An Armchair Traveller's History of Apulia

by Seward, Desmond

  Mme Louis Figuier, born Juliette Bouscarren at Montpellier, was the first woman to record her impressions. She also wrote novels and plays, with titles such as “La dame aux lilas blancs”, which enjoyed modest success. Escorted by her husband, a distinguished scientist, she paid a brief visit to Apulia during the winter of 1864–65, at the end of the Brigands’ War, seeing only Foggia and Trani. Throughout, the couple appear to have been terrified. In “L’Italie d’ après nature” she gives a gruesome account of the sheer horror of Apulian inns, which goes a long way towards explaining why the region had so few visitors.

  The magisterial author of lengthy studies of the Emperor Hadrian, Pope Urban VIII and Lucrezia Borgia, Ferdinand Gregorovius - a Prussian with a square head, shovel beard and pince-nez - rode over all Apulia during 1874–75, on a series of expeditions which he describes with Teutonic thoroughness in “Wanderjahre in Italien”.

  Augustus Hare travelled by rail at the end of the 1870s when researching here for his “Cities of Southern Italy and Sicily”. Acid about Apulia’s beggars and discomfort, the fussy old bachelor was warmly enthusiastic about its “wonderful old cities” and even pitied the labour gangs slaving in the fields. He complained bitterly about his accommodation, however: at Manfredonia, “Inn, Locanda di Donna Pepina, very miserable”; at Bari, “Hotel del Risorgimento, clean and tolerable but very dear”; and at Tàranto, “Albergo di Roma, poor and dirty, but endurable.”

  A blue-stocking virago rumoured to have the names of her lovers tattooed on her thighs, Janet Ross explored Apulia in 1888, collecting material for her book “The Land of Manfred”, which to some extent plagiarised de Salis-Marschlins. Her reminiscences, “The Fourth Generation” (1912) are better value. “Our Tuscan friends were much excited and rather alarmed at our daring to go to such an unknown region”, she recalls when describing how she first decided to visit Apulia. “I was advised by several people to leave my earrings and gold watch at home – ‘those Meridionali are all thieves and robbers, you may very likely be captured by brigands and murdered. It is a dangerous expedition on which you are bound.’ Few of them knew where Apulia was... The Northern Italians hardly regard them as fellow-countrymen.” She got to know the Apulians well and was impressed by their honesty and gaiety.

  François Lenormant, who saw Apulia shortly before Janet Ross, lectured on archaeology at the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris. His “À travers l’Apulie et la Lucanie” (1883) and “La Grande Grèce” (1881–84) not only emphasise the region’s Hellenistic links but are fiercely indignant at the plight of the miserable labourers on the masserie. The two books persuaded Charles Diehl to visit the Apulian grottoes in search of Byzantine frescoes, and then publish a pioneering study, “L’Art Byzantin dans I’Italie Méridionale” (1894). They aroused so much enthusiasm in that forgotten “psychological novelist” Paul Bourget that in 1890 he spent his honeymoon here, describing what he saw in “Sensations d’Italie”. A would-be disciple of Henry James, a fat, red-faced little man too fond of his food and wine, he fell genuinely in love with the Apulian landscape, urging that Lenormant’s books should be made compulsory reading in French schools.

  Another novelist, George Gissing, stayed at Tàranto in 1897, but his “By the Ionian Sea” is disappointing. The eccentric, red-bearded Sir George Sitwell came down from his Tuscan castle to explore in the early 1900s, perhaps inspired by Mrs Ross’s “Land of Manfred” – there was a copy in his library at Montegufoni. He may have been the first to tell his sons Osbert and Sacheverell about Apulia, although they seem to have derived their passion for Lecce from Martin Shaw Briggs, a Leeds architect, who in 1910 published a glowing description of the city, “In the Heel of Italy”, which extolled its Baroque architecture. The brothers would often visit Lecce during the 1920s, Sir Osbert Sitwell praising it almost too extravagantly in “Discursions on Travel, Art and Life”.

  Edward Hutton was a minor Edwardian ‘man of letters’ (his preferred description of himself), and once well known for his Italian travel books. A young friend of Janet Ross, he came here just before the Great War. He did not particularly enjoy the experience, described in his pedestrian if still useful “Naples and Southern Italy” (1915). However, Norman Douglas’s “Old Calabria”, published the same year, contains some magnificent chapters on Apulia. The author was a deplorable figure, a sponger and a paedophile, but he was undeniably amusing and learned, his beautifully written books ranging from “South Wind” – surely the funniest novel about Capri – to a monograph on the lizards of Paestum.

