AMALFI AND THE FESTIVAL OF ST ANDREW
The traveller’s first impressions of Amalfi, which is essentially the
beauty-spot of the Riviera of Naples, are usually associated with the old
Capuchin convent, long since turned into a hotel and now the bourne of
most visitors to this coast. Its arcaded façade and its terraced garden
stand on a plateau seemingly cut out of the sheer face of the cliff,
whilst high above the town the lofty barren rocks enfold the Convent and
its verdant demesne within a natural amphitheatre and protect this sunny
paradise from the keen blasts of winter. A flight of steps zigzagging up
the rocky hill-side connects the building with the high road below; whilst
a narrow pathway, leading between stone walls and now passing beneath dark
mysterious archways, wherein the lamps burning before the Madonna’s
shrines afford a welcome light even at midday, descends by steep gradients
from the garden above into the main piazza of the little city. Built by
the celebrated Cardinal Pietro Capuano nearly seven hundred years ago for
Cistercian monks, the monastery in the sixteenth century came into the
possession of the Capuchin Friars, those brown-robed figures that with
their bare feet and girdles of knotted white cord are such familiar and
picturesque objects in the daily crowds of every Italian town. But the
friars have been forced to abandon their airy retreat ever since the
suppression of the religious houses, which succeeded the union of the old
Neapolitan kingdom with young Italy, and their convent has long been put
to secular uses. Yet the old monastic church still exists, and
superstitious people declare that the spectral forms of ejected Capuchins
are sometimes to be seen advancing slowly up the rocky ascent in order to
revisit the sacred building that is now closed for worship. Nevertheless
the church is cared for by the members of the Vozzi family, its present
owners, who every Christmas-tide still prepare the popular _presepio_,
that curious representation of the scene in the stable at Bethlehem,
wherein a score of gaily dressed figures of painted wood represent the
Holy Family and the worshipping peasants. Little in fact has been changed
within the building itself, and the exquisite cloistered court with its
slender intertwining Saracenic columns still remains to delight alike the
artist and the antiquary. We say “still remains” advisedly; for beyond the
tiny quadrangle our eyes at once light upon a scene of hideous
devastation.
Doubtless many persons will recall the great land-slip of December 1899,
when almost without warning the whole face of the rocky headland that
shelters Amalfi on the west tore itself loose and slid with a crash like
thunder into the sea below, overwhelming in its fall the little inn known
as the “Santa Caterina” and burying in its ruins two English ladies and
several fishermen. The sinister scar still continues as a blot upon the
lovely landscape, speaking only too eloquently to all of sudden death and
destruction amidst the surrounding scenes of life and beauty. The older
portion of the Capuchin convent, by a miracle as it were, escaped the
on-rush of the land-slide, but its famous “Calvary,” the large group of
the Crucifixion that appears prominently in so many pictures of Amalfi,
was completely swept away, so that the boatmen from the sands below can no
longer behold the immense vivid representation of the Last Agony which was
wont to greet their upturned eyes. Already Time’s kindly hand has begun to
drape the scene of the catastrophe with a decent mourning veil of grey and
green, for the hardy succulent plants that can withstand the sun’s fierce
rays and can thrive despite the boisterous salt sea-winds are already
sprouting from every crack and cranny of the riven earth. Perhaps it is as
well for us selfish and self-satisfied mortals to possess a _memento mori_
close at hand in a spot so teeming with the joy of life; yet somehow the
first sight of that mass of broken headland and the dark ominous fissure
in the hill-side, flung across the sunlit scene, is apt to send a slight
shiver through the frame of the beholder.
There are three indisputable advantages to be gained by turning a
suppressed religious house into a modern hotel, so a cunning old Italian
inn-keeper once confided to us; that is, of course, provided one is not
afraid of the proverbial curse that clings to the buying of any of the
Church’s sequestrated property. These three things are good air, good
water, and lovely views; benefits that a layman is fully as competent to
understand as any cloistered ecclesiastic. And certainly the worthy Vozzi
are fully justified in offering these privileges to their guests at the
Albergo Cappuccini. Signor Vozzi! How many travellers in the South recall
with infinite pleasure their host’s tall commanding figure, his snowy
drooping whiskers, the sun-shade that was rarely out of his hand, his
old-fashioned courteous manners, and his famous family of cats, whereof
the coal-black Nerone was the prime favourite, a feline monster almost as
tyrannical as his Imperial namesake of evil reputation. Signor Vozzi’s
striking personality, the sable fur of agate-eyed Nerone, the eternal
sunshine, and the wide all-embracing views over sea and land, are somehow
all jumbled together in our perplexed mind, as it recurs to the many days
spent beneath the convent roof. Nay, not beneath the roof! For we were
wont to pass the whole day, even the short December day, in basking on the
warm sheltered terrace and peering over the busy beach and the dazzling
waters below, whereon the tale of Amalfitan fisher-life could be read as
it were from the pages of a book.
