It is the mother church of these parts
and dates from the eighth or ninth century. The frescoes inside
the apse were once fine, but have been repainted and spoiled. The
tower is much later, but is impressive. It was begun in 1524 and
left incomplete in 1527, probably owing to the high price of
provisions which is commemorated in the following words written on
a stone at the top of the tower inside
1527
Furm. [fromento - corn] cost lib. 6.
Segale [barley] lib. 5.
Milio [millet] lib. 4.
I suppose these were something like famine prices; at any rate, a
workman wrote this upon the tower and the tower stopped.
CHAPTER XXV - Fusio
We left Locarno by the conveyance which leaves every day at four
o'clock for Bignasco, a ride of about four hours. The Ponte
Brolla, a couple of miles out of Locarno, is remarkable, and the
road is throughout (as a matter of course) good. I sat next an old
priest, an excellent kindly man, who talked freely with me, and
scolded me roundly for being a Protestant more than once.
He seemed much surprised when I discarded reason as the foundation
of our belief. He had made up his mind that all Protestants based
their convictions upon reason, and was not prepared to hear me go
heartily with him in declaring the foundation of any durable system
to lie in faith. When, however, it came to requiring me to have
faith in what seemed good to him and his friends, rather than to me
and mine, we did not agree so well. He then began to shake death
at me; I met him with a reflection that I have never seen in print,
though it is so obvious that it must have occurred to each one of
my readers. I said that every man is an immortal to himself: he
only dies as far as others are concerned; to himself he cannot, by
any conceivable possibility, do so. For how can he know that he is
dead until he IS dead? And when he IS dead, how can he know that
he is dead? If he does, it is an abuse of terms to say that he is
dead. A man can know no more about the end of his life than he did
about the beginning. The most horrible and loathed death still
resolves itself into being badly frightened, and not a little hurt
towards the end of one's life, but it can never come to being
unbearably hurt for long together. Besides, we are at all times,
even during life, dead and dying to by far the greater part of our
past selves. What we call dying is only dying to the balance, or
residuum. This made the priest angry. He folded his arms and
said, "Basta, basta," nor did he speak to me again. It is because
I noticed the effect it produced upon my fellow-passenger that I
introduce it here.
Bignasco is at the confluence of the two main branches of the
Maggia. The greater part of the river comes down from the glacier
of Basodino, which cannot be seen from Bignasco; I know nothing of
this valley beyond having seen the glacier from the top of the pass
between Fusio and Dalpe. The smaller half of the river comes down
from Fusio, the valley of Sambucco, and the lake of Naret. The
accommodation at Bignasco is quite enough for a bachelor; the
people are good, but the inn is homely. From Bignasco the road
ascends rapidly to Peccia, a village which has suffered terribly
from inundations, and from Peccia it ascends more rapidly still -
Fusio being reached in about three hours from Bignasco. There is
an excellent inn at Fusio kept by Signor Dazio, to whose energy the
admirable mountain road from Peccia is mainly due. On the right
just before he crosses the bridge, the traveller will note the
fresco of the Crucifixion, which I have mentioned at page 140.
Fusio is over 4200 feet above the level of the sea. I do not know
wherein its peculiar charm lies, but it is the best of all the
villages of a kindred character that I know. Below is a sketch of
it as it appears from the cemetery.
There is another good view from behind the village; at sunset this
second view becomes remarkably fine. The houses are in deep cool
shadow, but the mountains behind take the evening sun, and are
sometimes of an incredible splendour. It is fine to watch the
shadows creeping up them, and the colour that remains growing
richer and richer until the whole is extinguished; this view,
however, I am unable to give.
I hold Signor Dazio of Fusio so much as one of my most particular
and valued friends, and I have such special affection for Fusio
itself, that the reader must bear in mind that he is reading an
account given by a partial witness. Nevertheless, all private
preferences apart, I think he will find Fusio a hard place to beat.
At the end of June and in July the flowers are at their best, and
they are more varied and beautiful than anywhere else I know. At
the very end of July and the beginning of August the people cut
their hay, and then for a while the glory of the place is gone, but
by the end of August or the beginning of September the grass has
grown long enough to re-cover the slopes with a velvety verdure,
and though the flowers are shorn, yet so they are from other places
also.
There are many walks in the neighbourhood for those who do not mind
mountain paths.