  Brought up to read the Greek and Latin historians, all our travellers took for granted a familiarity with Apulia in classical times (especially of the battle of Cannae, of Taras and Brundisium), which today’s visitors rarely possess. On the other hand, they had certain handicaps. They were unable to appreciate Byzantine art, considered barbarous before the twentieth century, and, apart from Diehl and Lenormant, did not bother to visit the grotto churches, if they were even aware of their existence. Only the very early and the very late comers among them admired Apulian architecture, Romanesque or Baroque. They also lacked the insights that have been provided by modern archaeology. All save a handful ignored the wretched life led by the poor, such horrors as the labour gangs in the fields and why there were so many beggars. Where possible, we have tried to illuminate any blind spots of this sort.

  Part I

  The Gargano

  2

  The Gargano

  A strong people with simple customs live in these mountains...

  Gregorovius, “Apulische Landschaften”

  THE THREE PROVINCES of Apulia are the Capitanata, the Terra di Bari and the Terra d’Òtranto, also known as the Salento – north, centre and south. In classical times the inhabitants were all known as Iapygians but were divided into three tribes – Daunians, Peucetians and Messapians. Although they were almost certainly Illyrians from the Balkans across the Adriatic, legend claims that they came from Greece in groups led by three fugitive sons of Lycaon, King of Arcadia: Daunus, Peucetius and Iapyx. Lycaon, together with fifty of his sons, had sacrificed a child (or a plate of human flesh) to Zeus, for which they had been changed into wolves. Only these three brothers escaped. Until recently, lycanthropy – belief in werewolves, men who change into wolves at night – was prevalent throughout the wilder regions here. None could be wilder than the inner Gargano.

  In the extreme north of the Capitanata, the Gargano is the ‘spur” of the Italian boot, but totally different from the rest of Apulia. Since ancient times it has had a sinister name, Horace writing of fearsome north winds that strip the trees of leaves and drown men off its coast. They still blow, so curiously that winter seems to linger long after it is over. “Spring hesitates to smile upon these chill uplands” was Norman Douglas’s impression. Its woods and caves have attracted pagan deities, witches and saints, and even today the Gargano remains among the mysterious places of Italy, despite the holiday makers on its enchanting shores.

  One of the Tremiti Islands long ago, it is now joined to the mainland, a great mountainous promontory about thirty-five miles by twenty-five, 3,400 feet above sea-level at its highest, that juts out into the Adriatic, with the same geological structure and configuration as those of the Dalmatian mountains. There are dense forests, mainly of chestnut, and wild, steep-sided glens, deep gullies, bleached cliffs and sandy beaches, many of which are only accessible from the sea. The western half consists of stony fields and lime-stone pavements, with pockets of good grazing in little valleys, where the grey cattle’s bells sound mournfully through the mist.

  In spring, the Gargano’s limestone pavements are full of blue, white and yellow dwarf-irises, while orchids grow everywhere, cross-pollenating to an alarming degree. The sheer number of rare plants creates a botanist’s paradise in the area, where 2,000 species have been recorded. Four of these, including the charming campanula garganic, are found nowhere else in the world.

  Much of the woodland described by ancient wri
ters has disappeared, cleared for agriculture or felled for export to shipbuilders on the far side of the Adriatic. Even so, the Foresta Umbra, now managed by the state, covers 24,000 hectares; most of the trees here are beech or oak instead of chesnut, many as tall as 130 feet, so that the forest lives up to its name of “shady”. Until the 1950s it was inhabited by wild boar and wolf, but only a few wild boar remain while the wolves seem to have vanished. During the Middle Ages large areas of Apulia were covered by woodland of this sort, very unlike today’s treeless landscape.

  “Whoever looks at a map of the Gargano promontory will see that it is besprinkled with Greek names of persons and places – Matthew, Mark, Nikander, Onofrius, Pirgiano (Pyrgos) and so forth”, comments Norman Douglas, “Small wonder, for these eastern regions were in touch with Constantinople from early days, and the spirit of Byzance still lingers.” In less flowery language, the Eastern Emperors were nominal rulers here till the twelfth century.

