She had said that
she could procure it for me, not that she possessed it; now, since I had
given no orders to that effect, she had not troubled about it.
Nobody travels south of Rome. . . .
Strengthened beyond expectation by this repast, I sallied into the night
once more, and first of all attended an excellent performance at the
local cinematograph. After that, I was invited to a cup of coffee by
certain burghers, and we strolled about the piazza awhile, taking our
pleasure in the cool air of evening (the town lies 794 metres above
sea-level). Its streets are orderly and clean; there are no Albanians,
and no costumes of any kind. Here, firm-planted on the square, and
jutting at an angle from the body of the church, stands a massive
bell-tower overgrown from head to foot with pendent weeds and grasses
whose roots have found a home in the interstices of its masonry; a
grimly venerable pile, full of character.
Weary but not yet satiated, I took leave of the citizens and
perambulated the more ignoble quarters, all of which are decently
lighted with electricity. Everywhere in these stiller regions was the
sound of running waters, and I soon discerned that Longobucco is an
improvement on the usual site affected by Calabrian hill-towns - the
Y-shaped enclosure, namely, at the junction of two rivers - inasmuch as
it has contrived to perch itself on a lofty platform protected by no
less than three streams that rush impetuously under its walls: the
Trionto and two of its affluents. On the flank inclined towards the
Ionian there is a veritable chasm; the Trionto side is equally difficult
of approach - the rear, of course, inaccessible. No wonder the brigands
chose it for their chief citadel.
I am always on the look-out for modern epigraphical curiosities;
regarding the subject as one of profound social significance (postage
stamps, indeed!) I have assiduously formed a collection, the envy of
connaisseurs, about one-third of whose material, they tell me, might
possibly be printed at Brussels or Geneva. Well, here is a mural
graffito secured in the course of this evening's walk:
Abaso [sic] questo paese sporco incivile: down with this dirty savage
country!
There is food for thought in this inscription. For if some bilious
hyper-civilized stranger were its author, the sentiments might pass. But
coming from a native, to what depths of morbid discontent do they
testify! Considering the recent progress of these regions that has led
to a security and prosperity formerly undreamed of, one is driven to the
conjecture that these words can only have been penned by some
cantankerous churl of an emigrant returning to his native land after an
easeful life in New York and compelled - "for his sins," as he would put
it - to reside at the "Hotel Vittoria."
Towards that delectable hostelry I now turned, somewhat regretfully, to
face a bedroom whose appearance had already inspired me with anything
but confidence. But hardly were the preliminary investigations begun,
when a furious noise in the street below drew me to the window once
more. Half the town was passing underneath in thronged procession, with
lighted torches and flags, headed by the municipal band discoursing
martial strains of music.
Whither wending, at this midnight hour?
To honour a young student, native of the place, now returning up the
Rossano road from Naples, where he had distinguished himself prominently
in some examination. I joined the crowd, and presently we were met by a
small carriage whence there emerged a pallid and frail adolescent with
burning eyes, who was borne aloft in triumph and cheered with that
vociferous, masculine heartiness which we Englishmen reserve for our
popular prize-fighters. And this in the classic land of brigandage and
bloodshed!
The intellectual under-current. . . .
It was an apt commentary on my graffito. And another, more personally
poignant, not to say piquant, was soon to follow: the bed. But no. I
will say nothing about the bed, nothing whatever; nothing beyond this,
that it yielded an entomological harvest which surpassed my wildest
expectations.
XXVI
AMONG THE BRUTTIANS
Conspicuous among the wise men of Longobucco in olden days was the
physician Bruno, who "flourished" about the end of the thirteenth
century. He called himself Longoburgensis Calaber, and his great
treatise on anatomical dissection, embodying much Greek and Arabic lore,
was printed many years after his death. Another was Francesco Maria
Labonia; he wrote, in 1664, "De vera loci urbis Timesinae situatione,
etc.," to prove, presumably, that his birthplace occupied the site
whence the Homeric ore of Temese was derived. There are modern writers
who support this view.
The local silver mines were exploited in antiquity; first by Sybaris,
then by Croton. They are now abandoned, but a good deal has been written
about them. In the year 1200 a thousand miners were employed, and the
Anjous extracted a great deal of precious metal thence; the goldsmiths
of Longobucco were celebrated throughout Italy during the Middle Ages.
The industrious H. W. Schulz has unearthed a Royal rescript of 1274
charging a certain goldsmith Johannes of Longobucco with researches into
the metal and salt resources of the whole kingdom of Naples.
Writing from Longobucco in 1808 during a brigand-hunt, Duret de Tavel says:
"The high wooded mountains which surround this horrible place spread
over it a sombre and savage tint which saddens the imagination. This
borough contains a hideous population of three thousand souls, composed
of nail-makers, of blacksmiths and charcoal-burners. The former
government employed them in working the silver mines situated in the
neighbourhood which are now abandoned."
He tells a good deal about the brigandage that was then rife here, and
the atrocities which the repression of this pest entailed.
