The Lisbon Earthquake (Part 2).

In yesterday’s post I suggested that our mediæval ancestors’ reaction to a natural disaster would be different from ours. Yes, they would be horrified and grief-stricken but they wouldn’t have seen it as calling into question the benevolence of God. Amongst the dead the baptised infant below the age of reason would, ipso facto, be in Paradise; the decent adult in Purgatory; and the evil-doer in Hell, so saving potential  victims from his attentions.   

   But this does not mean the more thoughtful would not have wondered why such events occurred. There were two answers -  one of which, though it has its attractions, no longer holds water; the other might. The first stems from the concept of the Great Chain of Being made familiar by Tillyard to English undergrads in the sixties. Rattle any bit of the chain which links the angels and saints, humankind arranged hierarchically, animals, plants and inanimate objects, and the consequences are felt along its length. We are all too aware today how human greed and stupidity impinge on the animal kingdom and the material make-up of the planet. Unfortunately we are also aware of Darwin, so can’t really buy in to the idea that imperfections in the natural order - earthquakes and volcanoes - are a consequence of the Fall. We know that the tectonic plates began moving millions of years before the human race came into existence.

   The second concept is memorably expressed by Chaucer in Troilus and Criseyde:

           … O, Fortune, executrice of wierdes,

          O influences of thise hevenes hye!

        Soth is, that, under god, ye ben our hierdes,

         Though to us bestes been the causes wrye.

In other words, things only seem to happen arbitrarily because we don’t have the whole picture. In reality every event is a jigsaw piece and God’s got the box with the illustration. The idea is given flesh in Chaucer’s The Franklin’s Tale, and most poignantly of all in Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet.

  In Chaucer’s story, Dorigen, awaiting her husband’s return to Brittany from England, upbraids God for having created the dangerous rocks which could sink her husband’s ship. 

    'Eterne god, that thurgh thy purveyaunce

     Ledest the world by certein governaunce,

    In ydel, as men seyn, ye no-​thing make;

     But, lord, thise grisly feendly rokkes blake,

    That semen rather a foul confusioun

    Of werk than any fair creacioun

    Of swich a parfit wys god and a stable,

     Why han ye wroght this werk unresonable?

     For by this werk, south, north, ne west, ne eest,

      Ther nis y-​fostred man, ne brid, ne beest;

Pestered by an amorous squire, Aurelius, Dorigen jokingly promises to  sleep with him if he can get rid of the rocks. At vast expense, he hires a magician to create the optical illusion that the rocks have gone. Her husband, Arveragus, having returned, Dorigen reveals her rash promise. He tells her she must keep her word, otherwise she loses all integrity. When she arrives in tears to keep her promise Aurelius is moved by her distress to release her from her vow. He, in turn, begs the magician to let him pay him in instalments, or he will face financial ruin. Hearing what’s transpired, the magician waives his fee. God has answered Dorigen’s question: the rocks are the necessary cause of a chain of noble deeds.

   Unlike Shakespeare’s other tragedies, Romeo and Juliet is not an aristotelean work: events are not the consequence of a tragic flaw. On the contrary, the protagonists’ innocence is stressed. Instead it embodies the mediæval concept of tragedy as an integral part of the human condition: once we step on the wheel of fortune it will for a time carry us aloft until inevitably its revolution plunges us into the depths. But although the lovers’ deaths are tragic they are necessary to bring redemption. Their:

     … misadventur’d piteous overthrows

    Doth with their death bury their parents’ strife

    … And the continuance of their parents’ rage, 

    Which, but their children’s end, nought could remove.

Today, only the lunatic fringe of the American evangelical right sees natural disasters forming part of any over-arching divine plan. According to Pat Robertson the Haitian earthquake was a punishment for a pact with the devil. One would have thought France, which until 1947 extorted ‘reparations’ from its former colony for the losses incurred by the expelled slave owners, might have been a more suitable target. 