  Until the 1960s funeral rites of great antiquity were observed. No one could leave the house for ten days after a relative’s death, or attend the burial, food being sent in by neighbours; men stopped shaving for a month and wore black shirts as well as suits, women wailed and tore at their faces with their nails as the coffin was taken away. At marriages a rope of handkerchiefs barred the church door, the bridegroom untying the knots.

  Strange superstitions linger, such as a belief in Laùro, the mischievous Apulian Puck. As everywhere in Apulia, there is wide-spread fear of iettatura, the evil eye: a tiny piece of coral, silver or horn is worn as protection against it, while a gesture with the first and fourth finger of the right hand can avert it – but only if the iettatore sees you make it. Owls are known as ‘birds of death’, since to hear one hooting means that somebody in your family will die. An eclipse of the sun will be followed by famine or pestilence. There are countless other ill-omens, such as spilling oil. Spilling wine, however, can only bring good luck.

  Even now, the people of the Gargano are credited with practising magic, often very unpleasant. Love potions based on menstrual blood are not unknown and spells are sometimes laid to harm enemies, animals being used as proxies; occasionally the hind feet of a living dog are chopped off for this purpose, the fate of a fine Alsatian encountered in San Giovanni Rotondo. It is said that some women continue to wear a dead mouse as a protection against the wiles of the Devil, hanging the mouse from their belt over the part where the Devil is most likely to enter in.

  Among the supernatural gifts of Padre Pio, the great saint of modern Apulia, was that of being able to see angels and demons. He warned that the sky over San Giovanni Rotondo (where he lived) was literally black with demons. Even the most sceptical might easily suspect that they fly over many other places in the Gargano.

  3

  Monte Sant’ Angelo

  ...the cave, down some steps, is hallowed by the miraculous apparition

  of the Archangel Michael... you go in through a metal door: on the

  altar behind some iron railings is the statue, covered in flowers and

  crowned with jewels, of the celestial spirit who slew the Dragon from

  Hell... It is said that in the silence of the night angels may sometimes

  be heard singing, symphonies from paradise.

  G B Pacichelli, “Il Regno di Napoli in Prospettiva”

  DEVOTION, FIRST PAGAN and then Christian, created the shrine of Monte Sant’ Angelo. The mountain is inland, where the inhabitants were famous for their secretiveness and savagery, even among those whom Gregorovius called “the wild men of the Gargano.” The cave of St Michael has an eerie atmosphere, and after his visit here during the 1680s the Abate Pacichelli wrote of dread mingling with reverence. In ancient times it was the home of the Oracle Calchas, once a Greek soothsayer, whose ghost appeared in dreams. Those consulting him slept outside, wrapped in the fleeces of black rams.

  In 493 AD a nobleman searching for a lost bull found it hiding in the cave. The bull refused to emerge, so he shot at it, but the arrow turned in flight, wounding him. The Bishop of Siponto was informed and, according to “The Golden Legend”, had a visitor soon after. “The man was hurt on my account”, he told the bishop. “I am Michael the Archangel and I want this place held in reverence. There must be no more shedding of bull’s blood.” Michael is commander of the Heavenly Host, thrusting down to Hell Satan and all wicked spirits who wander through the world for the ruin of souls.

  The bull in the story is significant. Gregorovius, who rode up here in 1874, suspected that devotion to St Michael had been superimposed on a bull-cult. Ninety years later, a mithraeum (caves of worship used by the followers of the ancient religion, Mithraism) was discovered beneath the floor, where once the blood of bulls was sacrificed to the sun-god Mithras.

  Not until Michael had been seen three times did Monte Gargano become his shrine. Shortly after his first appearance he came to save the citizens of Siponto from a barbarian army. The third vision was to the bishop at the moment when he was about to consecrate the cave. Michael announced that he had already done so, and an altar was found inside, covered by a vermilion cloth with the archangel’s footprint on its altar stone.

  The archangel in armour who escorted souls to Heaven through swarms of ravening demons, and frightened even the Devil himself, was venerated throughout medieval times with the dread felt by Pacichelli. Over the shrine’s entrance are the words: “Terribilis est locus iste: hic domus Dei est, et porta coeli” – “This place is fearsome: here is the house of God, and the gate of Heaven.” Even today, you feel in the grotto that you are in the presence of some overwhelming, elemental force.

