SORRENTO AND ITS POET
It has been said of more than one spot on this globe, that it was so
beautiful in summer the marvel was to think any one could die there; and
so wretched in winter, it was a miracle for its inhabitants to survive.
Sorrento may be said to belong to this class of place, for the climate of
its short winter is one of the most trying and inclement that can possibly
be imagined, whilst during spring, summer and early autumn it well merits
its local reputation as _il piccolo paradiso_ of the Bay of Naples, and
its air is considered by Neapolitans as the “balm in Gilead” for every
evil to which human flesh is heir. The Lactarian Mountains protect the
plain of Sorrento in summer from the scorching rays of the sun, and lay
their beneficent shadow for several hours of the long hot summer’s day
over the many thousands who dwell on the fertile Piano di Sorrento at
their base. But in winter these same hills intercept the blessed sunshine,
which is what most travellers speed southwards to obtain, and leave the
coast line from Castellamare to the Punta di Sorrento with its northern
aspect wrapped in shade and moisture, whilst the remainder of the Bay is
still basking in the genial warmth, so that anything more miserable than a
mid-winter sojourn in Sorrento it would be impossible to conceive. There
are of course calm warm days to be met with even in December and January,
but these are occasional and by no means dependable blessings, and the
visitor who persists in taking up his abode here at this season of the
year must prepare himself to experience cold, damp, wind and rain, without
any of the contrivances or comforts of a northern winter. “One swallow
does not make a summer,” and on the same principle a southern latitude and
the presence of orange groves do not necessarily imply a salubrious
climate; indeed, the sub-tropical surroundings seem to add an extra degree
of chilliness to the place. To sit at Christmastide in a large lofty room
before a meagre fire of sputtering smoky logs, with Vesuvius wrapped from
crest to base in a white mantle of new fallen snow, and with an icy
_tramontana_ from the bleak Abruzzi howling round the house, bending the
bay trees and penetrating into every corner of the chamber, is by no means
the ideal picture of a winter in the Sunny South; yet this is only what
the traveller must be prepared to face, and is very likely to obtain. Nor
is the cold compensated for by any advantages in the neighbourhood itself,
for there is but the high road from Castellamare which passes through the
town and leads above the seashore to Massa Lubrense. It is all very well
in its way, but in wet weather its surface is one sheet of slippery mud,
and the streams pouring down the hillside make it chilly and damp for all
who are not quick walkers. Besides this not very attractive and soon
exploited walk, there are only the _vicoletti_, the narrow steep rocky
paths running up hill, which make rough going and give little pleasure,
for they are almost all bounded on either side by high stone walls that
jealously exclude the view. So much for Sorrento in its winter dress. But
when the spring comes, here truly is a transformation from cold and
torpor! The soft warm air is redolent of the penetrating fragrance of
orange blossom, of stocks, of jessamine, of wallflower, and of a hundred
odorous plants and shrubs from each garden and grove behind the many
obstructing walls. The balconies and gate-pillars are draped in scented
masses of the beautiful wistaria, which in Italy produces its long pendant
bunches of purple flowers before putting forth its bronze-coloured leaves.
Cascades of white and yellow banksia roses fall over each confining
barrier, or else their stems may be seen climbing like huge serpents up
the trunks of pine and olive, to burst forth amidst the topmost boughs
into floral rockets against the cloudless sky. The ravines with which the
whole of the Piano di Sorrento is intersected are filled with a perfect
jungle of fresh spring foliage, amidst whose varied tints of green appear
here and there the bright red shoots of the pomegranate trees bursting
into leaf. In the heavily perfumed air at dusk, or when the bright
moonlight is flooding the whole scene and is turning the Bay into a mirror
of molten silver, the song of the innumerable nightingales can be heard
resounding from all sides; alas! too often sweet songs of sorrow for nests
despoiled by the ruthless hands of young Sorrentine imps, as in the days
of the Georgics.
“Qualis populeâ mærens Philomela sub umbrâ
Amissos queritur fetus, quos durus arator
Observans nido implumes detraxit, at illa
Flet noctem, ramoque sedens miserabile carmen
Integrat, et mœstis late loca questibus implet.”
(“At nightfall hear sad Philomel upraise
Her mellow notes amid the dark-leaved bays,
Mourning her babes and desecrated bower,
Which some rough peasant robbed in evil hour;
She tells her story of despair and love,
Until her plaintive music fills the grove.”)
