One wonders what more was fermenting in that restlessly
curious brain, when a miserable accident ended his short life, after 120
days of suffering.
So Italy proved fatal to him, as Greece to his father. But one of his
happiest moments must have been spent on the sea at Bivona, on that
clear summer day - a day such as this, when every nerve tingles with joy
of life.
Meanwhile it is good to rest here, immovable but alert, in the
breathless hush of noon. Showers of benevolent heat stream down upon
this desolation; not the faintest wisp of vapour floats upon the
horizon; not a sail, not a ripple, disquiets the waters. The silence can
be felt. Slumber is brooding over the things of earth:
Asleep are the peaks of the hills, and the vales,
The promontories, the clefts,
And all the creatures that move upon the black earth. . . .
Such torrid splendour, drenching a land of austerut simplicity,
decomposes the mind into corresponding states of primal contentment and
resilience. There arises before our phantasy a new perspective of human
affairs; a suggestion of well-being wherein the futile complexities and
disharmonies of our age shall have no place. To discard these wrappings,
to claim kinship with some elemental and robust archetype, lover of
earth and sun - -
How fair they are, these moments of golden equipoise!
Yes; it is good to be merged awhile into these harshly-vibrant
surroundings, into the meridian glow of all things. This noontide is the
"heavy" hour of the Greeks, when temples are untrodden by priest or
worshipper. Controra they now call it - the ominous hour. Man and
beast are fettered in sleep, while spirits walk abroad, as at midnight.
Non timebis a timore noctuno: a sagitta volante in aie: a negotio
perambulante in tenebris: ab incursu et demonio meridiano. The midday
demon - that southern Haunter of calm blue spaces. . . .
So may some enchantment of kindlier intent have crept over Phaedrus and
his friend, at converse in the noontide under the whispering plane-tree.
And the genius dwelling about this old headland of the Column is candid
and benign.
This corner of Magna Graecia is a severely parsimonious manifestation of
nature. Rocks and waters! But these rocks and waters are actualities;
the stuff whereof man is made. A landscape so luminous, so resolutely
scornful of accessories, hints at brave and simple forms of expression;
it brings us to the ground, where we belong; it medicines to the disease
of introspection and stimulates a capacity which we are in danger of
unlearning amid our morbid hyperborean gloom - the capacity for honest
contempt: contempt of that scarecrow of a theory which would have us
neglect what is earthly, tangible. What is life well lived but a blithe
discarding of primordial husks, of those comfortable intangibilities
that lurk about us, waiting for our weak moments?
The sage, that perfect savage, will be the last to withdraw himself from
the influence of these radiant realities. He will strive to knit closer
the bond, and to devise a more durable and affectionate relationship
between himself and them. Let him open his eyes. For a reasonable
adjustment lies at his feet. From these brown stones that seam the
tranquil Ionian, from this gracious solitude, he can carve out, and bear
away into the cheerful din of cities, the rudiments of something clean
and veracious and wholly terrestrial - some tonic philosophy that shall
foster sunny mischiefs and farewell regret.
*** END OF OLD CALABRIA by Norman Douglas ***
