil.” It distinguished itself during the
anti-dynastic revolts of 1799 and 1848 and, in 1860, was presented with
twelve thousand ducats by Garibaldi, “in consideration of the signal
services rendered to the national cause by the brave and generous
Albanians.”[1] Even now the institution is honeycombed with
Freemasonry—the surest path to advancement in any career, in modern
Italy. Times indeed have changed since the “Inviolable Constitutions”
laid it down that _nullus omnino Alumnus in Collegio detineatur, cuius
futuræ Christianæ pietatis significatio non extet._ But only since 1900
has it been placed on a really sound and prosperous footing. An
agricultural school has lately been added, under the supervision of a
trained expert. They who are qualified to judge speak of the college as
a beacon of learning—an institution whose aims and results are alike
deserving of high respect. And certainly it can boast of a fine list of
prominent men who have issued from its walls.
[1] There used to be regiments of these Albanians at Naples. In Pilati
de Tassulo’s sane study (1777) they are spoken of as highly prized.
This little island of stern mental culture contains, besides
twenty-five teachers and as many servants, some three hundred scholars
preparing for a variety of secular professions. About fifty of them are
Italo-Albanians, ten or thereabouts are genuine Albanians from over the
water, the rest Italians, among them two dozen of those unhappy orphans
from Reggio and Messina who flooded the country after the earthquake,
and were “dumped down” in colleges and private houses all over Italy.
Some of the boys come of wealthy families in distant parts, their
parents surmising that San Demetrio offers no temptations to youthful
folly and extravagance. In this, so far as I can judge, they are
perfectly correct.
The heat of summer and the fact that the boys were in the throes of
their examinations may have helped to make the majority of them seem
pale and thin; they certainly complained of their food, and the cook
was the only prosperous-looking person whom I could discover in the
establishment—his percentages, one suspects, being considerable. The
average yearly payment of each scholar for board and tuition is only
twenty pounds (it used to be twenty ducats); how shall superfluities be
included in the bill of fare for such a sum?
The class-rooms are modernized; the dormitories neither clean nor very
dirty; there is a rather scanty gymnasium as well as a physical
laboratory and museum of natural history. Among the recent acquisitions
of the latter is a vulture _(Gyps fulvus)_ which was shot here in the
spring of this year. The bird, they told me, has never been seen in
these regions before; it may have come over from the east, or from
Sardinia, where it still breeds. I ventured to suggest that they should
lose no time in securing a native porcupine, an interesting beast
concerning which I never fail to enquire on my rambles. They used to be
encountered in the Crati valley; two were shot near Corigliano a few
years ago, and another not far from Cotronei on the Neto; they still
occur in the forests near the “Pagliarelle” above Petilia Policastro;
but, judging by all indications, I should say that this animal is
rapidly approaching extinction not only here, but all over Italy.
Another very rare creature, the otter, was killed lately at Vaccarizza,
but unfortunately not preserved.