All is fragrant, warm, genial, and peaceful, save for the melancholy notes
of poor ill-used Philomel, who is foolish enough to visit a cruel country,
wherein every bird is merely regarded as a toothsome morsel for the family
pot. We bird-lovers of Britain, with our Selborne Societies and our Wild
Birds’ Protection Acts, find it extremely difficult to understand the
utter indifference displayed by Italians of all classes towards the
feathered race. The whole of the beautiful country with its cypress hedges
and olive groves lies almost mute and lifeless, for on every festival the
fields and lanes are patrolled by bands of _cacciatori_ with dogs and guns
on the look-out for game, if blackbirds and sparrows can be accounted
such. In some districts it is even dangerous for pedestrians to use the
roads on a Sunday, for fear of a stray bullet, since all, as a rule, fire
recklessly at any creature within and out of range. Nor is this senseless
war of extermination carried on merely with guns, for trapping is used
extensively, and very ingenious and elaborate are some of the arts
employed in this wretched quest. Every country house has its _uccellare_,
or snare for the securing of small birds for the table, whilst many of the
parish priests in the mountain districts add to their scanty incomes by
catching the fledglings which the young peasants sell in the neighbouring
market. The result is what might only naturally be expected—a scarcity of
birds and an almost complete absence of song, for the whole countryside
has been practically denuded of blackbirds and thrushes; even the
nightingale has escaped destruction rather on account of its nocturnal
habits than of its tiny size and exquisite notes. It is positively
sickening to observe the quantities of slaughtered wild birds in an
Italian market at any season of the year, for the work of devastation
proceeds apace equally in spring time. Basketfuls of thrushes and
blackbirds, and strings of smaller varieties—linnets, sparrows, robins,
finches, even the diminutive gold-finches, most beautiful, most gay, and
most innocent of all songsters—are being hawked about by leathern-lunged
_contadini_, who, alas! always manage to find customers in plenty. No
matter how melodious, how lovely, or how useful to the farmer a bird may
be, no Italian, high or low, seems to have any sense or appreciation of
its merits except as an article of food; it is merely a thing that
requires to be caught, killed, cooked and eaten, and Providence has
decreed its existence for no other purpose; even gold-finches in the eye
of an Italian look better served on a skewer than when they are flying
round the thistle-heads, uttering their bright musical notes and
enlivening the dead herbage of winter with their gay plumage. _Che bel
arrosto!_ (what a glorious dish!) sigh the romantic peasants, as they
glance upward for a moment from their labour in the fields at the sound of
the larks carolling overhead; and though an educated Italian would
probably not give vent to so vulgar a remark, he would much prefer the
_bel arrosto_ to the “profuse strains of unpremeditated art” that so
entrance the northerner, who is in reality far more of a poet by nature
than the more picturesque dweller of the South. _Tantum pro avibus._
As summer advances, the delight of bathing in the limpid waters of the Bay
is added to the other attractions of Sorrento, whilst many pleasant and
profitable hours can be passed in reading or writing during the long
midday rest in the cool airy carpetless and curtainless rooms, where on
the frescoed ceilings there plays the green shimmer of light that
penetrates through the closed bars of the _persiani_, the outside heavy
wooden shutters that let in the sweet air, but somehow seem to exclude the
intense heat. With the approach of sunset and the throwing open of
casements to catch the westerly breeze, there comes a delightful ramble,
perhaps an excursion on mule-back to the famous convent of the Deserto or
some other point of interest; or else a row upon the glassy waters at our
feet, to explore “Queen Joanna’s Bath,” or some strange caverns beyond the
headland of Sorrento, well known to our boat-men. That is the true life of
_dolce far niente_, but such an ideal existence can only be indulged in
during summer time or in late spring; to pass a winter at Sorrento the
heaviest of clothing, abundance of overcoats and rugs, hot-water bottles,
cough drops, ammoniated quinine and all the usual adjuncts of a northern
yule-tide must be carefully provided before-hand by the traveller, who is
bold enough to tempt Providence by turning what is essentially a warm
weather retreat into a place of winter residence.
In early autumn also the place has its charms, in the days when the market
is filled with stalls heaped with glowing masses of fruit, many of them
unknown to us wanderers from the north. There are peaches that resemble
our own fruit at home, and there are also great yellow flushed velvety
globes, like the sun-kissed cheeks of a fair Sorrentina, that appear
tempting to the eye, but are in reality tough as leather, for they are the
_cotogni_ or quince-peaches of Italy, which to our feeble palates and
digestions seem only fit for cooking, though the experienced native
contrives to make them edible by soaking the fruit in wine. The moment he
sits down to table, he carefully pares his _cotogne_ and cuts it into
sections, which he drops into a glass of red wine where they repose until
the meal is finished; by this time the fruit has become thoroughly
saturated, and it is then eaten with apparent relish. There are hundreds
of apples, some of a shining rich crimson and others of dull yellow
peppered over with tiny black specks, the _renati_, highly prized by the
natives for their delicate flavour and soft flesh. There are of course
loads of grapes, varying from the little honey-tasting purple sort, that
has been introduced from California, to the huge but somewhat insipid
bunches of the white _Regina_; we note also the quaintly shaped “Ladies’
Fingers,” which are especially sweet. The figs, massed together in serried
layers between fresh vine leaves and costing a _soldo_ the dozen, stand
around in glossy purple pyramids, so luscious that their sugary tears are
exuding from their skins, and so ripe that they seem to cry to be eaten
before noon. Here is a barrow piled high with the little green fruit, each
separate fig being decorated with a pink cyclamen stuck in its crest; and
here is a smaller load of the black _Vescovo_, which is said to obtain its
ecclesiastical name from the fact that the parent stock of this highly
esteemed variety originally flourished in the bishop’s garden at Sorrento.
