Bova Unvisited

THE railway of the Reggio-Napoli line, before it enters upon the long and melancholy distances of the eastern coast of Calabria, takes a charming run around the pointed toe of the boot of the Italian peninsula. At only about twenty-five kilometres’ distance from the city of Reggio, on this road, — so my kinsman and good comrade the lieutenant deciphered from the cryptograms of the railway guide, — is the town of Bova, one of the ancient Greek settlements left stranded here and there in Calabria and Sicily ; whose inhabitants, although they have constant dealings with the neighboring population, retain with extraordinary tenacity the traditions, costumes, rituals, and language originally brought from Greece. These colonies, it is said, more closely preserve the old Hellenic speech and customs than do the modern Greek peoples.

Therefore we decided that we must visit Bova, see the picturesque Albanian dress, and hear the soft, incomprehensible jargon, and perhaps also the wild ballads of the place. Unlike other Italian poetry are these legendary dance-songs about captive maids and Turkish pirates, or the little Constantine who arose from his grave in order to lead his sister to her bridal.

One fine April morning, then, we took our places in a sort of Italian version of the American railway car, with subtle distinctions of plush and haircloth to differentiate the first class from the second, instead of the solid wooden walls of the ordinary European wagons. To an imaginative passenger, that car had the effect of a spirit of liberal monarchy, avoiding the sharply drawn discriminations of an effete autocracy and the uncritical crowding of a democracy. It was a gratifying sort of car to persons who usually renounced first-class transit, but this time we were able to save both our pride and our money. The train was an accommodation train, and, being Italian, and south Italian, was more accommodating than others, so that it took two hours and a half to cover the twenty or twenty-five kilometres between Reggio and Bova station. But its inscrutable delays and languorous dallyings with time and space were all the better for us, to whom the going was of as much interest as the getting there ; for the way was charmingly picturesque along that south curve of the coast, past little agricultural and fishing villages that have something of the Oriental character. Across the strait Messina is poised, as if ready to run to meet halfway her sister city of Reggio ; to the southwest lies the dark line of the Sicilian coast ; and above a mass of cloud rises a cone of pure-tinted opal, Etna. In the middle distance spreads the brilliant azure field of the Mediterranean, dotted with many white pecorelle, the little sheep whose wool is the sea-foam, and whose shepherd is the breeze. The fishing-boats out at anchor dance to the pastoral piping, but they would be drawn up on the beach quickly if in the offing should be heard the shouts of the storm-wind, the strong herder of the cavalloni, the wild sea-horses that shake the blue plain with manifold trampling, as, with white manes tossing, they gallop to the charge of the coast.

The railroad passes between long hedges of aloe and of Indian figs with their grotesque and improbable forms. To the left are vast gardens of agrumi, orange, lemon, citron, bergamot ; the last a staple and a specialty of this region of Calabria. The rich verdure is frequently interrupted by wide fiumare, arid, stony tracts wrinkled by watercourses, which, in the latter part of the winter, are flooded by the melting snows of the mountains. But that April time when we traversed them they were threaded by slender streams.

The train passed by the town of San Gregorio, where the shore was populated by fishermen who, having beached their boats, were opening the nets and taking out the fish, which the women carried away in baskets on their heads. Other women, standing many yards apart, were stretching long webs of homespun linen to bleach under the potent springtide sun.

Flame-red geraniums gleamed in the hedges of Melito of the many gardens, whose church has a large dome like that of an Arab mosque. And now only leagues of blue water were between us and the Orient ; the train had gone past the Strait of Messina, and had rounded the southern point of Calabria.

At Amendolea — named for the almond groves, which are not visible from the railway, but no doubt are ensconced in sunny hollows — a great fiumara issues between steep and bizarre hills, earthquake-smitten, their sides rugged and bare, streaked with scrambling thickets of Indian fig. Here and there on small plateaus are clumps of fruit-trees and olives, or fields of greenstuff and forage. Patches of a rich magenta color show the bloom of the sulla, a sort of pink vetch, used as fodder for horses and cattle. It is pretty to see a donkey carrying home his own supper, the red flowers emerging from full panniers against his gray flanks.