Somehow the old monastic buildings appear marvellously well adapted to
modern needs. The former inmates’ cells, wherein the brown-robed brethren
of the Order of St Francis until lately were wont to pass their placid
uneventful lives, afford comfortable if somewhat limited accommodation;
whilst the covered _loggia_ that runs the whole length of the cells has
been turned into a series of delightful little sitting-rooms, their broad
arc-shaped windows facing full south, a boon that only a winter resident
in Italy can properly appreciate. _Dove non entra il sole, entra il
medico_, is a hackneyed but well-proven adage; consequently here in the
old Capuchin convent the services of the local medicine-man ought rarely
to be required. Signor Vozzi’s guests partake of their meals in the
ancient refectory, a large bare echoing chamber with a vaulted ceiling,
which still contains the old stone pulpit from which in more pious days a
grave brother was wont to read aloud choice passages from the works of the
early Fathers of the Church or of St Bonaventura, the Seraphic Doctor of
the Franciscans, during the hours allotted to the frugal repasts of the
friars. But the public rooms and the cool white-washed corridors do not
present such attractions as the glorious garden with its famous _pergola_
and its views of the Bay. Here even in Christmas week we found quantities
of plants in full bloom: the delicate yellow blossoms of the Soffrana
rose; trailing ivy-leaved geraniums with gay heads of carmine flowers; the
honey-scented budleia with its little globes of dark yellow flowerets:
clumps of gorgeous scarlet salvia; and straggling masses of the pretty
cosmia, red, pink and white. Humming-bird hawk-moths darted hither and
thither in the sunshine, restless little creatures whose wings are never
for a moment still, as they poise gracefully over each separate blossom in
turn. The _pergola_ itself, which every artist at Amalfi paints as a
matter of course, generally with a Capuchin friar—at least a friar _pro
hac vice_—or a pretty dark-eyed damsel in the native costume, sitting in
the foreground, was certainly bare of foliage, we admit, for even in the
soft warm air of the Bay of Salerno the grape-vine wisely refuses to burst
into leaf at Yuletide, no matter how enticing the warmth. But the thick
white pillars and their wooden cross-beams, around which are entwined the
leafless coiling limbs of the sleeping vine, throw dark blue patterns of
chequered shadow upon the sunlit ground. Above the terraced garden rises
the orangery, well watered by many artificial rillets, and from the midst
of the orange and lemon trees there emerges a path leading to the
entrancing _bosco_, or grove, that fills the deep hollow space formed by
the sheltering cliffs behind. It was mid-winter, as we have said, yet pink
cyclamens and strong-scented double narcissi were blooming freely, whilst
from the dark boughs of the ilex trees overhead there fell upon the ear
the pleasant twittering of innumerable birds, for happily the cruel snare
and the gun are strictly forbidden in this sacred spot, so that his
“little sisters, the birds,” that the gentle Saint of Assisi loved so
tenderly, can still sing their songs of innocence and build their nests in
peace amidst the trees that no longer remain the property of the great
humanitarian Order. At nightfall this garden is almost equally beautiful
beneath a star-lit sky and with the many lamps of the town below throwing
long bars of yellow light upon the placid waters of the Bay. As we pace
the long terrace, wrapped in the glory of a million stars and revelling in
the exalted yet fairy-like loveliness of the scene around us, we perceive
the mellow night air to be redolent of a strange but fascinating perfume.
It is the _olea fragrans_, the humble inconspicuous oriental shrub that
from its clusters of tiny white flowers is thus giving out its secret soul
at the falling of the night dews, and permeating the whole garden with its
marvellous floral incense. But if the star-lit, flower-scented nights of
Amalfi are to be accounted as exquisite memories, how much more glorious
and exhilarating is the rising of the sun, as he appears in full majesty
of crimson and gold above the classic hills that overlook Paestum to the
east! Leaning at early dawn from the windows of the Cappuccini, we have
watched the sky flush at the first caress of “rosy-fingered Eôs” and seen
the fragment of the waning moon turn to silver at the approach of the
burning God of Day, still tarrying behind the lofty barrier of the capes
and mountains of the Lucanian shore.
“Slowly beyond the headlands comes the day,
Though moon and planet on a sky of gold,
Chequered with orange and vermilion-stoled,
Have floated long before the sun’s first ray
Has shot across the waters to display
Amalfi in her dotage; as of old
His beams lit up her splendours manifold,
Her quays and palaces that fringed the bay.