   So, whatever he said, John Sentamu was stuffed. If he’d replied, ‘Stuff happens. But the souls of the righteous are in the hand of God, and there shall no torment touch them. In the sight of the unwise they seemed to die: and their departure is taken for misery, And their going from us to be utter destruction : but they are in peace,’ he’d be accused of insensitive escapism. If he dodged the issue, as he did, he’d be equally unconvincing. In an age of disbelief perhaps the only effective answer is to address the issue we can all agree on: the yahoo lurking beneath the surface in all human beings, though pretty close to it in the likes of Pat Robertson. To ask why the disaster in Port-au-Prince was so much worse than the one in L’Acquila nine months earlier. Perhaps the French being allowed to bleed dry a desperately impoverished country might supply part of the answer.

The Lisbon Earthquake (Part 1).

Exactly two weeks ago, whilst sitting enthroned in my bathroom I heard and felt, what I thought was a bang on the door. It wasn’t: it was an earthquake centred on Loro Piceno around 20 kilometres away. Fortunately it only measured 4.5 on the Richter scale and was about 20 km deep. There was no damage.

  Today, our parish priest announced that the collection would be sent to aid the victims of the earthquake in Haiti - they hadn’t been so lucky: 7 points and near the surface.

  In the interval between these two events I heard the Anglican Archbishop of York being grilled on the Today programme. The poor man was having to attempt to reconcile the Christian belief in an omnipotent and all-loving God with the devastation wreaked by his creation on the unlucky sods living in Port-au-Prince. Ever since Voltaire’s demolition of Leibniz after the Lisbon earthquake, that’s been a tough call. Inevitably John Sentamu made an embarrassingly poor fist of it, muttering platitudes about God being there suffering alongside the victims. Try telling that to mother’s whose baby’s just been crushed to death.

  However, I suspect his pre-reformation Catholic predecessors would have had an easier job. These days we wander down a pick-and-mix counter of beliefs either selecting astrology, Buddhism, Islam or Christianity in any of its multifarious guises or, alternatively, deciding not to buy at all but to go down the road to Dawkins & Co who have a much more up-to-date selection. In the middle ages you had Catholicism and that was it. Everybody you’d ever met or even heard of was a Catholic, belief wasn’t an option, it was as much part of life as the sun coming up in the morning or going down at night. And the Church taught that this life was just a small and finite part of an eternal existence, solely important as a determinant of where you spent that eternity. The Archbishop of York may well believe this today, though, his being an Anglican, it’s difficult to be sure. Even some of the Today programme’s audience may share the belief. But what none of them will share is our mediæval ancestors’ experience of it not as a belief but an undisputed fact, a given. To have that you need the intellectual hegemony which the Church exercised 500 years ago.                  

  The nearest modern equivalent is the West’s belief in democracy. Apart from the odd BNP nutter, we instinctively share Churchill’s belief that despite its weaknesses parliamentary democracy is the best political system on offer. A mother whose son gave his life defending Britain against Nazi Germany would have felt the same anguish felt by the Haitian survivors today. But behind the pain would be the knowledge that his death was part of a larger pattern which gave it a positive meaning. And maybe that gave some comfort. Similarly, whilst the pain of bereavement was no less acute in the Middle Ages, behind the grief was the knowledge that the loss was not final. Luther, Calvin and Zwingli destroyed that world for ever. We may well feel the change was for the good. But in losing that world we’ve lost the only thing which could comfort us in the face of a natural disaster.

Gli alimentari di Ponte Am.

Many years ago, when we first bought the house here, Fabio jestingly referred to the village as Montefalcone Upwellnino. He had a point: whether they’re situated below sea-level in the Cambridgeshire fens, or two and a half thousand feet up the Sibillini foothills, rural communities have quite a bit in common.

