After Exactly Six Hours Fabbrizia Was Reached - A Large Place Whose Name,
Like That Of Borgia, Savelli, Carafa And Other Villages On These
Southern Hills, Calls Up Associations Utterly Non-Calabrian; Fabbrizia,
With Pretentious New Church And Fantastically Dirty Side-Streets.
It
lies at the respectable elevation of 900 metres, on the summit of a
monstrous landslide which has disfigured the country.
While ascending along the flank of this deformity I was able to see how
the authorities have attempted to cope with the mischief and arrest
further collapses. This is what they have done. The minute channels of
water, that might contribute to the disintegration of the soil by
running into this gaping wound from the sides or above, have been
artfully diverted from their natural courses; trees and shrubs are
planted at its outskirts in order to uphold the earth at these spots by
their roots - they have been protected by barbed wire from the grazing of
cattle; furthermore, a multitude of wickerwork dykes are thrown across
the accessible portions of the scar, to collect the downward-rushing
material and tempt winged plant-seeds to establish themselves on the
ledges thus formed. To bridle this runaway mountain is no mean task, for
such frane are like rodent ulcers, ever enlarging at the edges. With
the heat, with every shower of rain, with every breath of wind, the
earth crumbles away; there is an eternal trickling, day and night, until
some huge boulder is exposed which crashes down, loosening everything in
its wild career; a single tempest may disrupture what the patience and
ingenuity of years have contrived.
Three more hours or thereabouts will take you to Serra San Bruno along
the backbone of southern Italy, through cultivated lands and pasture and
lonely stretches of bracken, once covered by woodlands.
It may well be that the townlet has grown up around, or rather near, the
far-famed Carthusian monastery. I know nothing of its history save that
it has the reputation of being one of the most bigoted places in
Calabria - a fact of which the sagacious General Manhes availed himself
when he devised his original and effective plan of chastising the
inhabitants for a piece of atrocious conduct on their part. He caused
all the local priests to be arrested and imprisoned; the churches were
closed, and the town placed under what might be called an interdict. The
natives took it quietly at first, but soon the terror of the situation
dawned upon them. No religious marriages, no baptisms, no funerals - the
comforts of heaven refused to living and dead alike. . . . The strain
grew intolerable and, in a panic of remorse, the populace hunted down
their own brigand-relations and handed them over to Manhes, who duly
executed them, one and all. Then the interdict was taken off and the
priests set at liberty; and a certain writer tells us that the people
were so charmed with the General's humane and businesslike methods that
they forthwith christened him "Saint Manhes," a name which, he avers,
has clung to him ever since.
The monastery lies about a mile distant; near at hand is a little
artificial lake and the renowned chapel of Santa Maria. There was a time
when I would have dilated lovingly upon this structure - a time when I
probably knew as much about Carthusian convents as is needful for any of
their inmates; when I studied Tromby's ponderous work and God knows how
many more - ay, and spent two precious weeks of my life in deciphering
certain crabbed MSS. of Tutini in the Brancacciana library - ay, and
tested the spleenful Perrey's "Ragioni del Regio Fisco, etc.," as to the
alleged land-grabbing propensities of this order - ay, and even
pilgrimaged to Rome to consult the present general of the Carthusians
(his predecessor, more likely) as to some administrative detail,
all-important, which has wholly escaped my memory. Gone are those days
of studious gropings into blind alleys! The current of zeal has slowed
down or turned aside, maybe, into other channels. They who wish, will
find a description of the pristine splendour of this monastery in
various books by Pacicchelli; the catastrophe of 1783 was described by
Keppel Craven and reported upon, with illustrations, by the Commission
of the Naples Academy; and if you are of a romantic turn of mind, you
will find a good story of the place, as it looked duringthe ruinous days
of desolation, in Misasi's "Calabrian Tales."
It is now rebuilt on modern lines and not much of the original structure
remains upright. I wandered about the precincts in the company of two
white-robed French monks, endeavouring to reconstruct not the convent as
it was in its younger days, but them. That older one, especially - he
had known the world. . . .
Meat being forbidden, the godly brethren have a contract for fish to be
brought up every day by the post-carriage from the distant Soverato. And
what happens, I asked, when none are caught?
"Eh bien, nous mangeons des macaroni!"
Such a diet would never suit me. Let me retire to a monkery where
carnivorous leanings may be indulged. Methinks I could pray more
cheerfully with the prospect of a rational dejeuner a la fourchette
looming ahead.
At the back of the monastery lies a majestic forest of white
firs - nothing but firs; a unique region, so far as south and central
Italy are concerned. I was there in the golden hour after sunset, and
yet again in the twilight of dew-drenched morning; and it seemed to me
that in this temple not made by hands there dwelt an enchantment more
elemental, and more holy, than in the cloistered aisles hard by. This
assemblage of solemn trees has survived, thanks to rare conditions of
soil and climate. The land lies high; the ground is perennially moist
and intersected by a horde of rills that join their waters to form the
river Ancinale; frequent showers descend from above. Serra San Bruno has
an uncommonly heavy rainfall.
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