His smile makes every barren hill-side blush
In rose and purple for the glories fled,
As early watchers note th’ encroaching flush
From proud Ravello to Atrani spread,
And curse the cruel arm that once did crush
This sea-sprung Niobe, and leave her dead.”
[Illustration: AMALFI]
Dead, alas! For the old liberties of the great Republic of Amalfi have
been extinct for more than half a thousand years, and it is in consequence
difficult for us to realise that the quaint noisy squalid picturesque
little city by the sea-shore, huddled into the narrow gorge of the
Canneto, is that self-same Amalfi whose navies rode triumphant over the
Mediterranean before the days of the Early Crusades. Yet Amalfi, which may
be reckoned amongst the first-born of that fair family of medieval cities
that their prolific parent the land of Italy brought forth in an age of
darkness, was also the foremost to droop and die, her glories scattered
and passed before Florence had ceased to be an obscure country town. In
this case History presents to us a most forcible, not to say an unique
example of the origin, rise and decline of a power, all occurring within a
short space of time. Amalfi springs, as it were, out of the void as a city
of importance, for no Roman colony occupied its site in antique times. Its
very nomenclature is a puzzle to scholars, and the usual statement that it
owed its name to Byzantine settlers coming hither from the ancient town of
Melfi in the Basilicata does not sound very convincing, though for want of
a better theory it must suffice. Why, when, and by whom the city was in
reality founded remains an enigma, yet we learn from a passage in one of
the letters of St Gregory the Great that the place was of sufficient size
to be governed by a bishop in the sixth century. By the tenth we find the
Republic of Amalfi already risen to a position of commanding importance,
and holding its own against the rival states between which its territories
were wedged; the dukedom of Naples to the west and the principality of
Salerno to eastward. Dexterously playing on the greed and prejudices of
the various tyrants who ruled Naples and Salerno, and occasionally allying
itself with them in order to repel the fierce attacks of their common
enemy, the Saracenic hordes who were then harrying the Lucanian coast,
Amalfi continued to uphold its political freedom and dignity in the face
of immense difficulties. And in gratitude for the vigour with which the
Amalfitani had waged war against the infidel invaders, Pope Leo IV. in
course of time conferred upon the Duke or Doge, the chief magistrate of
the Republic, the title of “Defender of the Faith.” Nominally under the
suzerainty of the Greek Emperor at Constantinople, Amalfi was practically
independent; its system of government was conducted on lines somewhat akin
to those of aristocratic Venice; its population is said to have exceeded
fifty thousand in the capital city alone; its boundaries extended from the
Promontory of Minerva on the west to the town of Cetara upon the confines
of Salerno; whilst many daughter-towns of wealth and importance, such as
Scala and Ravello, sprang into being within the narrow limits of the
sea-girt republic. Owning a small and by no means fertile extent of land,
the inhabitants of Amalfi from its earliest days were forced to become
merchants and sailors; to use a modern phrase, the Amalfitani came to
possess a complete monopoly of trade with Eastern lands, both Christian
and Mahommedan. It was the ships of the Republic that alone brought to the
shores of Italy the rich stuffs, the gold and silver embroideries, the
dried fruits and the strange birds and beasts of Asia Minor and Arabia,
and in exchange for their oriental merchandise obtained an abundance of
corn, wine, oil, meat and other commodities of life that their beautiful
but somewhat sterile dominions were unable to supply to an ever increasing
population. But it was not only the material products of the East that the
sailors of Amalfi conveyed to Europe in their home-bound argosies; for
they brought back with them the rudiments of arts and sciences that
distracted Italy had well-nigh forgotten during the period of the
barbarian invasions. Through the merchant princes of Amalfi, the secrets
of astronomy, of mathematics and of scientific navigation were
re-introduced into the land that had almost lost its old Roman
civilization. A priceless manuscript of that great code of laws, the
Pandects, which a Byzantine Emperor, the famous Justinian, had caused to
be compiled with such skill and labour, putting into concise and accurate
form the collected wisdom of generations of Roman jurists, was included
amongst the treasures of the East that were borne back to Italy in the
Republic’s vessels. And in addition to restoring the old Roman
jurisprudence to its original home, the city of Amalfi had the honour of
promulgating the celebrated _Tabula Amalphitana_, the new maritime laws
that were henceforth destined to regulate the whole commercial system of
the western world. No marvel then that the poet William of Apulia should
praise in unmeasured terms the glories of the new-sprung city, whose trade
extended to the shores of India and whose merchants possessed independent
settlements in every great city of the Levant.