   And not only real locations. At the moment life is once again imitating art: Ambridge is exploring the possibility of the community running the village shop - the driving force being Pat Archer. With startling synchronicity, my real-life Pat was invited to a meeting to discuss the future of the organic grocer’s in Servigliano, Ritorno alla Terra, the local equivalent of Ambridge Organics in Borchester,

   Although I didn’t have high expectations of last night’s meeting - and alas they weren’t disappointed - I went with her. And here any parallel with Ambridge ends. To kick off with, the meeting began at 9.30 in the evening. Because of the three hour Italian lunch-break days are structured differently here (see October 7th’s entry). You begin work earlier than in England and you finish much later: so, once you’ve allowed time for people to have supper, evening events begin at what seems to an Englishman an ungodly hour. The second difference, though, was less to do with national culture than the gulf between fiction and reality. In The Archers the meeting about the village shop was efficiently chaired by Pat and focused. In the real world community activists, particularly when they subscribe to ‘alternative’ life-styles are usually far less effective. We patronised an organic shop in Wisbech. The proprietor was a pleasant woman, if a little inclined to melancholy, and she stocked some otherwise unobtainable items. But it wasn’t awfully clean, and, unsurprisingly, she didn’t really have a business brain: to succeed commercially your main aim has to be making a profit not saving the planet. She ceased trading some years ago, despite holding a meeting of like-minded customers to try to save the shop. Ritorno alla Terra is cleaner, but the stock-control is worse. Pat’s often returned with items she found to be well past their sell-by date when she unpacked them. 

   The smell of joss-sticks as we walked into the meeting confirmed our worst fears. The shop’s  staff kicked off the meeting by introducing themselves and giving a brief history of the co-operative and its founding vision: a bucolic utopia in which people return to the countryside and recreate the close familial and community ties which modern society has lost. Although I’ve some sympathy with the pastoral vision, it’s not going to happen - I think Hardy probably had the last word on the subject in The Woodlanders. Montefalcone is surrounded by woods, but the trees stand on terraces and are relative newcomers. Until the late fifties these precipitous narrow strips of land were farmed.  Farming so back-breakingly arduous as to make the trials endured by Depardieu in Jean de Florette seem nothing. And outside Lombardy that’s what farming involves in Italy: scrabbling up a hillside, not placidly following a team of plough horses across an East Anglian plain.  Fat chance of most Italians wanting to return to that I’d say.

   But a popular dream with a certain sort of English person, the ‘let’s move abroad and renovate a ruin in the middle of nowhere’ reality-programme audience. And they were represented at the meeting, eager to participate in the next stage of the meeting. This seemed to be modelled on an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting or a born-again God-botherers’ service. Everybody in turn made a statement - perhaps ‘gave testimony’ or ‘bore witness’ would be more appropriate terms - about why they were attracted to the organic movement. Pat and I declined, saying tactfully, ‘Siamo qui solo per ascoltare ed imparare’.

   And - after two and a half hours - that was it. Apart from a scheme to send youngsters to spend time on small holdings and introducing the co-op’s wares into hospitals there were no concrete proposals or sub-committees to implement them. But, a consoling thought,  the latter’s absence means you don’t have to worry about finding yourself on one with Susan Carter!

Jimminy Clarkson.

I must confess to rather liking Jeremy Clarkson. Or more accurately, as I’ve never met the man, to finding his television persona engaging. And all this despite my being a bearded, Guardian-reading socialist: the embodiment of all that Clarkson despises. Like Ken Clarke, Boris Johnson and the late Alan Clark he seems authentic - the opinions may be outrageous, but they’re his, and delivered with a bonhomie and self-irony which charms the listener. Although much of Top Gear is tediously repetitive, and filled with nerdish details which make train-spotting or cricket seem like fun, the interaction between Clarkson and the Hamster and Captain Slow is usually entertaining. But until yesterday I’d always been puzzled by the team’s ability to experience an orgasm whilst sitting in the front seat of a car, alone, and with both hands on the steering-wheel.

