Camaldoli and St Romuald
“Qui è Romualdo
Qui son’ li frati miei che dentro il chiostro
Fermar li piedi e tennero il cuor saldo.”
(Par. 22, 49 ff.)

A day’s walking and we were removed to a very different atmosphere, and to associations widely separated from those connected with the high retreat of La Verna. A wide gulf divides the temper of a man like St Francis from that of a St Romuald. Both are accepted saints of the Church, but while the one taught men how to be guided by love through the example of his own gentleness and forbearance, the other emphatically denounced those who interpreted the religious life differently from himself. St Francis is the gentle soul of the thirteenth century, that yields that it may conquer; St Romuald is the rough-and-ready champion of the tenth century, ever ready to start up in defence of Mother Church.

Camaldoli is a pearl among the many pearls of the Casentino. I have seen it in spring-time only; the Italians tell you that it is even more beautiful in summer, when its shady chestnut{52} groves and dark pine forest give a sense of restored energy and renewed vigour to those who come here from the arid plains of Tuscany and the blinding heat of the streets of Florence. Camaldoli may be conveniently reached by a good driving road or by paths from the east or the west. We decided on striking into the former of these two paths, and on a genial day we bid adieu to Bibbiena, descending first and then mounting with the driving road which afterwards followed an even ridge for several miles.

The views from this ridge were extensive and varied. In the distance the panorama of the hills was slowly unfolding. Nearer at hand our attention was caught now by a peach-tree with its purple blossoms, then by a cherry-tree, its downy white branches swaying with the breeze. We passed several country-houses, always somewhat removed from the road and always flanked by a group of dark cypresses, which sometimes extended into an avenue down the slope of the hill. These old country-houses of Tuscany consist of a dwelling-house and a farm, which sometimes stand a little way apart, the dwelling-house marked by a look of greater trimness and reserve; sometimes they are brought closer together with an increased look of orderliness to the one and of homeliness to the other. Both houses are built of stone,{53}
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CAMALDOLI (CASENTINO)

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usually two storeys high. And both are covered with red rough-tiled roofs that lie flat and broad over the entire dwelling and project on all sides into wide eaves.

We passed through Camprena, a posto which also had its peculiarity. The houses neither fronted the street nor stood at right angles to it, a want of arrangement not accounted for by any apparent irregularity of the ground. Such an Italian village has none of the neat clustering of its English or German namesake. There is no village church standing aloof to watch over the entrance and exit from life of suffering humanity; no village green with ancient oak suggesting a living protection to rights and liberties; no well-appointed inn betokening the love of an evening’s good cheer. The houses have come together anyhow, and few are the attempts made to brighten a portico or a window with a row of flower-pots. Sometimes the house itself is washed over with pink or yellow, but there is never a scrap of flower-garden to add a bright spot of colour to its surroundings.

Further along the road lay Soci, a place which went through stormy experiences in the early Middle Ages. Remains of its own castle walls and remains of the castles of Gressa and Marciano, which frown from heights above and beyond it, recall the times when might made{56} havoc with right. At one time the Prince Bishop of Arezzo owned the place and made it over to the monks of Camaldoli. But, apparently on account of its insecurity, they parted with it to one of the Counts Guidi in exchange for rights of ownership at Bagno on the further side of the Apennines. However, the Guidi did not long remain in possession of the castle; they lost it to their enemies, the Tarlati of Pietramala.

Soci is now a growing centre of industry, and boasts of several factories. The high chimney of one of these figures is the attractive feature on the local picture post card. The thought often arises in these days at what a terrible cost to itself mankind is securing greater cheapness in goods—raising the standard of comfort, as economists put it; the thought was brought home in this outlying district. For the men and women we met in other parts of the district were robust in health and decently, if poorly, clad; the children were chubby, well-fed and full of buoyancy. But in places like Soci a blight seemed to have fallen on mankind. Men and women, girls and boys, all had the same look of mixed listlessness and craving, and the children were pale and neglected. No doubt here, as elsewhere, the people who flocked to the factories were impatient of the restraints and the penury of home; they escaped from the toil{57} of home, but they did so at the cost of the home’s regularity of habit. Stranded in a strange place, bound by no responsibilities but those they chose to recognise, these men and women soon fell into irregular ways and formed illicit connections, with a consequent loss of physique to themselves and a deterioration of the race in a couple of generations.

Beyond Soci the mountains began to draw closer together. The road followed the river Archiano, which flowed in a narrower bed and assumed the character of a torrent. Only the land that was near the river was brought under cultivation. The slopes above were covered with a thin scrub of stunted oaks bearing only the sere foliage of last year’s growth. These mountains were chiefly of a brown mud-rock that had crumbled away along the water-courses, or else, undermined by them, had fallen in masses of soft earth, forming the gentler slopes. Side-valleys opened and closed as we passed onwards. The characteristics of the plain were disappearing more and more. We were entering the region of the Apennines.

At one point of the road we were doubtful if we should leave the valley, and seeing a man under a hay-stack munching bread and cheese we consulted him. But his look was interested, and he was so positive that the diverging path not being ours, we should never reach Camaldoli{58} unless we consented to his guidance, that we became equally positive the map should be our only guide. We cut short further parleying by saying that we could but return if we missed the way altogether. Of this there was no chance. A short distance further and we sighted Serravalle, towering high on a steep eminence that fronted all quarters. On one side it commanded the bend in the road that led onwards across the Apennines into Romagna; on the other it stood well above a dip in the hills, and overlooked the side-valley down which the Fosso of Camaldoli flowed to join the Archiano. The mountain streams throughout the Casentino are spoken of as fossi, though not generally so designated on the map—a peculiar use of the word which suggests affinity to the northern fos rather than to the Latin fossa. In sight of Serravalle we sat for a while and feasted on our usual lunch of bread, eggs and wine. After that we followed the stream for a time, and then, parting company with it, we began the ascent up the steep winding slope.

