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 upon for starting next
morning.
Sixty-five francs, he began by telling me, was the price paid by an
Englishman last year for a day's visit to the sacred mountain. It may
well be true - foreigners will do anything, in Italy. Or perhaps it was
only said to "encourage" me. But I am rather hard to encourage,
nowadays. I reminded the man that there was a diligence service there
and back for a franc and a half, and even that price seemed rather
extortionate. I had seen so many holy grottos in my life! And who, after
all, was this Saint Michael? The Eternal Father, perchance? Nothing of
the kind: just an ordinary angel! We had dozens of them, in England.
Fortunately, I added, I had already received an offer to join one of the
private parties who drive up, fourteen or fifteen persons behind
one diminutive pony - and that, as he well knew, would be a matter of
only a few pence. And even then, the threatening sky . . . Yes, on
second thoughts, it was perhaps wisest to postpone the excursion
altogether. Another day, if God wills! Would he accept this cigar as a
recompense for his trouble in coming?
In dizzy leaps and bounds his claims fell to eight francs. It was the
tobacco that worked the wonder; a gentleman who will give something for
nothing (such was his logic) - well, you never know what you may not get
out of him. Agree to his price, and chance it!
He consigned the cigar to his waistcoat pocket to smoke after dinner,
and departed - vanquished, but inwardly beaming with bright anticipation.
A wretched morning was disclosed as I drew open the shutters - gusts of
rain and sleet beating against the window-panes. No matter: the carriage
stood below, and after that customary and hateful apology for breakfast
which suffices to turn the thoughts of the sanest man towards themes of
suicide and murder - when will southerners learn to eat a proper
breakfast at proper hours? - we started on our journey. The sun came out
in visions of tantalizing briefness, only to be swallowed up again in
driving murk, and of the route we traversed I noticed only the old stony
track that cuts across the twenty-one windings of the new carriage-road
here and there. 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 Saint Francis of Assisi, who pilgrimaged with
the rest of them and, according to Pontanus, performed a little miracle
here en passant, as was his wont.
After about three hours' driving we reached the town of Sant' Angelo. It
was bitterly cold at this elevation of 800 metres. Acting on the advice
of the coachman, I at once descended into the sanctuary; it would be
warm down there, he thought. The great festival of 8 May was over, but
flocks of worshippers were still arriving, and picturesquely pagan they
looked in grimy, tattered garments - their staves tipped with
pine-branches and a scrip.
In the massive bronze doors of the chapel, that were made at
Constantinople in 1076 for a rich citizen of Amalfi, metal rings are
inserted; these, like a true pilgrim, you must clash furiously, to call
the attention of the Powers within to your visit; and on issuing, you
must once more knock as hard as you can, in order that the consummation
of your act of worship may be duly reported: judging by the noise made,
the deity must be very hard of hearing. Strangely deaf they are,
sometimes.
The twenty-four panels of these doors are naively encrusted with
representations, in enamel, of angel-apparitions of many kinds; some of
them are inscribed, and the following is worthy of note:
"I beg and implore the priests of Saint Michael to cleanse these gates
once a year as I have now shown them, in order that they may be always
bright and shining." The recommendation has plainly not been carried out
for a good many years past.
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. And the coachman was
quite right in his surmise as to the difference in temperature. It is
hot down here, damply hot, as in an orchid-house.