“Nulla magis civitas argento, vestibus, auro
Partibus innumeris; hac plurimus urbe moratur
Nauta marit coelique vias aperiri peritus.
Huc et Alexandri diversa feruntur ab urbe
Regia et Antiochi. Zeus haec freta plurima transit
His Arabes, Indi, Siculi nascuntur et Afri.
Haec genus est totum prope nobilitata per orbem,
Et mercanda ferens, et amans mercata referre.”
(“No city richer in its store of gold,
Of precious stones and silks doth Europe hold;
Her skilful mariners o’er treacherous seas
With aid of compass sail where’er they please.
From Egypt and from Antioch they land,
Their precious cargoes on th’ Italian strand.
Scathless Amalfi’s navies penetrate
The distant ports of every Paynim state.
Match me throughout the circuit of this earth
Another race so full of zeal and worth.”)
A small state on a barren shore, yet the holder of the balance between
East and West by means of its wide-spread commerce, such was Amalfi during
the tenth and eleventh centuries. In some respects this Republic of the
Middle Ages appears as the prototype of the Venice of the Renaissance, for
there is not a little in common between the city that was built upon the
marshy islets of the Adriatic lagoons, and the city that was erected at
the base of the treacherous cliffs of the Tyrrhene Sea. Solely by means of
commerce both foundations rose from nothingness to splendour and power:
both held the gorgeous East in fee; and both fell lamentably from their
high estate. The chief point of difference in this comparison of their
careers is obvious; Amalfi collapsed suddenly and utterly, whilst the
Queen of the Adriatic has sunk gradually to decay until she has become the
interesting monument of a vanished magnificence which we admire to-day.
It was the rising naval power of Pisa that finally crushed the greatness
of Amalfi, although the Republic had already entered into its days of
decline when Robert Guiscard at the time of the First Crusade had
temporarily annexed its dominions to his new principality. Some thirty
years later King Roger of Naples forcibly seized the whole of the Costiera
d’Amalfi, allowing the citizens to retain their own form of government.
Four years after this, the Pisan fleet, coming to aid the people of Naples
against King Roger, utterly destroyed the once vaunted navy of Amalfi, and
sacked both the city itself and the two hill-set towns of Scala and
Ravello. Its political liberty had already been crushed by the Normans,
and now its ships and its wealth were dissipated by the Pisans; it was a
double measure of ignominy and disaster from which Amalfi never recovered.
Amidst its humiliations and sorrows, the stricken city had also to mourn
the loss of its greatest treasure, its secular _palladium_, that most
precious copy of the Pandects of Justinian, which the Pisan marauders
seized and carried back with them to their city on the Arno. Here in Pisa
the famous volume remained in safe keeping for some three hundred years,
and then, as Time’s round brought its inevitable vengeance on the
plunderers of Amalfi, it was removed by the victorious Florentines to
their own city. So intense a veneration for the book itself now manifested
itself amongst the scholars and students of Florence, that at one period
offerings of incense were often made to the inscribed wisdom of past ages
as to a most holy relic of some Saint, and the clerk or jurist about to
peruse its faded characters was wont, first of all, to breathe a prayer of
genuine gratitude on his knees for the preservation of this ancient book.
Amalfi, Pisa, Florence, each in its turn has owned the guardianship of
this most famous literary jewel, which is to-day jealously guarded as the
chief treasure of the world-renowned Laurentian Library.
It is true that the prosperity of Amalfi did not disappear immediately
after the inroad of the Pisans, for Boccaccio, writing in the fourteenth
century, still speaks of the ancient territory of the destroyed Republic
as “a rocky ridge beside a smiling sea, which its inhabitants call the
Costa d’Amalfi; full of little cities, of gardens, of fountains, and of
rich and enterprising merchants.” It was in fact reserved for relentless
Nature herself to complete the work of destruction that Norman armies and
Pisan fleets had more than half accomplished. We have already spoken of
the terrible land-slips to which this beautiful shore is eminently
subject, even at the present day, as the mass of wreckage outside the old
Capuchin convent only too clearly testifies. In the year 1343, during the
progress of a storm of exceptional fury, of which the poet Petrarch has
left us a vivid account in one of his letters, the greater part of the
devoted city was swept away by a tidal wave. The whole line of quays
stretching from the headland by the Cappuccini to the point of Atrani on
the east, together with churches, palaces, and warehouses, was now
swallowed up by the surging waters and engulfed for ever in the depths of
the sea; and thus the very element that had brought wealth, power, and
prosperity to Amalfi in the past now proved the direct cause of her final
calamity. With this fearful cataclysm of Nature following upon the heels
of its political extinction, we can hardly wonder at the rapid decline of
this “Athens of the Middle Ages,” whose population has now sunk to about
one seventh part of the 50,000 citizens it once boasted in the far distant
days of her maritime supremacy.