No one who has not visited the shores of the Mediterranean in September or
early October can realize the luscious possibilities of the fig; for there
seems nothing in common between the freshly-picked fruit of the south,
bursting its skin with liquid sugar, and the dry sweetish woolly object
which tries to ripen on the sheltered wall of an English garden and is
eaten with apparent gusto by those who know not its Italian brother. Being
autumn, we have missed one prominent feature of the fruit market, the
great green-skinned water-melons (_poponi_) with their rose-coloured pulp
and masses of coal-black seeds, which form the favourite summer fruit of
the people, who find both food and drink in their cool nutritious flesh.
But even gayer and more striking than the fruits are the piles of
vegetables, arranged with a fine appreciation of colour to which only an
Italian eye can aspire. Carrots, turnips, tomatoes, purple-headed
cauliflowers, all the broccoli and many others to be observed are old
familiar friends, but who in England ever saw such gorgeous objects on a
coster’s stall or in a green-grocer’s shop as the yellow, scarlet and
shining green pods of the _peperoni_, or the banana-shaped egg-plants of
iridescent purple, or the split pumpkins, revealing caverns of
saffron-hued pulp within? Truly, the Sorrentine market contains a feast of
colour to satisfy the craving of an artist!
At vintage time the whole Piano di Sorrento reeks with the vinous scent of
the spilt juice, that is carelessly thrown on to the stone-paved roads by
the jolting of the country carts which bring in the great wooden tubs, so
that the very streets seem to run with the crimson ooze. Slender youths in
yet more slender clothing, with legs purple-stained from treading the
grapes (for in the South wine is still made on the primitive plan), are to
be met with on all sides, playing at their favourite game of bowls on the
public road, in order to relieve their brains of the pungent fumes of the
fermenting grape juice. Somehow at the very thought of a Campanian vintage
with its long hot dusty days, its bare-legged brown-skinned peasants
treading the pulp, and its all-pervading aroma of wine-lees, there rise to
memory the truly inspired lines of John Keats:
“O for a draught of vintage, that hath been
Cool’d a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country-green,
Dance, and Provençal song, and sun-burnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stained mouth.”
But all these joys of odorous gardens made musical by nightingales, of
morning plunges into the blue Mediterranean, of the wealth of southern
fruit and the novel delights of the vintage are not for the winter
traveller, who had far better spend the December or January days of his
visit to the Bay in a steam-heated Neapolitan hotel, rather than face the
cold and wet in a Sorrentine inn on its overhanging cliff. Nevertheless
the warm autumn often extends itself into a continuous St Martin’s summer,
that lasts almost until the New Year, before skies grow clouded and the
snow-flakes descend upon the vineyards and the lava streams of Vesuvius.
Nothing can be pleasanter in fact than some of the long walks in a sharp
exhilarating air, and though days are short and nights are often chilly,
one can sometimes linger on comfortably in Sorrento, though it is as well
to be prepared for departure in case of a sudden spell of stormy weather,
for winter sunshine is a necessity, not a luxury, on the Piano di
Sorrento.
[Illustration: AFTERNOON, SORRENTO]
Unlike other towns upon the Bay of Naples, Sorrento is divided into two
distinct portions; the city on the cliffs, with its streets and squares,
its cathedral and ancient walls, its villas and gay gardens; and the
Marina, lying at the mouth of the gorge below, close to the water’s edge.
The population of Upper Sorrento is agricultural and labouring, whilst
that of the lower consists entirely of fisher-folk and sailors; it is
needless to add that the latter are far less prosperous than their
fellow-citizens who live over-head. Until recent times little
communication between these two sets of Sorrentines took place and
intermarriages were rare, for the sea-faring population only ascended to
the town above and intermingled with the people of Upper Sorrento on the
great occasions of local festivals, such as the enthronement or funeral of
a bishop. Nor has the levelling spirit of the age as yet broken down the
deep-rooted feeling of local clannishness; although it cannot be long
before time-honoured customs and prejudices will be swept away in the
tidal wave of modern development. One of the chief industries of the place
is the manufacture of scarves and sashes of rich silk woven in cross bars
of strong contrasting colours, so that the Sorrentine silk work strongly
resembles the well-known Roman variety. Equally popular with visitors are
the various articles made of olive wood and decorated in _tarsia_, the art
of inlaying with pieces of stained wood, which is a speciality of the
place. There are two kinds of this Sorrentine inlaid work; one consisting
of figures of peasants dancing the _tarantella_, of Pompeian maidens in
classical drapery, of _contadini_ or priests bestriding mules, and of
similar local subjects; and the other, of fanciful patterns made up of
tiny coloured cubes of wood, much in the style of the old Roman stone
mosaics. The designs employed vary of course with the fashion of the day,
for there is a local school of art supported by the municipality, which
professes to improve the tastes of the _tarsiatori_, but most persons will
certainly prefer the trite but characteristic patterns of the place.
