THE CORNICHE ROAD FROM CASTELLAMARE TO AMALFI
It is without any feelings of regret that we learn of the non-existence of
a railway line beyond Castellamare, so that our journey to Amalfi along
the coast must be performed in the good old-fashioned manner of long-past
_vetturino_ days. Three skinny horses harnessed abreast are standing ready
at the hotel door to draw our travelling chariot, each member of the team
gorgeously decked with plumes of pheasant feathers in his head-gear and
with many-coloured trappings, whilst on the harness itself appears in more
than one place the little brazen hand, which is supposed to ensure the
steed’s safety from the dangers of any chance _jettatore_, the unlucky
wight endowed with the Evil Eye. Nor is the swarthy picturesque ruffian
who acts as our driver unprovided with a talisman in case of emergency,
for we observe hanging from his heavy silver watch-chain the long twisted
horn of pink coral, which is popularly supposed to catch the first baleful
glance, and to act on the principle of a lightning-conductor, in
deflecting the approaching danger from the prudent wearer of the coral
trinket. Merrily to the sound of jingling bells and the deep-chested
exhortations of our coachman do we bowl along the excellent road in the
freshness of the morning air and light “through varying scenes of beauty
ever led,” for the Corniche road towards Amalfi is admitted to be one of
the finest in the world. Following the serpentine curves above the cliffs,
we have on our right hand the dazzling Mediterranean with classic capes
and islands all flushed in the early sunshine, whilst above us on the left
rise the steep fertile slopes of the Lactarian Hills. Convent and villa,
cottage and farmhouse, peep out of embowering verdure, whilst our road is
shaded in many places by the overhanging boughs of blossoming almond and
loquat trees. The whole region is in truth a veritable garden of the
Hesperides, where in the mild equable climate fruit and flowers ripen and
bloom without a break throughout the rolling year.
[Illustration: POZZANO]
“Tall thriving trees confess’d the fruitful mould;
The verdant apple ripens here to gold;
Here the blue fig with luscious juice o’erflows,
With deepest red the full pomegranate glows,
The branches bend beneath the weighty pear,
And silver olives flourish all the year;
The balmy spirit of the western gale
Eternal breathes on fruits untaught to fail.
Each dropping pear another pear supplies,
On apples apples, figs on figs arise;
The same mild season gives the blooms to blow,
The buds to harden, and the fruits to grow.”
A lovely and a fertile scene it is indeed, and thoroughly typical of the
peculiar charm of Southern Italy, wherein the rich well-tilled lands
appear in striking contrast with the near-lying stony fallows and
scrub-covered wastes.
Beneath the picturesque pile of Santa Maria a Pozzano, perched aloft above
the roadway, we pass along the edge of the sea-girt precipice, rounding
the Capo d’Orlando, until we reach the pretty little town of Vico Equense,
with its churches and gay-coloured villas nestling amidst groves of olive
and orange trees. Vico owes its prosperity in the first instance to the
patronage of “Carlo il Zoppo,” Charles the Dwarf, the lame son and heir of
King Charles of Anjou, who founded a settlement and built a villa upon the
site of the ancient Roman colony; and it was in the old royal demesne of
the Angevins that the hand of the deformed king’s daughter, the Princess
Clementia, was demanded formally in marriage by the French monarch, Philip
the Bold, who sought to marry her to his third son, Charles of Valois. The
match between the young prince of France and his cousin, the Neapolitan
princess, appeared suitable to all concerned in every respect save one;
for it was well known that the King of Naples had been lame from his
birth, and it could never be deemed fit for the expected heir of France to
marry any but a perfectly sound and healthy bride. Now the Queen of Naples
was too proud to accede to the hints of the French ladies, who evidently
were most anxious to acquaint themselves with the satisfactory condition
of her daughter’s “walking members,” though she went so far as to allow
the maiden to appear before them clad only in a flowing robe of gossamer
silk. The possible danger of losing her opportunity to become Queen of
France proved, however, beyond the ambitious young lady’s powers of
endurance, and to the horror of her haughty mother and the delight of the
foreign emissaries, the Princess Clementia then and there doffed her
silken robes and appeared before all in the historic garb of Lady Godiva.
A glance at the princess’s form _in puris naturalibus_ sufficed to
convince the inquisitive Frenchwomen that no hereditary taint from Il
Zoppo descended to his daughter; and accordingly the betrothal of the two
young people was celebrated that very evening amidst the usual revels and
feastings.
