ANTICOLI CORRADO - A TOWN OF MODELS.

Perched high up on the very apex of a conical mountain of 2000 feet is a little town called Anticoli Corrado, not more than two hours and a half by train from Rome. It is the home of the artist’s model; when the season is over, and the painters have deserted their studios for the fresh air of the mountains, the model also hurries off to his mountain home to help get in the harvest of grain and grapes, and at the same time renew the health and vigor which he has to a certain extent lost by constant hard work in the overheated studios of the capital.

It was because I could find no suitable model in Capri that I packed up my painting traps and started for this veritable artists’ paradise, where, I was told, every one of the inhabitants was a model, and I should be able to get what I wanted.

It is a most romantic spot this Anticoli Corrado, a conical mountain with a mediaeval town on the summit, rising abruptly from a valley richly cultivated, through which runs a river containing some splendid trout. Looking at the town from the valley you wonder how on earth you are going to get up there, especially after a glance at the splay-wheeled trap awaiting you, tied up with bits of string and wire, and drawn by a miserable skeleton of a mule ; but get there you do, and a most delightful drive it turns out to be. I arrived late at night; the full moon was just showing up from behind the old castle tower, throwing a tender light over the grey-gold of the harvest that covered every available spot on the precipitous slopes of the mountain, whilst the fireflies under the shadows of the old grey walls made little ghostly streaks of dancing light.

Arriving at the low, dark archway that gives entry to the town, I descended from my trap, and after mounting innumerable steps and stairways reached at last the old ruined castle, part of which is now used as a pension. Here I found fifteen or twenty artists of all nationalities already installed. It was the simple life here with a vengeance — no luxuries, in fact for the first few days breakfast consisted of brown bread and a bowl of hot goat’s milk ; the succulent rasher was only a thing to be dreamt of. Quite the Latin Quarter type of artist was in evidence — plenty of dark flowing hair and négligéties. There were also writers, poets, and sculptors, but no strangers whatever, no trippers — they never come here. After dinner other painters and their wives would drop in, which meant, of course, an impromptu dance to be held in the banqueting hall of the old castle, a vast, heavy oak-beamed room, the mysterious shadows of which the two swinging smoky paraffin lamps failed to penetrate.

There must have been quite fifty or sixty artists and their wives in the town, so that it was decided to give a carnival, to be carried out as only a community of artists could carry it out. The costumes were to suit the picturesque surroundings of rocks, vines, and olive groves; the garnered harvest that lay heaped up under the century-old olive-trees was to form part of the setting of the picture, the whole scene lit by the harvest moon. The wine-god Bacchus was to be chief of revels attended by nymphs, fauns, and satyrs. An ideal spot was chosen in an olive grove, high up on the mountain overlooking the valley. Festoons of arbutus and myrtle were hung from tree to tree, small temples were fashioned out of green foliage, from which the red wine was dispensed gratis, in the name of the wine-god, by shepherds whose loins were girt with goat-skins.

The eventful evening arrived. All being ready, a bullock’s horn was sounded from the summit of the hill. Suddenly in the distance came the clash of cymbal and the sound of pipe, followed by singing, shouts of laughter, and the blowing of Neptune’s conch shells.

Then this wonderful procession came winding slowly up the hill, threading its way between rocks and trees, headed by dancing fauns and satyrs waving flaring torches which threw a weird red glow over the fantastic scene.

Next came four huge, sleepy old oxen, their massive necks garlanded with flowers, and drawing an ancient-looking wooden sleigh actually in use at the present day. On this was a cask decorated with vine leaves, astride of which sat Bacchus; on either side danced nymph and faun, god and goddess. Following these came ancient goatherds driving flocks of goats, then a crowd of boys, their naked brown bodies wreathed in flowers and gleaming in the torchlight.

Such types for an artist! It was so real, and the surrounding landscape so appropriate, that one quite forgot one was looking upon anything but an actual revel of the old Roman days. A tall young fellow, the son of the Italian artist Correlli, took the character of Actaeon, his figure looking like a bronze statue. Of course all the models were in evidence. Foremost was the well-known Gigi Moro, playing his sampone, a species of bagpipe — a splendid type! A short time ago he was commanded to play before the Queen of Italy. Gigi Moro was the favourite model of the celebrated artist Michetti.

Amidst shouts and clash of cymbal the procession wound its way among the olive-trees to the top of the hill; here Bacchus addressed his retinue, who then dispersed among the trees. Try to picture to yourself those groups of fauns, satyrs, and nymphs, scattered about under the olives, the warm air, heavy with the scent of flowers and grain, and over all the soft light of that harvest moon; then at a little distance, lit by flaring torches, a circle of brown-skinned, garlanded boys and girls dancing a wild dance to the weird music of the old shepherd’s sampone, accompanied by the rhythmic beat of the onlookers’ big brown hands, and you have a picture not to be met with or equaled anywhere save at Anticoli Corrado, at the foot of the wild, majestic Abruzzi.

Crowds of natives in their own picturesque costume added to the scene, dancing being kept up till dawn on an ancient threshing-floor, no doubt used for this purpose many a time in the olden days. The natives are so primitive in their ways that all their harvesting implements are fashioned out of wood cut in the surrounding forests ; the ploughs are most primitive in form, the corn trodden out by the unmuzzled ox, then winnowed by the summer’s breeze, and ground into flour in large wooden mortars by massive pestles.

Towards evening, as the sun sets, hundreds of peasants come down into the town from the mountains driving oxen, pigs, and goats, into what was once the castle yard, the donkeys and mules laden with grain carried in tub- shaped panniers. A sight also worth seeing are the girls who come at this hour to the fountain in the piazza, carrying their wonderful-shaped copper pitchers, each girl waiting her turn, laughing and joking with the artists who assemble there to choose their models. Such color! Such marvelous types! All with a natural grace that defies description. Can you wonder at the fascination and charm this place has for the artist ?

In the town, of course, there are no roads, only steep, narrow steps twisting and turning in every direction, giving glimpses of wonderful ancient doorways and heavy paneled doors, studded with large square-headed iron nails, wrought-iron locks and fastenings hundreds of years old, for each of these fortified towns on the mountains was in continuous warfare one with the other.

There is no begging, no pestering the artist as at other places. Most of the painters work out of doors, painting the nude in the open air under the vines; it is very seldom that a studio is used, although they can be got at a reasonable price—say 20 francs a month.

Of course there are no shops, no cafe's, the only meeting-place being a little tobacco-shop kept by two dark-eyed sisters, once models. The place is so small, however, that you prefer of an evening to sit outside and drink your glass of Protto, watching the endless procession of picturesque figures pass before you; only you must beware of the pigs that are rushing about by hundreds ! Every one owns at least six, and they may knock you over, table and all! I’ve often seen a tiny child of five on its way home take a double hitch with its little fist round the family pig’s tail and be hauled through the Piazza, followed by the admiring family, all heavily laden with implements of the field and gleaned corn.

Yes! Anticoli Corrado for the artist takes a lot of beating ! F. H.

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