But the main industry of Sorrento consists in the culture of the orange;
and the dark groves, covered with their globes of shining yellow fruit,
“like golden lamps in a green light,” to quote Andrew Marvell’s charming
conceit, constitute the chief feature of its environs. Even the
coat-of-arms of the medieval city, showing a golden crown encircled by a
wreath of the dark glossy leaves, attests the antiquity of this industry
here. The cultivation of the orange in Southern Italy is by no means an
easy pursuit, though under favourable conditions it may prove a very
lucrative one, even in a spot so subject to sudden changes of temperature
as Sorrento in winter time, when a continuance of severe weather, like
that experienced around Naples in the opening months of the year 1905,
means total destruction of the fruit crop and temporary ruin to the
owners.
The fruit of commerce is propagated by means of grafting the sweet variety
on to the stock of the bitter orange—said on doubtful authority to be
indigenous to this district—which is fairly hardy and can be grown in the
open as far north as Tuscany, so that every _aranciaria_ ought to possess
a nursery of flourishing young sweet-orange shoots, ready in case of
necessity. For eight long years the grafted tree remains as a rule
profitless, but having survived and thriven so long, it then becomes a
valuable asset to its proprietor for an indefinite period;—as a proof of
the longevity of the orange under normal conditions we may cite the famous
tree in a Roman convent garden, which on good authority is stated to have
been planted by St Dominic nearly six hundred years ago. As to the amount
of fruit yielded, the growers of Sorrento commonly aver that one good
year, one bad year and one mediocre year constitute the general cycle in
the prospects of orange farming. Two crops are gathered annually, the
principle one in December and the other at Eastertide, the fruit produced
by the later and smaller crop being far finer in size and flavour than
those of the Christmas harvest. Mandarin oranges are gathered on both
occasions, but the large luscious loose-skinned fruit of March and
April—_Portogalli_ as they are commonly termed—are far superior to the
small hard specimens that appear in December, and seem to consist of
little else than rind, scent and seeds. The oranges begin to form in
spring time, almost before the petals have fallen, when the peasants
anxiously draw their conclusions as to the expected yield. But however
valuable the fruit, the wood of the tree is worthless for commerce, except
to make walking-sticks, or to serve the ignoble purpose of supplying
hotels and cafés with tooth-picks! Lemons, which are far more delicate
than oranges and require to be kept protected by screens and matting
during the sharp winter nights, are less common at Sorrento than on the
warmer shores of the Bay of Baia or the sunny terraced slopes of the
Amalfitan coast.
With the ripening of the oranges on the trees appear those strange
creatures from the wilds of the Basilicata or Calabria, the _Zampognari_,
who visit Naples and the surrounding district in considerable numbers.
They usually arrive about the date of the great popular festival of the
Immaculate Conception (December 8th) and remain until the end of the
month, when they return to their homes with well-filled purses. In outward
aspect these strangers resemble the stage-brigands that appear in such
old-fashioned operas as _Fra Diavolo_, for they wear steeple-crowned hats
with coloured ribands depending, shaggy goat-skin trousers, crimson velvet
waistcoats, blue cloaks, sandalled feet and gartered legs. Their pale
faces are unshorn, and their hair hangs in great tawny masses over neck
and ears, which are invariably adorned with golden rings. These fellows
come in pairs, one only, properly speaking, being the _zampognaro_, for it
is he who carries the _zampogna_ or classical bag-pipe of Southern Italy,
whilst his companion is the _cennamellaro_, so called from his
ear-splitting instrument, the _cennamella_, a species of primitive flute.
The _zampogna_ may be described as first cousin to the historic bag-pipes
of Caledonia, for the sounds emitted strongly resemble the traditional
“skirling” of the pipes; but no Scotchman even could pretend to delight in
the shrill notes of the _cennamella_. The former at least of these two
popular instruments of southern Italy was well known to the omniscient
author of the Shakespearean plays, for in _Othello_ we have a direct
allusion to the uncouth braying music still made to-day by these
outlandish musicians.
“Why, masters, have your instruments been in Naples, that they speak i’
the nose thus?... Are these, I pray you, wind instruments?... Then put up
your pipes in your bag, for I’ll away: go; vanish into air; away!”
In the midst of their instrumental duet the two shaggy mountaineers are
apt to break into a harsh nasal hymn in honour of the Virgin, to visit
whose shrines at this season of the orange harvest is the main object of
their Christmas migration to the Neapolitan shores. Very tastefully
decorated are many of the Madonna’s little sanctuaries in or near the
orange groves, when the arrival of the _zampognari_ is considered
imminent. The tiny lamps are well trimmed and shine brightly, whilst heavy
garlands composed of masses of bay or laurel or ilex leaves, interspersed
with some of the golden clusters of the ripening fruit are suspended round
the alcove that holds the figure of the Virgin. This effective but simple
form of ornamentation will at once suggest the beautiful glazed and
coloured terra-cotta wreaths of fruit and foliage that are to be seen so
frequently in Tuscan churches; indeed, it is possible that the members of
the Della Robbia family may have originally borrowed the decorative
schemes for their famous plaques and lunettes from the rustic shrines thus
simply but tastefully embellished. Nominally, the two performers are
supposed to sing and make music on nine different days at the houses of
all their patrons in order to make up the total number of the _novena_,
but the extent of their performances is generally calculated in accordance
with the depth of the householder’s purse, the sum given for their
services varying from a few _soldi_ to a five _lire_ note. All classes of
society employ the zampognari, for it is with the first appearance of the
lovely golden fruit, essentially _the_ winter fruit of the Italians, that
the arrival of these picturesque strangers has been associated from time
immemorial. The _zampognari_ are in fact as much of a national institution
with the Neapolitans at Christmastide as are the waits or carol-singers in
our own country, so that to the majority of these people _Natale senza
zampogna e cennamella_ would seem no true Christmas at all.