The clean cheerful town on the sheer limestone crags boasts a cathedral,
wherein, so the guide-book informs us, we shall find the tomb of
Filangieri, the great Italian jurist. But the building contains in reality
far more stirring associations than those connected with a prominent
lawyer. It is but a rococo structure of the usual Italian type, and its
painted series of portraits of past bishops is by no means an uncommon
complement of cathedral churches in the South. But here, amidst the long
rows of indifferent portraits, we note an omission, a space that is
occupied, not by a likeness but by a medallion, which represents a cherub
with the forefinger of his right hand laid as a seal of silence upon the
lips. Here-by indeed hangs a tale, obscure perhaps, but pathetic and human
to the last degree. We all remember the broad frieze filled with Doges’
faces which is carried round the great hall of the ducal palace in Venice,
wherein the place assigned to the traitor, Marino Faliero, contains a
black veil instead of the usual portrait. Here in little Vico Equense is
to be found a somewhat similar incident, but with this important
difference:—the bishop whose portrait is here omitted was the most worthy
of remembrance of all his peers.
The crime of Monsignore Michele Natale, Bishop of Vico Equense, to which
the silent cherub bears everlasting witness, was that of being a patriot
and a Liberal (in the truest sense of that term) during the anxious times
of the ill-fated Parthenopean Republic, that short-lived period of
aristocratic government which was set up in self-defence by certain
Neapolitan nobles, prelates and men of science after the abrupt departure
of their cowardly King and Queen to Palermo. We all remember the terrible
ending of that government: how the vile rabble-army of Cardinal Ruffo
assaulted Naples; how the city capitulated to the Cardinal on the express
condition that all life and property should be spared; and how Lord
Nelson, refusing to recognise the terms that Ruffo himself had agreed to,
and overruling the Cardinal’s protests, treated the unhappy prisoners. The
Bishop of Vico Equense was one of this band of martyrs, for he suffered
death under circumstances of exceptional brutality on the morning of
August 20th 1799, in the piazza in front of the church of the Carmine,
together with two Neapolitans of noble rank, Giuliano Colonna and Gennaro
Serra, and with the poetess, Eleonora Pimentel, a Portuguese by birth but
the widow of a Neapolitan officer. All went nobly to their doom amidst the
execrations of the demoralised bloodthirsty mob of _lazzaroni_, yelling at
and insulting the “Jacobins,” and kept back with no little difficulty by
the royal troops from mutilating the corpses of women, bishops and
princes. Monsignore Natale himself was hanged, and in his case the public
executioner—“Masto Donato” as he was nick-named by the populace—gave vent
to many pleasantries concerning the episcopal rank of his victim.
Blindfolded and with the cord of infamy depending from his neck, the
Bishop was led up to the fatal ladder amid deafening shouts of
“Viva la forca e Masto Donato;
Sant’ Antonio sia priato!”
On reaching the top of the gallows, the hangman made fast the rope to the
cross-tree, and then an assistant (_tirapiede_) from below adroitly pushed
the unseeing prisoner into space, catching on to his legs meanwhile,
whilst “Masto Donato” himself adroitly leaped from the gallows-top upon
the prelate’s shoulder. With the hangman on his back, shouting aloud how
much he was enjoying his ride upon a real bishop, and with the other
ruffian clinging to his heels, Monsignore Natale swayed backwards and
forwards amidst yells of execration and gratified hate on that hot August
morning in front of the Church of the Carmine little more than one hundred
years ago. His body was left on the gallows to be insulted by the mob
throughout the long sweltering day, and then, stripped of all its
clothing, was finally flung with other corpses of noble men and women into
a charnel-house at Sant’ Alessio al Lavinaio. Who it was that placed this
quaint little memorial to the murdered prelate in his cathedral church we
know not; but here the speechless yet eloquent cherub tells Natale’s sad
story of brutality and injustice to all who care to listen. Happily the
spell of silence is at length broken, and the true history of that hateful
era of crime, cruelty, lying, and intrigue is gradually being revealed;
and the enemies of the Church in Italy learn with an astonishment, which
is perhaps feigned, that in that glorious army of martyrs of 1799 more
than one ecclesiastic of high rank suffered in the ill-starred and
premature cause of Neapolitan liberty.
Crossing the little river Arco, we proceed uphill through the region of
vines and olives, until we have passed the Punta di Scutolo, where begins
our descent into that famous tract of country, the Piano di Sorrento, a
plateau above the cliffs, some four miles in length by one in breadth.
