Old Calabria | Page 8

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. ...

III
THE ANGEL OF MANFREDONIA
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. Small wonder, for
these eastern regions were in touch with Constantinople from early
days, and the spirit of Byzance still hovers over them. It was on this
mountain that the archangel Michael, during his first flight to Western
Europe, deigned to appear to a Greek bishop of Sipontum, Laurentius
by name; and ever since that time a certain cavern, sanctified by the
presence of this winged messenger of God, has been the goal of
millions of pilgrims.
The fastness of Sant' Angelo, metropolis of European angel-worship,
has grown up around this "devout and honourable cave"; on sunny
days its houses are clearly visible from Man-fredonia. They who wish
to pay their devotions at the shrine cannot do better than take with
them Gregorovius, as cicerone and mystagogue.
Vainly I waited for a fine day to ascend the heights. At last I
determined to have done with the trip, be the weather what it might. A
coachman was summoned and negotiations entered