The peach-trees, that April day, were great bouquets of pale rose-tinted flowerage. In strong contrast were the disconsolate files of the eucalyptus with their drooping branches and trunks from which the bark peels away in strips, leaving them in white, unhealthful nakedness. In the distance, villages and farmsteads are perched upon the heights ; the buildings are of stone, so that they can hardly be distinguished from the natural caves and peaks of the rock.

Finally the station of Bova was reached, a small hamlet, as if a vestibule to the town itself, which is somewhat distant, on the crest of the mountain. The people of the railway village are like other Calabrians in their dress, manners, and speech ; the Albanian characteristics that we sought were to be found only by climbing. The lieutenant and I set off gayly on foot up the hill-path, declining all proffers of guides and donkeys. We were on the side of a little acclivity when we were hailed by a dweller in the valley, who warned us that it would take several hours of cart or saddle to reach the height of Bova. Other inhabitants joined in counsel, “ Try not the path ; ” and we, taking into consideration all the sub-tropical substitutes for the pine-tree’s withered branch and the awful avalanche, decided that our motto was not Excelsior. We yielded at once, and came down by a precipitous little track to the fiumara, and told each other that we had all the time meant to go that way, in order to look at some rustic cottages, and, farther on, a rained ancient watch-tower set on the verge of a cliff fronting the sea. Neither of us explained why we had wished to climb a hill in the opposite quarter, but we said that we took pride in the flexibility of our plans when “ the strong god Circumstance ” should give them ever so slight a push in a new direction.

“ We are not obstinate,” we declared ; “ we are not like donkeys. The world is full of fine things to be seen, and ’t is a toss-up which of them is to be regarded and admired next. Suvvia, come along.”

The only hindrance was the importunate rivulet of the fiumara, which ran in zigzags across our path, so that we had to cross it three times in as many hundred yards. Surely, that was the fuddittu himself, the tricksy sprite of southern Calabria, sometimes good, sometimes bad, but always unaccountable. (They call him folletto in central Italy, in Venice he is mascarol, in Naples munaciellu, in the Cosentino monacheddu.) That day, who but he pulled the wine-flask from under the arm of the lieutenant just as we were crossing the steppingstones of the fiumara, so that the bottle went into fragments on the pebbles, and the wine made crimson the river, as in some sanguinary legend of the battles of Alaric in Calabria ! Two friendly native boys, who had placed the stepping-stones and given a hand to help the signora across the brook, were quite in accord with my lamentation : ” Look ! this is partly my fault. If I had thought to wear the bracelet with the cornicedda, this misfortune would not have happened, nor my relative have been left with a dry mouth ! ”

(After that the bracelet went on all excursions. Fora-malocchio ! Certain precautions ought not to he neglected, and, in short, what harm is there in a little amulet ? I ask the unprejudiced reader. But it appears to me that amulets lose their power in the positive American atmosphere, so that the bracelet now stays at home or goes forth as chance wills.)

The younger of the boys went away to buy a small flask of the black Calabrian wine, while the elder acted as our guide to the ruined castle. He wanted a job and the relative pence. His trade was that of shoemaker, but most of his townsfolk go barefoot : therefore he shall not be blamed if he played upon my feminine timidity, telling me that there were fierce dogs at the farm, but he knew how to pacify them ; the signora must not fear. He even pointed out the shed where the savage beasts were supposed to lurk ; but he must have charmed them with power, for not a bark was heard as we went by, talking, as our guide counseled, “ in a usual manner, in order not to make them suspicious.” So, having passed by Cerberus in safety, we descended a broken pathway enlivened by many small flowers, coral-pink or deepsea blue, and by crowds of marigolds and white daisies. The boy, finding that the signora was no scoffer at popular beliefs, began to tell about the old castle.

“ Yon see, your excellency, it was built in the times of the Saracen pirates, in order to defend the country. They say that there is great treasure shut up inside, underground, but nobody knows how or where to find it.”