Poets of antiquity and bards of the Middle Ages alike have sung the
delights of the Sorrentine Plain, and have painted in glowing colours of
inspired verse its race of happy peasants, its fruitful fields and
orchards, its luscious vines, its excellent flocks. Galen, the cunning old
physician, recommended to his nervous patients what would now be termed a
“rest cure” in these favoured regions; whilst the grateful Bernardo Tasso,
father of the immortal Torquato, speaks of the capital of this district as
“l’Albergo della Cortesia,” and in an ecstasy of delighted appreciation,
goes on to add: “l’aere e si sereno, si temperato, si salutifero, si
vitale, che gli uomini che senza provar altero cielo ci vivono sono quasi
immortali.” And though praise from Torquato’s courtly sire must not be
taken too seriously, yet few will deny that the beautiful plain deserves
many of the eulogies that have been showered upon it. At the small town of
Meta, the next place of importance after Sorrento itself, the road divides
at the Church of the Madonna of the Laurel: our way to Amalfi leading
southward over the opposing ridge—the “Sorrentini Colles” of Ovid—whilst
the other traverses the length of the plain by way of Pozzopiano and Sant’
Agnello, until it reaches Sorrento.
One prominent feature of this district has already attracted our
attention; the number of deep ravines with which the whole plain is
intersected. These natural clefts are marvellously lovely in their rich
luxuriance of foliage, and with their precipitous sides and verdure-clad
depths will recall the wonderful _latomiè_, the ancient stone-quarries of
Syracuse. Their depths are filled with orange and lemon trees, mingled
with sable spires of cypress and the tall forms of bays, which here bear
jet-black berries, such as are rarely seen in our northern clime; whilst
the edges of the cliffs are clothed with a serried mass of wild flowers;
red valerian, crimson snap-dragon, tall blue campanulas, the dark green
wild fennel, white-blossoming cistus, and a hundred other plants, gay with
colour and strong with aromatic perfume.
“The quarry’s edge is lined with many a plant,
With many a flower distilling fragrant dew
From brightly coloured petals. Almond trees
Give snowy promise of sweet leaves and fruit;
Here all the scented tangle of the South
Covers the boulders, calcined by the sun
To pearly whiteness; thorn or asphodel
Sprout from each cranny of the topmost ledge
To nod against the deep blue sky, or peer
Into the verdure-clad abyss below.”
It is not surprising to learn that these romantic glens, filled with
greenery, are reputed locally to be the haunts of fairies, _Monacelli_, as
the Sorrentine inhabitants name them. Like the “good folk” of certain
country districts in England, the pixies of Devonshire, and the “Tylwyth
Teg” of rural Wales, these elfin people of the ravines are not malicious
or unkindly in their nature, but they are particular and somewhat exacting
in certain matters. They appreciate the attentions of mortal men, and
offerings of fresh milk or choice fruit are not beneath the notice of the
Monacelli. Borrowing the idea from the votive offerings they make in the
churches to the Virgin and the Saints, the peasants sometimes place little
lamps in the fern-draped grottoes of these gullies, and to such as
punctually perform these acts of courtesy, the Monacelli frequently show
signs of favour. The _padrone_ of a local inn has assured us that he and
his wife stood very high in the good graces of the little people, who had
on one occasion actually written them a letter, although as the characters
employed were unknown to any person in the village, the object of their
communication by this means seems somewhat of a mystery. Another and a
more practical instance of their patronage was then related, for the
favoured landlord assured us that on one occasion, when he and his wife
descended downstairs in the morning, they found the house cleared, the
hearth ready swept, and all the contents of last night’s supper-table
relaid on the brick floor, but _d’un modo squisito_, such as no human hand
could ever have been deft enough to contrive. Just a simple innocent
trifle of Sorrentine folk-lore, but how closely does it resemble the
old-time gossip of rustic England, of which the great poet has left us so
charming a picture!—
“Tells how the drudging Goblin sweat
To earn his cream-bowl duly set,
When in one night, ere glimpse of morn,
His shadowy flail hath threshed the corn
That ten day labourers could not end.”
For, as we have already said, the Monacelli show themselves grateful to
those who anticipate their wants, and will serve their votaries with
industry and fidelity. _Fuore avra il Monacello in casa_—perhaps he has
had the Fairy in the house—has passed into a local phrase to designate a
neighbour’s unexplained prosperity. But, again, the lucky recipient of
these favours must never blab or even hint at the origin of his good
fortune, for all gossip is highly distasteful to the fairy folk; and that,
we suppose, is the true reason why so little authentic information can be
gleaned as to the methods of the Monacelli.