Closely connected with the life of the people of the Piano di Sorrento is
the famous dance known as the _Tarantella_, which may be witnessed by the
curious at almost any time—for money. Even when performed by professional
dancers, tricked out in spick and span stage-peasant finery, the
Tarantella is a most graceful exhibition of movement, although the dance
naturally gains in interest when it takes place in the days of vintage or
on the popular festivals of the Church, without the presence of
largesse-giving strangers. The origin of the name has always puzzled
antiquarians, although in all probability the dance derives its curious
appellation from the Greek city of Taranto, whence the Tarentines
introduced its steps and action into other parts of Italy. But vulgar
belief is very strong, so that this graceful dance is still closely
associated in the popular mind with the _tarantula_, a kind of poisonous
spider found in the neighbourhood of Taranto, the effects of whose bite
are said to yield to violent exercise followed by profuse perspiration. In
order to excite the proper amount of exertion necessary for the cure, the
person afflicted, _il tarantolato_, is induced to leap and caper by the
sound of music, with the result that there exist a number of tunes
specially connected with this wild species of dancing. The real
explanation of this fable seems to lie in the extremely excitable nature
of the Tarentines themselves, assisted by the exhilarating music and by
frequent pulls at the wine barrel. The two lines sung to the air of one of
the tunes employed:
“Non fu Taranta, ne fu Tarantella,
Ma fu la vino della carratella:”
(“It was neither the taranta, nor the tarantella, but it was the
wine from the cask.”)
sums up pretty accurately the real cause of these strange Tarentine
orgies, which have really nothing whatever in common with the rhythmical
dance that is still so popular in the environs of Naples. Nevertheless the
theory of _tarantella_ and _tarantismo_ has been gravely discussed by old
Italian writers, and a certain learned prelate of the fifteenth century,
Niccolo Perotto, Archbishop of Siponto, alludes to the malignant cause of
this dance-cure as “a species of speckled spider, dwelling in rents of the
ground caused by excessive heat. It was not known in the time of our
fore-fathers, but now it is very common in Apulia ... and is generally
called _Tarantula_. Its bite seldom kills a man, yet it makes him half
stupid, and affects him in a variety of ways. Some, when a song or tune is
heard, are so excited that they dance, full of joy and always laughing,
and do not stop till they are entirely exhausted; others spend a miserable
life in tears, as if bewailing the loss of friends. Some die laughing, and
others in tears.”
Such is the curious legend concerning the origin of the Tarantella, which
is still danced with something of the old spirit by the holiday-making
crowds of Naples, though it is at the _festa_ of San Michele, the patron
of Procida, that the Tarantella can now be seen to best advantage. Of the
three islands that lie close to Naples, Procida is the least known or
visited by strangers, so that when the Tarantella is danced by the
Procidani, the old-fashioned popular orchestra is employed to give the
necessary music. This consists of five quaint instruments (obviously of
Oriental origin as their counterparts can still be seen amongst the
Kabyles of Northern Africa): the first being a fife (_siscariello_); the
second a tin globe covered with skin pierced by a piece of cane
(_puti-puti_); the third a wooden saw and a split stick, making a
primitive bow and fiddle (_scetavaiasse_); the fourth an arrangement of
three wooden mallets, that are rattled together like a gigantic pair of
bones (_tricca-ballache_); and the fifth a Jew’s harp
(_scaccia-pensieri_). A tarantella danced to the accompaniment of so weird
a medley of instruments and by real peasants full of gaiety is naturally a
thing altogether diverse from the stilted, though graceful and decorous
performance that can be observed any day for payment in a Sorrentine or
Neapolitan hotel; yet it must ever be borne in mind that the Tarantella
proper, whether danced _con amore_ by Procidan peasants or performed for
lucre by costumed professionals, is no vulgar frenzied _can-can_, but a
musical love-dance expressive of primitive courtship.
“The Tarantella is a choregraphic love-story, the two dancers representing
an enamoured swain and his mistress. It is the old theme—‘the quarrel of
lovers is the renewal of love.’ Enraptured gaze, coy side-look, gallant
advance, timid retrocession, impassioned declaration, supercilious
rejection, piteous supplication, softening hesitation; worldly goods
oblation, gracious acceptation; frantic jubilation, maidenly resignation.