On a clear day such as this, the steeper the ascent the more striking the observation how the nearer mountains sink into insignificance before the higher ranges that rise on the skyline beyond. Under the dome of blue, with its few sailing clouds, the air was of absolute transparency, and every detail of the level we{59} had left, every detail of the level to which we were attaining, stood out in shining clearness. Each special portion of the world above, below, around had its distinguishing feature, from the flock of sheep grazing by the stream below to the man carrying stakes up the opposite slope, and to the dark birds hanging over Serravalle. But the observing faculty soon wearied with watching for new impressions. With the brighter sunshine, the keener air and the more fragrant vegetation of the height, a dreamy consciousness took possession of the mind—a consciousness of being nearer heaven—heaven, a fictitious limitation of space indeed, but a limitation the thought of which brought one’s own concerns into an amended relation to those of the world generally. After all, it is by drawing imaginary circles that the mind attains to a conception of relative size. The greater the height, the wider the outlook; the stronger the consciousness of the world we possess not, the clearer the conception of that part of the world which we have made our own.

Higher up patches of snow lay here and there on the shady side of the path. The shrubs and plants became stunted and nipped, with the exception of the flowering giant spurge that stood up from the stony ground vigorous and brilliantly decorative. We passed a cluster of dwellings,{60} built of rock and founded on rock, grey and weather-worn, quite Alpine in character, where the necessities of life are wrung from nature in a close hand-to-hand fight. For a long time our path was rocky and uneven and lay between thorny undergrowth. Then it led down at a gentle gradient and drew nearer to the bed of the Fosso. Within a few minutes’ walk the character of the surroundings entirely changed. From a stony wilderness we had passed into an enchanted grove. The slopes lost their steepness, and the ground lost its bareness. We walked under high chestnuts along a moss-grown path that was soft to the tread, and then over a carpet of verdure bright with spring flowers, which recalled the emerald meadow dotted with shining flowers over which angels lead mortals to heaven in the painting of Fra Angelico. It was late in the afternoon, and the slanting sun-rays made golden lights on the trunks of the trees and set aglow the patches of primroses. The call of the cuckoo sounded at intervals, and there was the distant warbling of many woodland birds. One wished for the path to lengthen out indefinitely; all too soon the massive settlement of Camaldoli, set against a forest of pines, closed in the head of the valley.

There is a graceful legend concerning a monk (I forget his name) who was one day tempted to stray from the path of life; he was sore perplexed{61} in his mind by the words of the Psalmist, “A thousand years in God’s sight are but as yesterday.” How could time, that uniform flow “unaffected by the speed or the motion of material things,” be robbed of the conception of its length? How could time ever cease to exist to one who was endowed with consciousness?

To the monk, as to many another, failing to see was failing to believe. With a heavy heart he wandered forth into the convent garden carrying his problem with him. Quod erat demonstrandum: would a greater intercede in his behalf? Time slipped by unawares. It was late at night when he regained the convent gate, but those who opened in answer to his call knew him not. His talk, his appearance, his manner were strange to them, and yet there was that in him which commanded attention—he was like as well as unlike. They admitted him, and after a while the memory of an old, old story came to one of the monks who listened to him—how long ago a member of the fraternity had been troubled in his mind and had wandered forth and never returned, but it had always been believed by some that he was still among the living. After much seeking his name was found in an old convent register. It was the name of the monk who had returned after a thousand years. Then they saw him as one of{62} themselves. The miracle was accomplished. And the monk understood that eternities which are the products of human conception hold good for man only. God’s eternities may be different. It is said that a short time afterwards he passed away from life in peace.

And would it be very different if that monk had been one of the companions of St Romuald here at Camaldoli, nay not quite a thousand, just nine hundred years ago? If he came back now would he know these surroundings for those he had left? Would he feel it the same world as it was then, ruled by the same ideas—that a simple life is conducive to elevation of mind, and that the air of the heights and the pure water of undefiled springs make the body strong to withstand evil? And would they too know him as one of themselves, those venerable monks, bent with age and dignified in bearing, who were approaching the monastery along the upper road as we neared it along the lower? Their woollen robes of many folds were white, such as Romuald in his dream beheld his companions wearing, when, like Jacob, he saw a ladder set up on the earth and reaching up to heaven, and his monks were the angels ascending and descending on it. These men had drawn their hoods over their heads, and over them they wore large, wide-brimmed Tuscan straw hats. They were neatly stockinged and shoed, and most of them{63} had flowing beards and a complexion that reminded one of the delicate tints of crumpled rose-leaves. To us they were figures of a distant past, and it was wonderful to think that if one of the old monks of Romuald’s time were to come among them, the great difference in them would be the first thing to strike him.

The monastic settlement of Camaldoli consisted of a monastery placed near a famous spring, Fonte Buona, and of a hermitage, the Eremo, which was situated further up among the mountains. One of the reasons of Romuald’s success lay in his refounding hermit life on a new basis—it is one mark of a genius to turn existing tendencies to new and profitable account. In the monastery all were made welcome; to the hermitage those were promoted whose temper proved their fitness for a solitary life. At the present time only a small wing of the monastery was inhabited by the monks, who rented it from the Government, the vast conglomerate of buildings having been turned into a hotel. But the hermitage up among the moun............