In direct contrast with the Monacelli of the ravines, who are, on the
whole, well inclined towards mortals, are the Maghe, first cousins
evidently to the terrible _ginns_ of Arabian folk-lore; perhaps the
Saracenic pirates themselves may have introduced their oriental sprites to
the Neapolitan shores. In the popular mind the Maghe are supposed to
possess vast treasures hidden in caves by the seashore, or on the bleak
mountain side, and it was doubtless concerning these spirits that the
guide’s tale, given in a previous chapter, relates. The most celebrated
Maga of all is the demon who haunts a certain underground corridor near
Pozzuoli, containing an immense hoard of gold and jewels, which he is
willing to present to anybody that is ready to give in exchange a new-born
baby, presumably for purposes of devouring. Nor was the general belief in
the cave-dwelling monster at Pozzuoli limited to the poor peasants and
fisher-folk, for rumour persistently asserted that King Francis of Naples,
father of Bomba of impious memory, more than once attempted to negotiate
with the guardian of this buried treasure; but the Maga’s terms, it seems,
were too bloodthirsty and extravagant even for a Neapolitan Bourbon to
comply with, and in that case they must indeed have been pretty startling.
Malignant fairies are, in short, quite common upon the Sorrentine plain,
where exasperated mothers are sometimes in the habit of frightening their
squalling children into silence by threatening to introduce them to
_Mammone_—perhaps a corruption of the old Greek word _mormo_—a terrible
ghost, that must be a near relation to the “Big Black Man” of English
nurseries, who is ever ready to carry off naughty boys and girls in his
sack.
But the whole of the Sorrentine Peninsula is full of local superstitions,
the vast majority of which can easily be traced to the influence of
Catholicism, whilst comparatively few seem to be the legacy of ancient
Greek or Roman mythology. Belief in witchcraft is universal in these
parts, but the witch herself (_strega_) is regarded somewhat in the light
of a beneficent “wise woman,” who can arrest the far more dreaded spell of
the Evil Eye, rather than as the malevolent old hag of bucolic England in
the past. Certainly there has never been recorded in Southern Italy any
such popular persecution of poor harmless old crones as once disgraced
English countrysides; nor has any Italian jurist, like the erudite Sir
Matthew Hale, ever condescended to supply legal information concerning the
peculiarities of witches, and the best methods of prosecuting and burning
them. But the _strega_, though not as a rule dangerous to mankind,
provided she be not disturbed or insulted, has the same supernatural power
of transit on a broomstick that is possessed by her northern sister. On
many a dark night have the peasants crossed themselves with fear on
hearing the witches flying through the storm-vexed air to keep their
unholy tryst beside the famous walnut tree of Benevento, which has been
described for us by the learned Pietro Piperno in his mysterious treatise,
entitled _De Nuce Beneventana_. Even snatches of the witches’ song can
sometimes be distinguished above the howling of the gale—
“Sott’ aero e sopra vento,
Sotto la Nuce di Benevento!”
Perhaps it may afford some consolation to those who have a dread of
witches that the word “Sabato,” solemnly pronounced on these awful
occasions, is of real service to the utterer; whilst such as have had the
good fortune to be born on a Friday in March are permanently placed
outside the evil power of their spells, since our Saviour was crucified on
a Friday in that month.
But at length we have finished the ascent of the ridge, and our driver
halts for a moment at the inn of the “Due Golfi.” A smiling damsel,
dressed in the picturesque native costume, advances to offer us the
national drink of Italy, sweet vermouth that is frothed up with a little
fizzing water in a narrow tumbler; and though carriage exercise is not
liable to produce thirst, yet we cannot be so churlish as to refuse the
draught, especially as the delay allows us to take our farewell look at
the Bay of Naples. For here we have reached the peak of the rocky saddle
that divides the two famous gulfs; and before us we now behold the wide
crescent of the Bay of Salerno with its sunburnt vineyards and its
precipitous cliffs. To our right we perceive the craggy headlands
stretching southward till they culminate in the Cape of Minerva:—how much
more attractive sounds the good old classical name than the new-fangled
Punta della Campanella, so called from the alarm bell which used to be
tolled in the ruined fortress at the approach of the Moslem pirate
galleys! Vastly different is the aspect on this side of the peninsula to
that which we have just left behind us. There is the plain below us,
thickly dotted with farms and villas set amidst crops and orchards, a
fertile scene of industry and population; here on the Salerno side are
wild stony tracts affording only pasturage for a few sheep and goats, and
covered for miles with broom, cytizus, coronella, myrtle, and numberless
fragrant weeds, all struggling fiercely for existence on the dry barren
soil, and filling the clear air with an incense-like perfume. Such is our
first acquaintance with the Costiera d’Amalfi, that wonderful stretch of
indented rocky coast-line once containing the Republic of Amalfi, which
was the forerunner of the glorious Commonwealths of Florence and Venice.
From the grey cliffs of Capri to the west, as far as the headland beside
Salerno, stretched this diminutive state, composed of a confederacy of
sister-cities, whereof Amalfi herself was the queen and metropolis. Its
glories have long vanished, but the Costiera d’Amalfi remains an enchanted
land, not only on account of its natural beauties, but also by reason of
its historical associations which give an additional charm to every breezy
headland and every little town upon this wonderful shore.