Petting, wooing, billing, cooing. Jealous accusation, sharp recrimination,
manly expostulation, shrewish aggravation; angry threat, summary
dismissal. Fuming on one side, pouting on the other. Reaction,
approximation, exclamation, exoneration, reconciliation, osculation,
winding up with a grand _pas de circomstance_, expressive of confidence
re-established and joy unbounded. That’s about the figure of it; but no
word-painting can give an idea of the spirit, the ‘go’ of the tarantella
when danced for love and not for money.”(9)
On a modest scale Sorrento can lay claim to be called an eternal city, for
the Surrentum of the ancient Romans was a place of no small importance,
filled with villas of wealthy citizens and boasting a fair-sized
population, as its numerous remains of antiquity can easily testify;
whilst its crumbling ivy-clad walls and towers point to its prosperity
during the Middle Ages, when Sorrento shared the political fortunes of
Naples. It is now a busy thriving little cathedral town, and the possessor
of silk and _tarsia_ work industries, so that like Imperial Rome it can
boast a continuous existence as a city from remote times to the present
day. Its chief local Saint—for what Italian town does not boast a special
patron?—is Sant’ Antonio, whose most famous feat is said to have been the
administering of a severe drubbing to Sicardo, Duke of Benevento, for
daring to interfere with the liberties of his city in the ninth century.
It would appear from the legend that all arguments as to ancient rights,
the quality of mercy and the honour of keeping faith having been vainly
exhausted upon the cruel and obstinate prince, Bishop Antonio came forward
with a stout cudgel and belaboured the tyrant in order to obtain a
favourable answer to the people’s petition. The sanctity of the pugnacious
prelate and the force of this _argumentum ad baculum_ were evidently too
much for the Duke of Benevento, who at once conceded the popular demands,
whilst Antonio’s name has deservedly descended to posterity as the capable
protector of his native city.
* * * * * *
But the name which above all others Sorrento will cherish as her own, “so
long as men shall read and eyes can see,” is that of the famous Italian
poet, Torquato Tasso, whose interesting but melancholy life-story is
closely associated with this, the town of his birth. Tasso is reckoned as
the fourth greatest bard of Italy, ranking after Dante and Petrarch, and
being esteemed on a level with rather than below his rival and
contemporary, Ludovico Ariosto. In one sense however he may be described
as the most truly national poet of this immortal quartet, for his career
is connected with his native country as a whole, rather than with any one
of the little cities or states then comprising that “geographical
expression” which is now the Kingdom of Italy. His father’s family was of
Lombard origin, having been long settled in the neighbourhood of Bergamo,
where a crumbling hill-set fortress known as the Montagno del Tasso still
recalls the name of the poet’s ancestors. His mother, Porzia de’ Rossi,
was Tuscan by birth, her family haling from Pistoja at the foot of the
Apennines, but owning property near Naples; whilst the poet himself was
destined to spend his years of childhood at Sorrento and at Naples, his
youth at Rome and Verona, his brilliant period of fame and prosperity at
Ferrara and the Lombard courts, and again some of his closing years of
disgrace and disappointment amidst the familiar scenes of his infancy. Of
good ancient stock the Tassi owed their acquisition of wealth to the
re-establishment of the system of posting throughout Northern Italy in the
thirteenth century, when the immediate progenitor of the poet, one Omodeo
de’ Tassi, was nominated comptroller, and it is curious to note that owing
to this circumstance the arms of the family containing the posthorn and
the badger’s skin—_Tasso_ is the Italian for badger—continued to be borne
for many centuries upon the harness of all Lombard coach-horses.
Torquato’s father, Bernardo Tasso, himself a poet of no mean calibre and
the composer of a scholarly but somewhat prolix work, the _Amadigi_,
formed for many years a prominent member of that brilliant band of
literary courtiers within the castle of Vittoria Colonna, the Lady of
Ischia, of whom we shall speak more fully in another place. But for the
overwhelming and all-eclipsing fame of his distinguished son, Bernardo
might have been able to claim a high place in the list of Italian writers
of the Renaissance; as it was, the father’s undoubted talents were quickly
forgotten in the blaze of his own beloved “Tassino’s” popularity, so that
he is now chiefly remembered as the sire of a poetic genius, as one of the
great Vittoria’s favourite satellites and as the author of an oft-quoted
sonnet to his intellectual mistress. Bernardo Tasso did not marry until
the somewhat mature age of forty-seven, when, as we have already said, he
espoused the daughter of the Tuscan house of Rossi, by whom he had two
children; a daughter, Cornelia, and the immortal Torquato, who was born in
1544, three years before the death of the divine poetess of Ischia.