Reflecting upon the famous past of this ancient city, let us descend the
steep pathway from the terrace of the Cappuccini to visit the crowded
beach below. Here we find ourselves in the midst of a cheerful animated
throng, engaged in mending nets, in painting boats, and in other
occupations connected with a sea-faring life. The tall fantastic houses
with balconied windows that line the curve of the sea-shore, the
glistening sands and the brown-legged, gay-capped fishermen, combine to
present a charming picture of southern Italian life, so that we could
gladly linger in observing the ever-changing scenes of life and industry.
But we cannot tarry long, for the ubiquitous beggars who have begun to
pester us ever since we passed the hotel gates have meantime dogged our
descending footsteps, and their forces have been recruited on the way
hither by many willing assistants. No doubt the vast majority of the
Amalfitani are hard working and self-respecting, for the little town
possesses maccaroni factories and old-established paper mills of no small
importance, yet it is obvious that a considerable portion of the total
population and at least one-half of all the children spend their whole
time in demanding alms of strangers. Before, behind, and from a distance
arises the ceaseless cry of “_Qual co’ signor’! Fame! Fame!_” in hateful
tones of make-belief misery, and these whining appeals are aided by all
the expressive pantomimic gestures of the South. You are placed on the
horns of a dilemma: give, and the report that a generous and fabulously
wealthy Signore has arrived in Amalfi will run like wild-fire through the
whole place, and your life in consequence will become an absolute burden
for the remainder of your sojourn in this spot. Refuse, and the wretches
who have hitherto been wheedling and cringing at your heels, will at once
grow insolent and threatening, especially in the case of unprotected
ladies. It is in fact a choice of two evils, and the only remedy that we
ourselves can suggest is for the persecuted traveller to select a good
stout larrikin and pay him freely to keep at arm’s length his detestable
brothers and sisters in professional beggary. But the uninitiated usually
endure these odious importunities for a certain length of time, and then,
exasperated by the unchecked mendicancy of the place, at last fly
precipitately from this beautiful shore, to seek comparative peace and
freedom elsewhere. For it is useless to argue; it is foolish, even
dangerous to grow angry. “Why should we give to you?” we asked one day in
desperation of a particularly persistent woman. “Because,” was the
unabashed and impudent but unanswerable reply, “you have much, and I have
nothing!” Driven by these human pests from the sunlit strand, we make our
way through the busy piazza, where peasant women with piles of fruit and
vegetables make a glowing mass of colour around the central fountain below
St Andrew’s statue, and proceed towards the Valley of the Mills. A
different phase of Amalfitan life now greets us, for here are to be found
the hard-working bees of this human hive, and it must be confessed their
ways make an agreeable change from the habits of the pestering drones that
infest the beach and the neighbourhood of the hotels. The whole of the
steep rocky gorge of that tiny torrent the Canneto is full of mills, each
emitting a whirring sound which mingles with the continual plash of the
water as it descends in miniature cascades the full length of the ravine,
providing in its headlong course towards the sea the motive power required
to turn all this quantity of machinery. Bridges span the Canneto at
several points, whilst either bank is occupied by tiny factories of paper
or soap, and by winding stone stair-ways that lead upward to terraces
contrived to catch the sunshine for the purpose of drying the goods. The
whole valley, with its strong contrasting effects of sun and shade and its
varied atmosphere of intense heat and of chilly dampness, is full of
seething picturesque humanity. The combined sounds of creaking wheels, of
falling water and of human chattering are almost deafening within this
narrow echo-filled gorge, above which in the far distance we catch a
glimpse of rocky heights with the town of Scala perched eyrie-like against
the deep blue of the sky overhead. Pretty laughing girls, bare-footed and
with marvellously white teeth, emerge from the open door-ways to smile
pleasantly at us, for the workers of the Valle de’ Molini are thoroughly
accustomed to the presence of strangers in their midst. Half-naked men,
who have stepped for a moment out of the hot rooms of the maccaroni
factories in order to breathe the fresh air, regard us with calm disdain
and without any seeming interest. Our presence is tolerated, even if our
reception excites no feelings of surprise or cordiality, so that we are
allowed to pursue our walk up the ever-narrowing valley in peace and
comfort and to admire at our leisure the wonderfully beautiful effects of
colouring produced by the cascades of purple-stained water, the graceful
forms and gay dresses of the girls, and the peeps of fruit-laden orange
trees above fern-clad walls. And how dark the people are! For though black
eyes and hair are commonly associated with the Italian race, yet in the
North we find abundant evidence of the admixture of Teutonic blood, whilst
in the South the fair-haired Norman settlers have left indelible marks of
their conquest of Naples and Sicily in many blue-eyed and white-skinned
descendants; but here in Amalfi a blonde complexion seems to be absolutely
unknown. “_Com’ è bianco! Com’ è bianco!_” called out one of a party of
girls with swarthy skin and ebon hair and tresses, who languidly came out
to stare at us, as we wended our way slowly up the Valley of the Mills.