Below us, as we rapidly descend the slopes by the curves of the Corniche
road, lies the little beach known as Lo Scaricotojo, whence in the days
previous to the construction of this splendid highway all visitors were
wont to embark for Amalfi;—that is, unless they attempted the expedition
by way of the mountain roads leading thither from Castellamare or La Cava.
It raises a smile in these days of swift and luxurious travelling to learn
from an early Victorian guide-book that “the most elegible mode of going
from Sorrento to Amalfi is either to ride or to be carried in a _chaise à
porteurs_ to that part of the Colli where begins a rapid descent, and
thence descending on foot to the Marinella of the Scaricotojo on the Gulf
of Salerno.... The ride occupies about an hour and a quarter, and the
descent which, though steep, is not dangerous, occupies about an hour.”
_Nous avons changé tout ça_; yet there are still living amongst us those
who lament the passing away of the old-fashioned days of Italian travel,
when inns were bad but picturesque, and expeditions to such remote places
as Amalfi were not only difficult but even dangerous; since in
compensation for slow progress and risk of brigands every town owned a
primitive charm which is now rapidly disappearing before the modern
irruption of locust-like swarms of tourists with their motor cars, their
luncheon baskets, and their kodaks. Well, to the majority of travellers
the value of natural scenery is not a little enhanced by the sense of
comfort, and here on the Costiera d’Amalfi the most particular can have no
cause to complain, since it is one of the few lovely spots of Southern
Europe that has not yet been invaded by the dividend-paying railway. No,
the old Republic retains to a great extent its ancient atmosphere of
unspoiled beauty and remoteness from the bustling world. It is still a
stretch of glorious and historic country wherein one can obtain a pleasant
and valued respite for a time from the overpowering improvements of an
industrial age.
As we look southward across the breadth of the Bay, our eye is at once
caught by the group of the Isles of the Sirens, which, though in reality
fully a mile distant from the nearest point of the coast, seem in this
clear atmosphere as though they were lying within a stone’s throw of the
beach. Around these bare bluffs of rock, seemingly flung by the hand of
Nature in a sportive mood into the blue waves, lingers one of the most
insidious of all the old Greek legends, for it was past these lonely
cliffs that the cunning Ulysses sailed during his long career of mazy
wanderings in search of his island home and his faithful Penelope. In
those days, so the Greek bard tells us, there dwelt upon these islets
strange sea-witches with the faces and forms of most beautiful maidens,
although their lower limbs had the resemblance of eagles’ feet and talons.
Two sirens only, says Homer, dwelt upon these coasts, although later poets
have increased the number of the fatal sisters to three or even four.
Singing the most enchanting songs to the sound of tortoise-shell lyres,
there used to bask in the sunlight beside the gentle ripple the Sirens,
their nether limbs well hidden from the gaze of passing seamen, who,
attracted by the tuneful notes, hastened hither to discover the
whereabouts of the musicians. Innocent eyes, angelic faces, flowing golden
locks and white beckoning hands had every power to draw the curious
mariner nearer and nearer, until he came within reach of the fell
enchantresses. For the Sirens loved the flesh of mortals, and bleached
skulls and bones of digested victims lay in heaps upon the sandy floor of
their azure-hued caverns. Gold and jewels, too, the spoils of many a brave
galley that had been lured to destruction by these charmers, likewise
littered their retreat, and perhaps it was as much the glittering of this
gold as their own lovely features that in certain cases enticed the wary
merchant into this fatal trap. Gold and a pretty face: what male heart
could be proof against the double temptation the Isles of the Sirens
offered to the navigator in the days of the Odyssey! Only one sailor over
these seas proved himself a match for the wiles of the cruel goddesses of
the Amalfitan coast; for Ulysses, as we know, stopped the ears of his
companions with wax on their approach towards this dangerous spot, whilst
he himself, always eager to hear and see everything yet perfectly well
aware of the Sirens’ magnetic power, had himself tightly bound by cords to
the mast. So whilst the deaf rowers stolidly tugged at their oars,
oblivious of the weird unearthly melody around them, the clever King of
Ithaca gained the honour of becoming the only mortal who had listened to
that subtle song without paying the penalty of a hideous and ignoble
death.
It is strangely disappointing to find that no recollection of Sirens or of
Ulysses lingers in the lore of the present dwellers upon these coasts.