“ But is it not known what things must be done to loosen the spell ? Was there perhaps a Moorish, slave killed in that place, and enchanted, that he might guard forever the treasure ? ”

“ Maybe so. We do not know anything about it, nor what has to be done. There are so many of these treasures buried, and until they shall be found Calabria has to remain always poor.”

“ Let us hope that some fine day they will be discovered, and then Calabria will be rich.”

“ Let us hope, signora. But there is wanted the book of command.”

“ I understand. Rutilio.” ¹

“ That ’s it, — Rutilio.”

“ Eh, if the true book could be found, and the right pages, something might be done.”

“ And neither do we know where to get the book.”

“ Also this is a difficulty. But do they not dig inside there ? ”

“ What do I know about it, your ladyship ? ” (Which, with a Calabrian, means that he knows all about it, but is too prudent to tell.) “ So much I can say, that once there came two gentlemen. Greeks, very learned. They wished to dig ; they may have found some broken pottery, a few coins of brass. I don’t know. But in any case, they were made to run away, for we took up sticks.”

By this time we had come out upon the postal road, which winds in fine curves around the cliffs at some height above the shore. We stopped to admire a towering rock, which, moreover, had been blasted away in constructing the road, and is left a sheer precipice of a hundred and fifty metres. The red and yellow fruits of the last year were hanging from the Indian-fig plants near the top of the cliff, for not even the goats can climb there to gather them. In some places the earth and the rock are supported by masonry, to avert the danger of a landslide. On the crown of the cliff is a villa with annexed buildings. A shed at the base of the precipice, beside the road, a cart, and a mule that stood eating his straw, served the eye to measure the imposing elevation of the rock. We sat down upon a wall, that I might sketch the cliff and the villa and the Indian figs.

Our young friend the shoemaker hinted a just criticism when he said that he supposed “ the signora intended to make a beautiful copy afterward.” It was answered him that the copy might not succeed in being beautiful, but at all events nothing could be worse than the original sketch ; and we all laughed. At least, those who pretend to nothing are spared disillusions in art.

Then a noble old peasant came along, looked at the sketch, asked if we were traveling for diversion, and it that did not cost much money, and invited us to ascend to his dwelling on the top of the rock, enter the house, and eat our lunch there. We accepted the invitation, given with the serious courtesy of a Calabrian. We climbed the steep and tortuous path. We were shown the bergamot press with its ingenious machinery, the invention of a citizen of Reggio, well deserving as the promoter of a unique industry. We admired a great black pig sunning himself front of his thatched hut. In Calabria, the grandiose Homeric epithets, such as “ kingly hearted swine,” do not seem unfitting, so portly is the form, so thick and dark are the bristles, so lordly is the bearing of the pigs, who, for manners, are called “ the blacks,” or, with irony, “ the seminarists,” Four cows of the pretty Sicilian race, a dear little calf whose fawn-colored first coat would soon be changed for a gray one like his mother’s, a donkey, a dog, and a very cordial cat formed the four-footed part of the family, and to all these we were duly presented.

The peasant, his wife, and two little daughters gave us a charming welcome, and unclosed for our reception a room of the villa (which belongs to a gentleman of Reggio, and of which this worthy family are the care-takers). We opened the basket of lunch which we had brought with us, and sat at the table with its clean linen and green-painted Calabrian plates. The fine old peasant, with dramatic gestures, related his experiences, in the times of Garibaldi, as corporal in a regiment of grenadiers. The details, well understood by the lieutenant, were too technical for me, so I slipped out to sit on the doorstep with the goodwife and her little girls, who were entertaining the shoemaker and his brother.

A page from the sketch-book served to cut out a whole company of paper girls dancing the ridda hand in hand. The pencil and water-colors that had been so inadequate for the landscape did themselves credit when it was a question of a paper doll in Calabrian costume, without economies of blue, pink, or yellow paint.