[Illustration: IN THE VALLEY OF THE MILLS, AMALFI]
But the chief pride of Amalfi, and indeed its sole surviving fragment of
departed magnificence, is the Cathedral, dedicated to St Andrew the
Apostle, who is patron of the city. A broad flight of steps, flanked on
either side by the Archbishop’s Palace and the residence of the Canons,
leads to a platform covered by a most beautiful Gothic _loggia_ set with
richly traceried windows and upheld by antique marble columns. At its
northernmost angle we see springing into the blue aether the tall graceful
red-and-white striped campanile, surmounted by its barbaric-looking
green-tiled cupola and pinnacles. Facing the top of the steps are the two
magnificent doors, specially designed in distant Byzantium to embellish
this church more than eight hundred years ago, and cast by the famous
artist in bronze, Staurachios. Two Latin inscriptions, incised in letters
of silver upon the baser metal, relate to the world that one Pantaleone,
son of Maurice, caused this work to be undertaken in honour of the holy
Apostle Andrew, in order that he might obtain pardon for the sins he had
committed whilst upon earth. These glorious gates were the gifts to their
native city of members of the family of Pantaleone of Amalfi, merchant
princes who had amassed an immense fortune by trade in the Levant. They
are splendid specimens of _niello_ work, which consisted in ornamenting a
surface of bronze by engraving upon it lines that were subsequently filled
in with coloured enamel or with some precious metal. These portals of
Amalfi, perhaps the earliest example in Southern Italy of this rare form
of art, are divided into panels adorned with Scriptural subjects simply
and quaintly treated, wherein the stiff attitudes of the figures and the
many long straight lines introduced testify plainly enough to their
Byzantine origin and workmanship. As we enter the cool dark
incense-scented building, we note that though cruelly maltreated by the
baroque enthusiasts of the eighteenth century, the general effect of the
interior is still impressive with its rows of ancient pillars and its
richly decorated roof. On all sides marble fragments with exquisite
reliefs meet the eye, spoils evidently filched from the abandoned city of
Paestum across the Salernian Bay and presented to the church by the Norman
conquerors of Amalfi. After inspecting the classical bas-reliefs, we
descend into the ancient crypt, which well-meaning artists have completely
encased with a covering of precious marbles and garish frescoes of the
Neapolitan school. It is a place of more than local sanctity, this
modernized crypt, for the possession of the relics of the Apostle which
Cardinal Capuano proudly brought hither after the sack of Constantinople
in the early years of the thirteenth century, was considered by many to
constitute a sufficient recompense to Amalfi for her lost independence.
Popes and sovereigns were in the habit of approaching the shrine, and the
number of these illustrious visitors includes the names of St Francis of
Assisi, Pope Urban IV., the holy St Bridget of Sweden, and the notorious
Queen Joanna II. of Naples. Aeneas Silvius Piccolomini, afterwards Pope
Pius II., however, seems to have thought Amalfi, ever dwindling in size
and importance, too mean a place to own so great a treasure, and he
accordingly transported the head of the Saint to Rome, where it is now
accounted amongst the four chief relics of St Peter’s. Perhaps it was to
counterbalance the loss of so important a member of the Saint’s anatomy,
that in the succeeding century there arose a report which spoke of the
rescue of certain relics of the Apostle Andrew during the headlong course
of the Reformation in Scotland. The most precious objects preserved in the
Cathedral of St Andrew’s, says this legend, were secretly saved from the
expected fury of Knox’s partisans and brought to Amalfi, where they were
reverently added to the store of remains that had survived the plundering
of Pius II. Whether or no there be any truth in this somewhat fantastic
theory, it is enough to state that St Andrew continues to be patron Saint
of this maritime city, for which office the character of the Galilean
fisherman who was called to be a fisher of men seems specially
appropriate. Nevertheless, despite the valuable additions made in
Reformation days, the sanctity of the shrine is not held so high as it
used to be. No longer do the venerated bones ooze with the sweet-scented
moisture that in medieval days was piously collected to be used for
purposes so varied as the curing of warts, or the scattering of Paynim
fleets! Yet so late as the days of Tasso, the great Apostle himself was
evidently connected in the popular mind with the performance of so bizarre
a miracle:—
“Vide in sembianza placida e tranquilla
Il Divo, che di manna Amalfi instilla.”