   To explain. Yesterday I took the car for its 100,005 km service. Our garage is on the coast, a good hour’s drive away and this being Italy, even minor services take hours. In the summer that’s not a problem: after a coffee and croissant in the nearest bar I buy a paper and wander down to the front to read it. This is followed by a leisurely lunch in a fish restaurant by which time Arnaldo rings my mobile to tell me the car is ready. Winter is different: there is nothing to do in Porto Sant’Elpidio apart from walking for miles along the Adriatica to the shopping centre, and even that’s out of the question when it’s raining. Accordingly my heart sank when Arnaldo explained that our Forester wouldn’t be ready until the evening. I therefore tentatively asked if it would be possible to borrow a car. Unlike England, courtesy cars are a rarity in Italy. In Norfolk our Subaru dealer delighted in lending Pat the latest model, in the hope no doubt of tempting her to buy it. Sometimes he was successful. To my surprise and delight Arnaldo rummaged through a pile of keys, took me outside and said, ‘The white one.’ The car was old and the radio didn’t work - but it was an Imprezza! And what a world of difference from a Forester. Taut handling, acceleration which pinned you to the back of the seat, and aaargh that throaty roar. And as I creamed my jeans, not having been so exhilarated since I traded in my Kawasaki half a lifetime ago, I suddenly saw the light. For a second I too became a believer in the four-wheeled gods of Jeremy Clarkson.

Jazzer, Fosca and Meg.

Last night I finished reading Fosca by the scapigliato [member of the 19th century bohemian group of writers centred on Milan], Igino Ugo Tarchetti, given to me by Irish Paul’s wife, Paola. It’s a first-person psychological novel about the self-destructive relationship of the handsome Giorgio with the extremely ugly, highly neurotic, and sickly Fosca. She throws herself at Giorgio despite his having no feelings for her, other than intermittent pity. Fosca accurately sums up herself in a letter to Giorgio:

        Io nacqui malata: uno dei sintomi più gravi e più profondi della mia infermità era il bisogno che  sentiva di affezionarmi a tutto ciò che mi circondava, ma in modo  violento, subito, estremo. [I’ve been ill from birth. One of the deepest and most serious effects of the sickness has been my violent, impetuous and abject need to  feel loved by everyone around me.]

She, at least, has self-awareness; Giorgio despite his penchant for introspection, has little. In this respect he resembles Emily Brontë’s Nelly Dean and Ishiguro’s Stevens: a narrator who is blind to the significance of what’s he’s narrating. In a masterly fashion Tarchetti conveys to the reader what the narrator is unaware of: his moral illiteracy  - revealed by his reaction to the letter from his beautiful mistress, Clara, breaking off their relationship. She’s done so because her husband’s finances have taken a sudden  and catastrophic turn for the worse. She rightly feels that she needs to stand by him and their child, despite her love for Giorgio. Rather than sympathy and understanding for her plight there is only fury;

    Tal cosa non poteva immaginata che da un essere mostruosamente ingrato, mostruosamente crudele. Io aveva amato questo essere. [One can’t conceive of    any creature that isn’t  monstrously ungrateful and cruel behaving like this. And I had loved such a one.]

He consequently decides that Fosca is the woman for him because:

    Quella donna mi ha amato, ella sola mi ha amato veracemente. [That woman has loved me. Only she has really loved me.]

And he goes off to consummate their relationship, demonstrating that for Giorgio love is not about giving oneself but satisfying his ego, even in the arms of a woman he finds repulsive. Fosca  dies three days later. Unlike Dobbin, in Vanity Fair, she wasn’t disillusioned when she finally won the long sought object of her affections, because for her,  as for Giorgio love is about self-gratification, not mutual affection. 

   Meanwhile The Archers is running a comic variant on the theme of unreciprocated love. Jazzer, who up till now thought love was a four-letter word beginning with s and ending with g, has decided that Fallon, the daughter of the local pub’s landlady, is the girl he wants to settle down with. They get on well, but as far as Fallon is concerned they are friends, not potential lovers, and she tries to tell him.  He hears the words but doesn’t get the message and thinks if he takes things slowly Fallon will come round. Fat chance I’d say.

   And finally to Meg. She’s on heat, so our walks are accompanied by a bevy of assorted swains, including two we normally like - Lupo’s dog, Rasta, and Valentino’s, Libero. Like Giorgio and Fosca they’re only interested in self-gratification - in their case carnal rather than psychological. The problem is that unlike Fallon and Jazzer both parties are up for it - the expression a bitch on heat has become disturbingly concrete. Trying to prevent access to her rear-end has made walks a nightmare. But once her season’s ended things will be back to normal - she and Libero will be good friends again with no psychological hang-ups or smouldering resentments. And a dog’s life is meant to be a deprecatory term!