We chatted about the fuddittu, and were certain that the disaster of the wine bottle was due to his presence and to the absence of the bracelet. “ On that bracelet,” I told them. “ is the hand that makes the cornicedda, the little horns against the evil eye ; the cuoricino, the little heart, for courage ; and the pesciolino, the little fish, for shrewdness and agility. Also I have ‘ a coin out of use,’ and when that shall be attached to the bracelet these things will not happen any more. But the fuddittu has certain manners. May he be far from us ! ”

This rhetorical excursion was meant to call forth the views of the good woman. We all united in a profound sigh, to express how dark are the ways and how vain the tricks of the fuddittu ; then my hostess began : —

“ And the fuddittu comes to sit upon people’s chests in the night, so that they cannot breathe.

“ Yes, precisely so a young girl in Reggio has told me. She went to pay a visit to her aunt, and found her without voice, as if from a great hoarseness of a cold. The aunt told Lucrezia that it was the work of the fuddittu, and they need not call the doctor nor the wise woman, for as the trouble came so it would pass ; and in fact, after two or three days she was well.

“ And when the fuddittu sits upon your chest, and to drive him away you exclaim, ‘ Mamma mia! ’ that the Madonna may aid, be counterfeits your voice,

‘ Mamma mia !’ ” (The squeak was delicious with which the good woman rendered the tone of the imp.) “ And you lament, ‘ Mara me ! ’ and he repeats, ‘ Mara me ! ’ ”

“ He makes you the echo.”

“ Exactly, — the echo. Eh, he does so many things ! But if you know how to take him, signora, he brings you fortune.”

“ One must keep his red cap.”

“ That’s it. When you see him, do not be afraid, but lift off his little cap. He will pray that you give it back to him, but you hold firm ; then he will offer you treasures, great money, and you don’t accept, but instead you put the cap under the kettle, among the ashes of the hearth ; because the fuddittu is a cleanly little spirit, and he will not go among the cinders, in order not to soil himself. So you have him in your power, and you command him, ‘ Bring me money,’and he will bring you some gold. And you, signora, don’t be too soon content. ‘ This is not enough,’you tell him ; ’you have to bring me more.’ And he goes back to get for you money and money, and you still say, ‘ This is not enough for me,’ until it appears to you that it suffices, and then you give him his cap, and he makes you a fine bow and departs.”

“ So many thanks for the good counsel. I shall not fail to follow it, if ever I meet the fuddittu.”

“Eh, ’t is difficult, signora mia ! In these days the spirits do not let themselves be seen as in other times. Then there was more ignorance, yes, but also more innocence. Now the world becomes always worse ; there ’s no longer any innocence, because of so much learning ; so that things which used to be seen by our fathers do not show themselves to us, for cause of too much learning, your ladyship.”

We agreed that learning, little or much, is a dangerous thing, and that to live in this world as one ought it is necessary to have faith. Then we compared notes concerning the evil eye, its perils and its antidotes. The goodwife showed me a plant growing in a pottery vase upon the little terrace, a sort of cactus with gray spiny leaves fantastically shaped, which is called malocchio because it has the virtue to avert the evil eye. Evidently the beneficent charm worked, for the household was in health and prosperous. And those humble folk were excellent company ; one has been present, at many a polite function where the talk was not found half so inspiriting or the personalities so attractive as in the home of the brave ex-corporal and his family. When we came away, they all accompanied us some distance on the postal road. The kind woman insisted that she would give me her arm for the descent of the cliff, because “ the little feet of the signora are not accustomed to such a goats’ path.” With a profusion of thanks, compliments, and a whole discourse of gestures and waving kerchiefs, the farewells were made. The young shoemaker and his brother went with us still further. The last that we saw of them they were making their homeward way along the stony bed of the fiumara.

“ Good-by, signor lieutenant. I kiss the hands of your ladyship. Good-by.”

“ Good-by and good fortune, my brave boys.”

And so back again as we came, by the picturesque railway, to Reggio. At the station, Frontino, the pet gray colt, was waiting to take us at a square trot through the Corso to the house where my mother stood on the balcony to welcome the returned excursionists, and hear about our pleasurable failure to behold the Greek types of Bova.

Elisabeth Pullen.