But although the present times are too sinful to allow of the distillation
of the fragrant dew of Amalfi, we observe the kneeling forms of not a few
intent worshippers within the dimly-lighted crypt, in the midst of which
the Spaniard Naccarino’s bronze figure of the Apostle uprises with
dignified mien and life-like attitude. Sant’ Andrea is still “Il Divo,”
the tutelary god of the Amalfitani; he remains in the estimation of these
simple ignorant folk the special protector of the community. Times and
ideas change, but not the old deep-rooted feeling of a personal tie
between the Saint and his favoured people.
We were lucky in happening upon the great popular festival of Sant’ Andrea
during our visit to Amalfi, and consequently were enabled not only to
witness a picturesque scene of considerable splendour, but also to observe
how strong a devotion the Amalfitani still manifest towards their own
especial Saint. With the first flush of early dawn, discharges of mortars
from the beach and the neighbouring hills began to arouse the echoes and
to remind the still slumbering population that once more the great
anniversary had arrived. The world was quickly astir to do honour to the
great St Andrew, and from a very early hour an interminable stream of
peasants and villagers, young and old, male and female, began to enter the
town from all quarters, and to congregate in the piazza where stands the
large fountain crowned by the Saint’s own effigy. Here with exemplary
patience the throng waited until the hour of the ceremony in the Cathedral
drew nigh. Within the huge building priests and lay-helpers were actively
employed in preparing for the event, and by their exertions the whole
interior had been transformed into what may be best described as a
magnificent ball-room, for every blank wall had been covered with
draperies of rich crimson damask and the very pillars had been swathed
from base to capital in the same gorgeous material. Innumerable old
cut-glass chandeliers, that had reposed since the last _festa di Sant’
Andrea_ in huge round boxes in some secluded vault, had been slung by
means of cords from the ceiling and the arches of the nave, whilst a large
number of mirrors set in carved gilt frames had been affixed to various
points of the walls and columns. The fine marble pavement lay thickly
strewn with bay and myrtle leaves, emitting a pleasant wholesome scent
when crushed under foot by the picturesque but somewhat malodorous crowd
of fisher-folk and peasants. On entering the church, at the first sound of
the bells booming over head, we found ourselves heavily pressed by the
surging throng of worshippers, and it was only with difficulty we could
obtain a sight of the ceremonies at the high altar, prominent upon which
stood the silver bust of the Apostle containing the precious relics. It
was a typical Italian _festa_. The chanting was harsh and discordant; the
antiquated inharmonious organ emitted unexpected squeals, as if in
positive pain; there was, it is needless to add, a complete absence of
that “churchy” demeanour which passes for reverence in the North; yet
withal, despite the shrill discordant music, the tawdry embellishments of
the grand old building and the absence of propriety of the crowd, there
was perceptible some mysterious underlying force that compelled us to note
the extraordinary hold the Church has upon the people of Southern Italy.
For all this throng of persons had assembled that day with one definite
purpose: to see their universal friend and patron, their Saint and their
worker of domestic miracles; they had come to pay their homage to a
celestial acquaintance, with whom, thanks to the Church’s teaching, they
had all been intimate from their cradles. They had not thus assembled at
an early hour, deserting their mills and their shops, their boats and
their nets, renouncing their chances of gain, to hear a preacher’s
eloquence or to listen to fine music, but merely to pay their annual visit
of respect to their Spiritual Master. Why should we aliens intrude upon so
private a gathering? In any case, we have grown weary of standing in the
close sickly atmosphere, wherein the fragrance of the crushed bay-leaves,
the fumes of incense and the strange smell of garlic-eating humanity blend
in an oppressive manner. We push our way through the eager and intent
congregation, and gaining the door-way step with a sigh of relief into the
sunshine that is flooding the _loggia_. But it is too hot to remain here,
and we descend the great stair-case in order to take up a post of vantage
in the shade on the opposite side of the piazza; having gained our desired
position we expect in patience the arrival of the procession. Nor have we
very long to wait. The officials of the town suddenly dart forward to
clear the steps of their crowd of ragged children, and almost
simultaneously the great bronze doors of Pantaleone are flung open to the
sweet air and the sunshine. It was a wonderful and deeply interesting
experience to watch the glittering train slowly emerge from the darkness
of the church into the glare of day, and then descend that stately flight
of marble stairs to the sound of joy-bells and to the accompaniment of
explosions of fireworks. First came the leading members of the various
Confraternities of the little city, all bearing tapers whose tongues of
