But the matter, of course, did not end here. Indignant and amazed, and wishing to be revenged upon that frataccio, the station-master telegraphed to Loreto, that in a certain carriage of a certain train was travelling a friar, whom it behoved the authorities to arrest for having hindered the departure of the said train for fifteen minutes, and also for the offence of mendicancy within a railway station. Accordingly, the Loreto police sought the offender, but, in the compartment where he had travelled, found no person; there, however, lay a letter couched in these terms: ‘He who was in this waggon under the guise of a humble friar, has now ascended into the arms of his Santissima Madre Maria. He wished to make known to the world how easy it is for him to crush the pride of unbelievers, or to reward those who respect religion.’
Nothing more was discoverable; wherefore the learned of the Church – i dotti della chiesa – came to the conclusion that under the guise of a friar there had actually appeared ‘Nostro Signore Gesù Cristo’.
It occurs to me I might translate this little story back into the Italian Gissing found it in and hand it out to every ticket inspector who gives me grief.
MARK TWAIN MUST HAVE been lying, or at least tongue in cheek, when he claimed he admired the Italians more for their trains than their antiquities and art treasures; these last are so abundant and persuasive. Any visit to the archaeological museum in Crotone immediately makes nonsense of concepts of progress in human achievement, at least in the fields of art and craftsmanship. We may acquire more and more technology, but the ability to conjure ideas and visions of every kind from the most ordinary materials was as powerful thousands of years ago as it ever can be. And it’s no good Twain pretending he can’t understand it; one needs only to be human. Almost at once, as one turns the corner from entrance corridor to display rooms, there’s a tall, two-handled vase, its elegant curves suggestively feminine, black at the slim top, and again at the narrow base, with a wide band of intense orange around the full swell of the belly. Across this field of light moves a band of graceful black warriors in battle, one falling back on his knee as another stands over him with his spear, others just behind waiting to join the fray; their helmet plumes have the nobility of horses’ manes, combed up and braided; their belts and straps, of armour and shields; the pleats of their skirts, the details of their weapons, are shown with fine orange lines cutting through the solid figures, so you realise that the whole complex image has been created with an intricate, highly stylised pattern of glazed black shapes interlocking but not quite touching on this luminous background. The orange of the vase glows against the black, with the glow of the Mediterranean sun that the men fought under; they stand out stark against it, their moment of glory stamped on the undifferentiated light of eternity. But because of those bright lines crossing their bodies they also seem part of the light, or to partake of it, as if they’d materialised out of it and were ready to break up into it, as if the whole of life were an alternation of black and orange, vivid, brief appearance in a flaming circle of light. This is the realm of Apollo, at once an aesthetic and a philosophy. Of course we’re talking violence here. We’re talking weapons and pain and death under a hot sun. The art isn’t attempting to hide that, but to transform it. Somebody might choose to deplore this glorification of struggle, but no one could deny its accomplishment and impact. You can’t not understand.
What a rich museum they have in this provincial outpost. There are beautiful bas-relief faces, winged horses, a mermaid, a tiny rabbit, its head thrown right back so that the neck can form the spout for the cosmetic oil it held. Fine-tooth combs carved in ivory, brooches and buckles and mirrors of bronze. All of them found in the area immediately around the town, all of it fashioned by the artisans of Magna Grecia. A spearhead is engraved with the words ‘Acanthropos son of Teognide’; there are decorated axe heads, armour, model chariots, a highly stylised bronze horse, at once animal and abstract, a model ship that is also a lamp. There are votive terracotta ornaments, objects placed in temples to give punch to prayers and supplications, forerunners of the same tradition in the Catholic Church. There are winged girls in bronze, too busty and cheerful to be angels, terracotta busts, perfectly harmonious and poised, their faces serene and solemn, monstrous animal heads, belts of braided chain, rings, brooches, earrings, bracelets. Brightest of all, there is a gold laminate diadem fashioned into a circle of leaves and berries, emblem of the goddess Hera, a most lavish gift for some Olympian winner maybe.
Yet all this wonderful art and craftsmanship is held in the most unprepossessing low building in an empty square at the top of the old town, where no one passes by. As I enter – and the
