If enlivened with
blossoms, with pendent carnations or pelargonium; but there is no great
display of these things; the deficiency of water is a characteristic of
the place; it is a flowerless and songless city. The only good
drinking-water is that which is bottled at the mineral springs of Monte
Vulture and sold cheaply enough all over the country. And the mass of
the country people have small charm of feature. Their faces seem to have
been chopped with a hatchet into masks of sombre virility; a hard life
amid burning limestone deserts is reflected in their countenances.
None the less, they have a public garden; even more immature than that
of Lucera, but testifying to greater taste. Its situation, covering a
forlorn semicircular tract of ground about the old Anjou castle, is a
priori a good one. But when the trees are fully grown, it will be
impossible to see this fine ruin save at quite close quarters - just
across the moat.
I lamented this fact to a solitary gentleman who was strolling about
here and who replied, upon due deliberation:
"One cannot have everything."
Then he added, as a suggestive afterthought:
"Inasmuch as one thing sometimes excludes another."
I pause, to observe parenthetically that this habit of uttering
platitudes in the grand manner as though disclosing an idea of vital
novelty (which Charles Lamb, poor fellow, thought peculiar to natives of
Scotland) is as common among Italians as among Englishmen. But veiled in
sonorous Latinisms, the staleness of such remarks assumes an air of
profundity.
"For my part," he went on, warming to his theme, "I am thoroughly
satisfied. Who will complain of the trees? Only a few makers of bad
pictures. They can go elsewhere. Our country, dear sir, is encrusted,
with old castles and other feudal absurdities, and if I had the
management of things - - "
The sentence was not concluded, for at that moment his hat was blown off
by a violent gust of wind, and flew merrily over beds of flowering
marguerites in the direction of the main street, while he raced after
it, vanishing in a cloud of dust. The chase must have been long and
arduous; he never returned.
Wandering about the upper regions of this fortress whose chambers are
now used as a factory of cement goods and a refuge for some poor
families, I espied a good pre-renaissance relief of Saint Michael and
the dragon immured in the masonry, and overhung by the green leaves of
an exuberant wild fig that has thrust its roots into the sturdy old
walls. Here, at Manfredonia, we are already under the shadow of the holy
mountain and the archangel's wings, but the usual representations of him
are childishly emasculate - the negation of his divine and heroic
character. This one portrays a genuine warrior-angel of the old type:
grave and grim. Beyond this castle and the town-walls, which are best
preserved on the north side, nothing in Manfredonia is older than 1620.
There is a fine campanile, but the cathedral looks like a shed for
disused omnibuses.
Along the streets, little red flags are hanging out of the houses, at
frequent intervals: signals of harbourage for the parched wayfarer.
Within, you behold a picturesque confusion of rude chairs set among
barrels and vats full of dark red wine where, amid Rembrandtesque
surroundings, you can get as drunk as a lord for sixpence. Blithe oases!
It must be delightful, in summer, to while away the sultry hours in
their hospitable twilight; even at this season they seem to be extremely
popular resorts, throwing a new light on those allusions by classical
authors to "thirsty Apulia."
But on many of the dwellings I noticed another symbol: an ominous blue
metal tablet with a red cross, bearing the white-lettered words
"VIGILANZA NOTTURNA."
Was it some anti-burglary association? I enquired of a serious-looking
individual who happened to be passing.
His answer did not help to clear up matters.
"A pure job, signore mio, a pure job! There is a society in Cerignola
or somewhere, a society which persuades the various town
councils - persuades them, you understand - - "
He ended abruptly, with the gesture of paying out money between his
finger and thumb. Then he sadly shook his head.
I sought for more light on this cryptic utterance; in vain. What were
the facts, I persisted? Did certain householders subscribe to keep a
guardian on their premises at night - what had the municipalities to do
with it - was there much house-breaking in Manfredonia, and, if so, had
this association done anything to check it? And for how long had the
institution been established?
But the mystery grew ever darker. After heaving a deep sigh, he
condescended to remark:
"The usual camorra! Eat - eat; from father to son. Eat - eat! That's all
they think about, the brood of assassins. . . . Just look at them!"
I glanced down the street and beheld a venerable gentleman of kindly
aspect who approached slowly, leaning on the arm of a fair-haired
youth - his grandson, I supposed. He wore a long white beard, and an air
of apostolic detachment from the affairs of this world. They came
nearer. The boy was listening, deferentially, to some remark of the
elder; his lips were parted in attention and his candid, sunny face
would have rejoiced the heart of della Robbia. They passed within a few
feet of me, lovingly engrossed in one another.
"Well?" I queried, turning to my informant and anxious to learn what
misdeeds could be laid to the charge of such godlike types of humanity.
But that person was no longer at my side. He had quietly withdrawn
himself, in the interval; he had evanesced, "moved on."
An oracular and elusive citizen.