They have no more notion of the aspect of a Siren than they have of a
pleisosaurus, and, as a modern writer naïvely complains, they are not
sharp-witted enough to invent fanciful tales to please the enquiring
foreigner. Nor is this lack of intelligence to be wondered at, when we
recall to mind the clean sweep of all classical learning and tradition
which that period of time, truly known as the Dark Ages, made throughout
Italy; if Petrarch found it necessary to explain to King Robert the Wise
with the greatest tact and delicacy that Vergil was a poet and not a
wizard, what must have been the appalling ignorance prevailing amongst the
peasant and the fisherman? And yet these barren rocks were known as the
Isles of the Sirens centuries before the verses of the Aeneid immortalized
the mythic voyage of the Trojan adventurer, who passed along this
iron-bound coast on his way towards the mouth of Tiber. Their modern, or
rather medieval name of I Galli is somewhat of a puzzle. Erudite scholars
affect to derive it from Guallo, a fortress captured during a war between
King Roger and the Republic of Amalfi, but this explanation, we confess,
does not sound very reasonable. Others prefer to imagine that the word
Gallo (a cock) contains an allusion to the claws and feathers of the
Sirens themselves, for certain of the ancient writers endowed these dire
Virgins of the Rocks with the wings as well as the claws of birds;—in
fact, they represented them as Harpies, those horrible fowls with women’s
faces that appeared upon the scene at Prospero’s bidding to spoil the bad
king’s supper party. But why, if the Sirens were female,—and on this point
all their critics agree with an unanimity that is wonderful—should their
ancient haunts be called “The Cocks?” The untutored natives themselves,
understanding nothing of Sirens or of Odysseys, hold their own theory with
regard to the disputed name, which they connect with the construction of a
harbour at distant Salerno, and though this legend sounds foolish enough,
it is scarcely less flimsy than the notions already quoted. A certain
enchanter, one Pietro Bajalardo, undertook—in modern parlance,
contracted—to build in a single night the much needed breakwater at
Salerno on the strange condition that all cocks in the neighbourhood
should first be killed; for the wizard, so the story runs, had a special
aversion to Chanticleer on account of his having caused the repentance of
St Peter by his crowing. In any case, the reigning Prince of Salerno
gladly complied with the eccentric request, and at his command every cock
in or near the place was accordingly slaughtered, with the solitary
exception of one old rooster, who, being very dear to the heart of his
aged mistress, was kept concealed beneath a tub and thus escaped the
general holocaust. Throughout the livelong night Bajalardo was busily
engaged in superintending the work of building the harbour, whilst the
fiends who carried out his behest were actively conveying huge blocks of
broken cliff from the Cape of Minerva to place in the waters of Salerno.
But at daybreak the cock imprisoned beneath the tub, the sole survivor of
his race, according to natural custom announced the dawn, to the despair
of Bajalardo and the terror of his attendant fiends, who in their
precipitate flight dropped into the sea near the Punta Sant’ Elia the huge
masses of stone they were then carrying; and these rocks are called by men
I Galli in consequence to this day.
But, to be strictly impartial, it was not the Sirens alone who were
responsible for all the victims who perished on these arid rocks. _Homo
homini lupus_; man is always ready to prey upon man, and many of the dark
tales concerning the Galli go to prove the truth of the terrible old
adage. At what period the Sirens abandoned their ancient retreat and swam
or flew away to more congenial haunts is unknown to history; but certain
it is that the rulers of proud Amalfi committed many a cruel deed of
murder or torture upon their deserted islets. For here, many a hapless
political prisoner languished for years in abject misery, a prey to the
heat and glare of summer and to the fierce gales of bitter winter nights.
Rock-cut steps and ruined towers still remain as mementoes of those dark
days, when callous human gaolers worthily filled the places of the absent
Sirens. It was in a chamber of yonder turret, still standing, that the
Doge Mansone II., blinded by a brother’s vengeance, dragged out years of
utter misery in pain and darkness, until the Emperor of the East, suzerain
of Amalfi, at last took compassion upon the prisoner’s wretched plight and
allowed him to be removed into honourable confinement at Byzantium. For
many hundreds of years the Isles of the Sirens have lain untenanted, nor
are they visited nowadays save by a few inquisitive travellers or by the
fishermen of the Scaricotojo, who find safe shelter under their lee during
the sudden squalls of the Mediterranean. For, strange to relate, there are
no dangerous currents, no treacherous whirlpools close to these rocky
islets, such as we might expect to give some natural interpretation to the
ancient myth, the origin of which remains unexplained and constitutes a
very pretty mystery as it stands.