flame shone feebly in the fierce contemptuous sunlight, and all wearing
snow-white smocks and coloured scarves. Red, green, blue, white, purple,
yellow, gleamed the huge banners of these different societies, each borne
by a tall _vessillifero_, or standard bearer, assisted by quaint solemn
little figures who acted as pages. Then followed the body of the clergy in
copes of white and gold, with eyes downcast as they chaunted in loud nasal
tones from books in their hands; next came the Canons of the Cathedral in
fine old festal vestments reserved for such occasions and with mitres on
their heads, for Amalfi clings to the ancient ecclesiastical privileges
that were granted in distant days when Florence and Venice were little
more than villages. Last of all walked the Archbishop, an aged tottering
figure, weighed down by his cope of cloth of gold and seemingly crushed
beneath his immense jewelled mitre. Two lackeys, almost as infirm as their
venerable master, and clad in threadbare liveries edged with armorial
braid, were in close attendance, whilst behind the Archbishop, beneath a
gorgeous canopy of state upheld by six white-robed assistants, was borne
the great silver bust of St Andrew. The appearance of the Image of “Il
Divo,” upon which the sunbeams were playing in dazzling coruscations of
light, was greeted with a murmur of applause and satisfaction from the
expectant crowd in the open. Hats were doffed; knees were bent; prayers
were muttered, as with slow and cautious steps the bearers of the Image
and its canopy began to descend. Having gained the lower ground in safety,
a momentary halt was made, during which we were able to note the mass of
votive offerings—jewels, chains, rings, watches, seals—suspended round the
Saint’s neck, amongst them being many silver fishes, doubtless the gifts
of grateful mariners. And at this point we were spectators of a pretty
incident. A little girl with black ringlets and eager eyes was dexterously
lifted on to her father’s shoulder, in order that she might present “Il
Divo” with a golden chain, which the tiny fingers deftly clasped round the
bejewelled neck of the silver bust. The crowd saw and applauded; it was a
moment of triumph for the dark-eyed child, for the Church, and for the
approving throng. With the new addition of the child’s necklet to the
treasury of the Saint, the procession pursued its way through the square
towards the Valley of the Mills, with banners waving, with priests
chaunting in harsh monotonous tones, and with clouds of incense rising
into the sun-kissed air. It was truly a beautiful and curious sight, this
festival of the Church amidst people so devout and surroundings so
appropriate.
[Illustration: AMALFI: PIAZZA AND DUOMO]
On his safe return to his now brilliantly lighted Cathedral, the Saint was
welcomed with indescribable enthusiasm. The crazy old organ was made to
produce the loudest and liveliest of music; the uniformed municipal band
awoke the echoes of the venerable but bedizened fabric with its
complimentary braying; and urchins were even permitted to scatter
fire-crackers upon the floor in honour of the event. It was a real
ecclesiastical Saturnalia of a most innocent and joyous description. All
Amalfi spent the remaining hours of day-light in feasting, dancing and
singing, and when at last darkness fell upon the merry scene, rockets and
Roman candles were seen to spring into the night air from many points in
the landscape, illumining the sea with quickly dying trails of coloured
light. Watching the bonfires and the fireworks, and listening to the
sounds of revelry and song arising from the town below, we pondered over
our experiences of the day as we paced our airy terrace of the Cappuccini.
Surely the South has remained immutable for centuries in its deeply rooted
love of religious festivals. The forefathers of these devotees of Andrew
the Fisherman were equally enthusiastic worshippers of Poseidon or of
Apollo. The Church has not in reality altered the outer attributes; it has
but added a special moral significance to the old pagan gatherings. The
ancient gods of Greece and Rome are dethroned, and their very names
forgotten by the populace; but their cult survives, for it has been
adapted to the glorification of Christian Saints. True it is that the
milk-white sacrificial oxen and the gay garlands of antiquity have been
omitted; nevertheless, there remain the music, the incense and the
unrestrained jollity of the people. Much that is beautiful and suggestive
has perished, yet there survives enough of the old classical ritual for us
to see that the true spirit of antiquity has never wholly died out amongst
these sunburnt children of Magna Graecia.
“See the long stair with colour all ablaze,
With banners swaying in pellucid air,
As mitred priests with cautious footsteps bear
The silver Image, flashing back the rays
Of jealous Phoebus—Ah! the altered days
When these Lucanians with wind-lifted hair,
Blossom-bedecked, with limbs and bosoms bare,
Sang to Apollo psalms of love and praise!
With bells and salvoes all the hills resound,
And incense mingles with the atmosphere,
As still this Southern race, ill-clothed, uncrowned,
Retains the memory of the Pagan year,
When changed, yet all unchanged, Time’s round
Makes the Jew Fisherman a god appear.”