But Bernardo was not merely a bard and a courtier, for he was also,
unfortunately for himself and his ill-fated family, a keen politician in
an age when politics offered anything but a safe pursuit, and as his views
invariably coincided with those of his chief friend and patron, the head
of the powerful Sanseverino family, Tasso the Elder found himself in
course of time an exile from Neapolitan territory on account of his
dislike of the new Spanish masters of Naples. The poet-politician
therefore took up his abode at Rome, whilst his wife and two young
children continued to reside at Naples and Sorrento. The boy was a born
student, almost an infant prodigy of learning, and so great was his desire
for knowledge that he would insist upon rising long before it was
day-light, and would even make his way to school through the dark dirty
streets of Naples, conducted by a servant with a torch in his hand. The
Jesuits, who had just set up their first academy at Naples, soon
discovered in the future poet an ideal pupil, and not only did they impart
to the child all the lore of ancient Greece and Rome, but they also imbued
his mind, at an age when it was “wax to receive and marble to retain,”
with their own peculiar theological tenets. It is obvious indeed that the
faith implanted by the Fathers in his tender years was largely, if not
wholly answerable for the unswerving belief and firm religious convictions
that ever stood Tasso in good stead throughout the whole of his chequered
career. “Give me a child of seven years old,” had once declared the great
Founder of the Society of Jesus, “and I care not who has the
after-handling of him”; and in this case the Jesuit professors did not
fail to carry out Loyola’s precept. But his home life with his mother,
whom he loved devotedly, and his course of study at the Jesuit school were
suddenly interrupted when he was barely ten years of age, for the elder
Tasso was anxious for his little son to join him in Rome, there to be
educated under his own eye. The boy left his mother, but after his
departure the Rossi family brutally refused to allow their sister access
to her absent husband, who had lately been declared a rebel against the
Spanish government and deprived of his estates. Thus persecuted by her
unfeeling brothers, Porzia Tasso sought refuge together with Cornelia in a
Neapolitan convent, where, deprived of her erratic but beloved husband and
pining for her absent son, the poor woman died of a broken heart a year or
two later. As for Cornelia, she became affianced when of a marriageable
age to a gentleman of Sorrento, the Cavaliere Marzio Sersale, and
consequently returned to live in the home of her childhood.
Of Tasso’s many adventures, of his universal literary fame, of the honours
heaped upon him by his chief patron, Duke Alfonso of Ferrara, and of his
subsequent disgrace and imprisonment for daring to lift his eyes in love
to a princess of the haughty House of Este, we have no space to speak
here. Let it suffice to say that he was one of the most charming,
virtuous, brilliant, manly figures, as he was also almost the last true
representative, of the great Italian Renaissance, the end of which may be
described as coinciding with his decease. According to his biographer
Manso, the author of the _Gerusalemme Liberata_ was singularly noble and
refined in appearance, though always possessed of an air of melancholy; he
was well-built, strong, active and resourceful, anything in fact but a
carpet-knight who spent his days in writing verse and dallying with
Italian court beauties:
“Colla penna e colla spada,
Nessun val quanto Torquato;”
sang the populace of Ferrara in honour of their illustrious Sorrentine
guest, for the Ferrarese delighted in the handsome stranger who could in
an emergency wield the sword as skilfully as he could ply his quill. Twice
only however did Tasso revisit the city of his birth, and each return home
was occasioned by deep tragedy. In 1577, wounded by the attacks of his
literary rivals and humiliated by the Duke Alfonso’s discovery of his
infatuation for the Princess Leonora d’Este, the unhappy poet travelled
southward, reaching Sorrento in the disguise of a shepherd. Making his way
to the Casa Sersale, the house of his sister, now a widow with two sons,
Torquato passed himself off as his own messenger, and so eloquently did he
relate the story of his own grief and wrongs, that the tender-hearted
Cornelia fainted away at this recital. Having satisfied his mind as to his
sister’s genuine affection, the pseudo-shepherd now revealed his true
character, whereupon the pair embraced with transports of joy, though it
was deemed prudent not to acquaint their friends with the arrival of
Torquato, who was represented to the good people of Sorrento as a distant
relative from Bergamo. Cornelia Sersale now entreated the poet to take up
his abode permanently in her house, and to forget the rebuffs of the cruel
world without in the enjoyment of family ties and affections; and well
would it have been for Torquato, had he accepted his sister’s advice and
passed the succeeding years in simple rural pleasures. But restless and
inconsequent despite all his virtues, the poet must needs return to
Ferrara to bask in the presence of his beloved Leonora, with the dire and
undignified result that all the world knows. Tasso’s second visit took
place not long before his death, when his strength was rapidly failing, so
that it seems strange that he did not decide to end his days amidst these
lovely and well-remembered scenes of his early boyhood, instead of
deliberately choosing for the last stage of his earthly journey the Roman
convent of Sant’ Onofrio, where the death-chamber and various pathetic
relics of the poet are still pointed out.