We bid farewell to the group of ill-omened rocks, as we proceed rapidly
under the rocky slopes of the Monte di Chiosse towards Positano, which
extends in a long curving line of cheerful-tinted flat-roofed houses from
the summit of its protecting cliff to the strand below, sprinkled with
boats and nets and cloths with heaps of grain a-drying. The descent to the
lower portion of the little town is singularly charming with its varied
scenery of rocks and hanging woods above us, with the tiled domes of
churches outlined against the deep blue waters, and with the whole scene
dominated by the pierced crag of Montapertuso, beyond which thrusts up
into the cloudless sky the triple peak of the giant Sant’ Angelo. Positano
is a thriving as well as an ancient place, and of its dense population we
have abundant evidence in the swarms of children that pursue our carriage,
brown-skinned picturesque little nuisances, shrilly and incessantly crying
out for _soldi_. Most of these infants wear bright coloured rags, but not
a few are dressed in garments that at once recall the ginger-coloured
robes of the Capuchin friars, for the brothers of the Order of St Francis
are popularly reputed to be especially competent in keeping aloof evil
spells from young persons entrusted to their charge; and of course, argue
the doting parents, it is only natural that the spirits of darkness should
not dare to molest the little ones tricked out in robes similar to those
worn by these holy men.
From the point of view of history the chief interest of Positano centres
in the time-honoured tradition that Flavio Gioja, the original inventor of
the compass, was a native of this town, once a flourishing and important
member of the group of cities which comprised the Amalfitan Republic in
its palmy days. But Clio, the Muse of History, is an inexorable mistress,
and she will not rest content with mere hearsay, however venerable, and as
a result of careful investigation it would seem that Flavio Gioja, who for
centuries has been generally credited with this marvellous discovery, must
himself have been a personage almost as mythic as the Sirens of this
shore, for his very name is spelled in a variety of ways that is
hopelessly confusing. Nor has the question of his place of birth ever been
satisfactorily settled, for both Positano and Amalfi claim this hero of
science for a son, although only in Amalfitan annals can the disputed name
be detected. Be this as it may, it was a citizen of this Costiera who has
ever been acknowledged as the inventor of the compass, though concerning
both himself and his alleged discovery there is a complete absence of any
contemporary record. Later writers have, it is true, always admitted the
honour on behalf of the Republic, and Pontano goes so far as to call
Amalfi _magnetica_ in compliment thereof, whilst during the later crusades
the Amalfitani, who were evidently convinced of the genuine nature of
Gioja’s claim, had an heraldic figure of the mariner’s compass emblazoned
on their banners. It seems a thousand pities to throw doubt upon so
picturesque a tradition, for the date of the invention of the compass has
been fixed as 1302, two years only after the holding of the famous Papal
Jubilee in Rome which Dante’s verse has described for us. Nor can the
ingenious theory be upheld that the fleur-de-lys, the emblem of the French
kings of Naples, which still decorates the dial of the compass in almost
all lands, is in any wise connected with Carlo il Zoppo, the monarch to
whom Gioja is said to have dedicated his ingenious discovery. No, we have
little doubt that the compass, like so many of the scientific wonders that
crept into Europe before and during the time of the Renaissance, was
originally brought from the far East, a farther East than the argosies of
Amalfi had ever penetrated. The little magic box with its moving needle
was first used, it is now admitted, by the cunning merchants of Cathay
during their trading expeditions across the stony monotonous plains of
Central Asia that lay between the Flowery Land and the civilization of
Persia. From Cathay the use of the magnetic needle was introduced to the
Arab mathematicians of Baghdad and Cairo, and through them the secret of
the lodestone of China was conveyed to the coast towns of the Levant. At
Aleppo or Alexandria some astute trader of Amalfi—perhaps his name really
was Flavio Gioja—contrived to learn the new method of steering from some
Moslem or Jewish merchant, and he in his turn brought this novel and
precious piece of information back to the Italian shores. If, then, a
native of Amalfi did not evolve the idea of the compass out of his own
brain, at least it was the old Republic which first impressed the Western
world with its immense value, and this, too, at a far earlier period than
the date usually assigned to Gioja’s “discovery.” For a Christian bishop
of Jerusalem a hundred years before Gioja’s day makes mention of the
compass as being in common use amongst the Saracens of Palestine, whilst
its existence was certainly known to Brunetto Latini, the tutor of Dante,
whom for certain moral failings upon earth his brilliant pupil somewhat
harshly places in the infernal regions. History has, in short, long
deprived poor disconsolate Positano of its vaunted glory in the production
of a medieval scientist whose very existence has now become a matter of
speculation.