  The Byzantine Emperor Constans II came in 683 with rich gifts, lost after the Emir of Bari sacked the shrine two hundred years later. When the Holy Roman Emperor Henry II prayed here in 1022, not only St Michael but Christ appeared in a blaze of light, the archangel presenting a missal to the Lord. Kissing the book, Christ told Michael to give it to the terrified Henry. Having lifted the emperor up to kiss the missal, the archangel threw him to the ground, laming him for life.

  In 867 Bernard the Wise, monk of Mont St Michel in northern France, saw the shrine just before its destruction by Saracens. His own monastery was on a rock, where a bull had been discovered in a cave by a bishop, whom the archangel then ordered (this time in a dream) to build a sanctuary. This very similar story helps explain why Norman pilgrims started coming to Monte Sant’ Angelo.

  Bernard says that in his day the ground above the shrine was covered by oak trees. In 1274, however, a great white campanile (bell tower) was built. After going down fifty-five steps cut in the rock, you are confronted by jade-green doors of bronze inlaid with silver, bearing panels with scenes from the Bible; they were made at Constantinople in 1076 and paid for by Pantaleone, merchant of Amalfi. Inside the cave church, the names of pilgrims down the centuries are scratched on its walls and floors, some written in the earliest runes known in Italy. During the Crusades, pilgrims often drew a hand or a foot before leaving for the Holy land, vowing to draw its pair on returning safely. Holy water said to cure anything is still distributed in a little silver bucket from a well behind Michael’s statue.

  Keppel Craven, who came in 1818, writes “The cave... is low but of considerable extent, branching out into various recesses on different levels, so that the steps are frequent, and the surface is rugged, irregular, and very slippery, from the constant dripping of the vaults... A few glass lamps, suspended from the rock, which have replaced the silver ones of richer times, cast a faint glimmer of uncertain light.” Even Craven was impressed by the pilgrims moving like shadows in the darkness and the hum of prayer.

  “The men walked with the air of conquerors”, wrote Janet Ross of the pilgrims who she saw in 1888: “Their dress was jaunty and picturesque – short brown velveteen jackets, brown cloth waist-coats with bright buttons, black velveteen breeches, and black worsted stockings tied under the knee with a bunch of black rib-bons; while round the
ir waists were dark blue girdles. This costume was crowned with a dark-blue knitted cap, with a sky-blue floss-silk tassel worn quite on the back of the head.”

  As for the cavern itself, “When we saw it the irregular rock above the high altar was lit by hundreds of wax candles, whose flickering light seemed to make the statue of St Michael, about three feet high with pink cheeks and flaxen curls, move its large white wings, tipped with gold. A priest told me it was a wonderful work of art; he could not remember whether Donatello, Raphael or Michelangelo made it, but probably the latter, ‘because of the name’.”

  “A wretched morning was disclosed as I drew open the shutters – gusts of rain and sleet beating again the window-panes”, wrote Norman Douglas, recalling how he set out to visit Monte Sant’ Angelo from Manfredonia, just before the Great War. “I tried to picture to myself the Norman princes, the emperors, popes, and other ten thousand pilgrims of celebrity crawling up these rocky slopes – barefoot – on such a day as this. It must have tried the patience even of St Francis of Assisi, who pilgrimaged with the rest of them and, according to Pontanus, performed a little miracle here en passant [in passing], as was his wont.”

  No friend to the Catholic religion, he was less than charitable about the shrine and its pilgrims:

  Having entered the portal, you climb down a long stairway amid swarms of pious, foul clustering beggars to a vast cavern, the archangel’s abode. It is a natural recess in the rock, illuminated by candles. Here divine service is proceeding to the accompaniment of cheerful operatic airs from an asthmatic organ; the water drops ceaselessly from the rocky vault on to the devout heads of kneeling worshippers that cover the floor, lighted candle in hand, rocking themselves ecstatically and droning and chanting. A weird scene, in truth... It is hot down here, damply hot, as in an orchid-house. But the aroma cannot be described as a floral emanation: it is the bouquet, rather, of thirteen centuries of unwashed and perspiring pilgrims... in places like these one understands the uses, and possibly the origin, of incense.