Students of Tasso’s immortal epic are apt to overlook the immense
influence exercised on its author by his early Sorrentine days and
surroundings. The _Gerusalemme Liberata_ contains, as we know, a full
account of the First Crusade and constitutes an apotheosis of Godfrey de
Bouillon, first Christian King of Jerusalem; but it is also something more
than a mere poetical description of a departed age of chivalry. For there
can be little doubt that the poet aspired to be the singer of a new
movement which should wrest back the Holy City from the clutches of the
Saracens, and set a second Godfrey upon the vacant throne of Palestine. To
this important end the experiences of his infancy and his training by the
Jesuits had undoubtedly tended to urge the precocious young poet. The
servants of his father’s house at Sorrento must many a time have regaled
his eager boyish mind with harrowing tales of the infidel pirates who
scoured the Tyrrhene Sea within sight of the watch-towers on the coast;
within ken, perchance, of Casa Tasso itself, perched on the commanding
cliff above the waters. Scarcely a family dwelling on the Marina below but
was mourning one or more of its members that had been seized by the
blood-thirsty marauders, perhaps to be brutally slain on the spot or to
languish in the dungeons of Tripoli and Smyrna, eking out a life of
slavery that was far worse than death itself. Stories of tortured
Christians, like that of the pious Geronimo of Algiers who was tied with
cords and flung into a mass of soft concrete, were common enough topics
among the Sorrentine folk, all of whom lived in constant dread of a
successful raid by the Barbary pirates. For, despite the efforts of the
great Emperor Charles the Fifth to protect his maritime subjects, the
swift galleys of Tunis and Tripoli out-stripped the Imperial men-of-war,
and continued to carry on their vile commerce of slavery. Such a state of
terrorism must have appeared intolerable to the highly romantic, deeply
religious spirit of the young poet; and his Jesuit preceptors, working on
the boy’s imagination, were soon able to instil into his youthful brain
the notion of a new Crusade which would not only sweep the infidel ships
from off the Italian seas, but would also recapture the Holy City itself.
The Church, beginning at last to recover from the effects of Luther’s
schism, was once more in a position to re-assert its ancient authority
over Catholic Christendom, and in Torquato Tasso it found an able
trumpeter to call together the scattered forces of the Faithful, and to
reunite them in a holy war. Astonished and delighted, all Italy was swept
by the golden torrent of Tasso’s impassioned verses, that were intended to
urge the Catholic princes of Europe to the inauguration of a new Crusade.
Nor were the times unpropitious for such an event. Tunis, that hot-bed of
infidelity, piracy and iniquity, was in the hands of the Christians; and
the fleets of the Soldan had been well-nigh annihilated by Don John of
Austria at the glorious battle of Lepanto:—to convince a doubting and
hesitating world that the actual moment had come wherein to recover the
city of Jerusalem was the main object of the author of the _Gerusalemme
Liberata_. And it was his infancy spent upon this smiling but
pirate-harassed coast that was chiefly responsible for this desired end in
the epic of the Crusades; it was Tasso’s early acquaintance with the Bay
of Naples, combined with his special training by the Jesuits, that forced
the poet’s genius and ambition into this particular channel.
It is pleasant to think that Sorrento is still appreciative of its honour
as the birth-place of the great Italian poet. The citizens have erected a
statue of marble in one of their open spaces; they have called street,
hotel and _trattoria_ by his illustrious name; and can the modern spirit
of grateful acknowledgment go further than this? His father’s house has
perished, it is true, through “Nature’s changing force untrimmed,” for the
greedy waves have undermined and swallowed up the tufa cliff which once
supported the old Tasso villa. But there is still standing in Strada di
San Nicola the old Sersale mansion, wherein the good Cornelia received her
long-lost brother in his peasant’s guise, an unhappy exile from haughty
Ferrara. Of more interest however than the old town house of the Sersale
family is the ancient farm, known as the Vigna Sersale, which once
belonged to Donna Cornelia, and supplied her household with wine and oil.
It is a lovely sequestered spot lying on the breezy hill-side not far down
the Massa road, facing towards Capri and the sunset. Hallowed by its
historic connection with the poet and his devoted sister, the Vigna
Sersale can claim perhaps to be one of the most interesting and beautiful
places of literary pilgrimage upon earth. Ascending by the steep pathway
that leads upward from the broad high road, it is not long before we reach
the old _podere_, amidst whose olive groves and vineyards the poet was
wont to sit dreamily gazing at the glorious view before him. Here are the
same ancient spreading stone-pines, the same gnarled olive trees that
sheltered the gentle love-lorn poet, whilst Cornelia and her sons sate
beside him in the shade, endeavouring—alas! only too vainly—by their
caresses to detain the roving Torquato in their midst. Could not, we ask
ourselves, the erratic poet have been content to remain in this spot, “in
questa terra alma e felice” as he himself styles it, instead of plunging
once more into the dangers and dissipation of that Vanity Fair of distant
Ferrara? Why could he not have brooded over his ill-starred infatuation
for the high-born Leonora in this soothing corner of the earth, allowing
its quiet and beauty to sink into his soul, until the recollection of his
Innamorata declined gradually into a fragrant memory that could be
embalmed in never-dying verse? But like his own favourite hero, the
Christian King of Jerusalem, the poet must in his inmost heart have
preferred a changing storm-tossed life to the ideal existence of rustic
ease; and had he not returned to the treacherous splendours of Alfonso’s
court, how much less entrancing would his own life-story have appeared to
after ages! Unconsciously he seems to have composed his own epitaph in
describing Godfrey’s death; for the crusading king lived and died like a
true Christian knight, for whom the world has afforded many adventures,
and but few intervals of peace until the final call to endless rest.
“Vivesti qual guerrier cristiano e santo,
E come bel sei morto: ei godi, e pasci
In Dio gli occhi bramosi, o felice alma,
Ed hai del ben oprar corona e palma.”