As we thread our way along the road that curves round headland after
headland, and is carried over sheer precipices whose base is lapped by the
cool jade-green water, we begin to realize the essential difference
between the Sorrentine shores we have left behind us, and the marvellous
Costiera d’Amalfi we are now passing. Ever green and smiling are the
favoured districts that stretch from Castellamare to Massa Lubrense, with
the mountain tops acting as screens to protect the groves and crops from
the sun’s ardent rays and with the fresh reviving breezes from the Abruzzi
ever breathing upon them. But here we seem to be under the very eyes of
the Sun-God, who stares fixedly from rising to setting upon the Amalfitan
coast. Welcome enough is this continuous basking in his smiles during the
short winter days; but oh! the long, long summer hours wherein King Helios
relentlessly pours down his burning glances upon the shallow soil that
covers the rocky face of the Costiera! We who visit the territories of the
old Republic in winter or early spring only perceive one aspect of the
picture. We rejoice in the gladdening warmth afforded by unbroken sunshine
and by the complete absence of cutting winds which Monte Sant’ Angelo’s
towering form excludes from these shores; we note with delight the
premature unfolding of buds and blossoms, and we marvel at the young fruit
of the dark-leaved loquat trees—the _nespoli_ of the South—turning to pale
yellow even in February. But we cannot realise the blinding glare and the
torrid heat of a July or August, making a perfect furnace of this
sheltered corner, where the thin layer of cultivated soil, that has been
scraped together painfully by human hands, becomes baked through and
through, when the water-tanks are exhausted, and when the clouds of thick
dust hang like a pall of white smoke for miles above the sinuous course of
the Corniche road. How close and sweltering must be the atmosphere of
these populous coves, when the very waves are flung luke-warm upon the hot
sand! How must the inhabitants sigh for a breath of cool air from the
Abruzzi, for the zephyr that tempers the heat on the Sorrentine plain!
_Carpe diem_; let us enjoy the Costiera d’Amalfi in the freshness of early
spring-time, before the oranges and lemons have been stripped from the
leafy groves and before the sun has had time to scorch up the vegetation
that now gives colour to every cleft and crevice of the rocky coast-line.
As we advance eastward from Positano we obtain glimpses from time to time
of mountain valleys thickly clothed with brushwood, and far above our
heads we perceive Agerola perched aloft under the shadow of the topmost
crag of Monte Sant’ Angelo—Agerola, where wolves still haunt the dim
recesses of the chestnut woods, and where the charcoal burners can tell us
of the great grey Were-Wolf that prowls round the village on stormy
nights. Passing the torrent of the Arriengo and the Punta di San Pietro
with its lonely chapel looking out to sea; glancing down upon the deep set
strand and gloomy caverns of Furore, and rounding Cape Sottile, we find
ourselves at Prajano, one of the prettiest spots to be found on all this
wonderful coast. Here we stop to visit the church of San Luca, which
stands on a little grassy platform overhanging the sea and commanding a
superb view of the Bay of Salerno. It is a baroque structure of the type
common everywhere in Italy, which travellers are apt to despise without
acknowledging how picturesque this decadent style of architecture can
appear. At Prajano the wooden doors of green faded to the hue of ancient
bronze, the yellow-washed plaster façade and the lichen-covered tiles of
the roof and tower make up a charming mass of varied colouring when viewed
against the broad blue band of sea and sky beyond. Within, the church is
mean and tawdry, just a
“Sad charnel-house of humble hopes and crimes,
Long dead and buried in obscurity;”
but the afternoon sun struggling through the curtains that cover its
fantastic windows allows a mellow light to fill the expanse of the
building. A toothless old woman and a young girl, both of them thinly and
poorly clad, are the sole occupants of the church, and they are evidently
too much absorbed in prayer to notice our presence. They have placed
beside the Madonna’s altar lighted tapers which glimmer feebly in a shaft
of strong sunlight that falls through a rent in the curtain overhead. For
what purpose, we wonder, have these candles been bought out of a scanty
store! Are they burning on behalf of some sailor-boy now being tossed upon
the ocean? Or are they offered to obtain some boon more selfish and less
pathetic? At any rate, this pair of intent worshippers, representing fresh
Southern youth and crabbed age, make up a pretty picture as they kneel
together on the pavement of tiles ornamented in bright rococo patterns to
represent the coat-of-arms of some forgotten noble benefactor: it is too
simple and everyday a sight in Italy to offer a theme for verse, too
sacred a subject for an idle photograph. We leave the church on tip-toe,
and return to the terrace with its low marble seats and its stunted acacia
trees to sit a few moments before re-entering the carriage.
[Illustration: EVENING AT AMALFI]
Skirting the Capo di Conca we obtain our first sight of proud Amalfi, and
we realize that our drive, long in distance perhaps, but all too short
with its varied beauties and interests, is drawing to a close. Nearer and
nearer do we approach our goal, the shining turrets of the Cathedral tower
acting as our beacon, until at length our chariot clatters beneath the
echoing tunnel hewn in the cliff that leads into the town itself.