Messina 1908: Calamity, Charity & Philately

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Grove Koger

It was one of the most devastating natural disasters in modern European history. The Sicilian city of Messina, which lies on the strait separating the island from the toe of the Italian boot, was struck by a massive earthquake at about 5:20 on the morning of December 28, 1908. Within minutes, a 40-foot tsunami then swept through the strait and pushed inland for miles. The twin calamities left Messina in ruins, and Reggio di Calabria and other nearby settlements on the peninsula suffered much the same fate. The total death toll may have run to as many as 100,000 people or more.

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The Italian army and navy began rescue efforts immediately, and other countries dispatched their ships to aid in the operation. Within a short period of time, a number of countries also began raising humanitarian funds in what may seem like an unusual manner. They printed stamps in a series of shared designs, with proceeds going to help the many victims. But these weren’t really postage stamps; you couldn’t mail anything with them. But you could add them to letters carrying official stamps, and in Italy itself, thanks to a royal decree, they were postmarked. (Those cancellations increase the value of the stamps and the envelopes they’re attached to—a point of considerable interest to collectors.)

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The stamps, which collectors categorize as labels or “cinderellas,” were triangular in shape. One series involved ten simple images of landmarks and the like, and were printed se-tenant (that is, together on single sheets) in ten colors. In all, ten countries issued the stamps, with denominations in currencies appropriate to the particular country. Another shared series pictured the King and Queen of Italy, and were priced in higher denominations. The countries involved in this humanitarian effort were Austria, Britain, Denmark, France, Germany, Hungary, Italy, the Netherlands, Russia, and the United States.

A few other labels were also printed, with the Massachusetts branch of the American Red Cross, for instance, producing its own triangular versions.

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A century later, in 2008, Italy issued an official rectangular stamp commemorating the terrible event.

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The Messina earthquake played a minor role in the lives of two intriguing writers—Norman Douglas (1868-1952) and Frederick Rolfe (1860-1913).

Having heard in mid-May 1909 of the misery that the survivors of the quake were still suffering, Douglas took it upon himself to “cajole or blackmail” the foreigners living on Capri (then Douglas’s home) into contributing to a fund that he then carried to Messina and Reggio. “During this operation,” he wrote, “I had occasion to observe, not for the first time, that when it is a question of relieving distress the poorer folk are more generous, relatively speaking, than the wealthy ones.” Douglas published an account of what he saw in the September 1910 issue of Cornhill magazine and incorporated the material into his classic 1915 travel account Old Calabria.

The earthquake also figures in Rolfe’s strange fantasy The Desire and Pursuit of the Whole (1934). Protagonist Nicholas Crabbe (who is something of an idealized self-portrait) rescues a survivor of the catastrophe before sailing to Venice, where the rest of the novel is set.

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The image at the top of today’s post is an American stamp from the first series showing Sicily’s Mount Etna, and the third illustrates the manner in which the stamps were printed on the sheet. The photograph of damage in Messina is from the collection of Lieutenant Commander Richard Wainwright and is reproduced courtesy of the U.S. Naval History and Heritage Command. The final image shows the 2008 Italian stamp commemorating the event.

Looking Back at Santa Luzia

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Grove Koger

December 21 is the beginning of winter in the Northern Hemisphere, so it seems like an appropriate day to look back at summer in the Algarve and in Santa Luzia in particular.

Maggie and I had spent a couple of days in hectic Faro upon our arrival in Portugal in 2017, then several more in calmer Tavira, and now, in this little fishing village, we’d reached a more peaceful spot still. Nothing of importance has ever happened here, I told myself that first day. But that was a misperception. Of course things had happened, but nothing of historical importance—only the reassuring rounds of day and night, winter and summer, birth and procreation and death. You’d never mistake Santa Luzia (or anywhere else in the area) for Venice, but, like the Italian city, it feels suspended between sea and sky—a place somehow set apart outside of time.

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A long stretch of the eastern Algarve’s coast is shielded from the Atlantic by a series of narrow barrier islands—including Tavira Island—and shallow lagoons. Those lagoons are continually refreshed by currents and tides and the waters of the Rio Séqua, which, confusingly enough, is known as the Gilão as it flows through the town of Tavira and into the lagoon and ultimately the Atlantic. Santa Luzia lies a few miles southwest of Tavira on the same lagoon, and the entire coastal area, including dunes and salt pans and woodlands, is known as the Ria Formosa, a “natural park” more than 60 square miles in extent. Besides serving as nurseries for fish, the lagoons’ shallow waters attract large populations of breeding and migrating birds, and the area’s ecological importance has been recognized by the international Convention on Wetlands. But it’s also home to tens of thousands of people, many of them British and American expatriates, and it draws hordes of tourists headed for the islands’ seaward beaches in the warmer months.

We had rented an apartment a few blocks back from Santa Luzia’s waterfront, and it came with access to the building’s roof and a sweeping view of the lagoon and Isla de Tavira and the open sea beyond. From there we could watch the little ferries carrying passengers back and forth from town to the wharf (barely visible from our rooftop perch) for Terra Estreita Beach.

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The island isn’t particularly attractive in the ordinary sense of the word. A few spots have been planted with trees, including the areas behind Tavira and Barril beaches, and there are occasional clumps of delicate sea daffodils (Pancratium maritumum), but most of the sandy ground is dotted with low scrub that had turned brown in the summer heat. But the scrub is fragile and helps hold the sandy soil together, so a boardwalk has been laid down from the wharf to the beach itself. Terra Estreita is “barely” developed, meaning that there are sun beds for those who want then, along with a snack bar and toilets.

Earlier this year, the Algarve was voted Best Beach Destination in the World Travel Awards competition. For those who’ve been fortunate enough to visit such beaches as Terra Estreita, it’s no surprise.

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The image at the top of today’s post is a view of boats anchored in the lagoon a few hundred yards east of Santa Luzia. The others show our rooftop terrace (with a glimpse of the island through the archway, one of the ferries serving the beach, and a typical scene along Santa Luzia’s waterfront.

The Red Sea Renegade

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Grove Koger

Today’s post is an updated entry from my book When the Going Was Good about a remarkable French adventurer who died on December 13, 1974.

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Henri de Monfreid: Secrets of the Red Sea (Les secrets de la mer Rouge. Paris: Grasset, 1931); Sea Adventures (Aventures de mer) Paris: Grasset, 1932); and Hashish: Adventures of a Red Sea Smuggler (La croisière du hachich. Paris: Grasset, 1933)

Son of an artist who had settled in the south of France, Henri de Monfreid fell in love with the sea as a child, refitting a beached boat and sailing during his summer vacations with the region’s fishing fleet. Despite a forced apprenticeship in business, he was drawn to the bohemian lifestyle of his father, and in 1910 he attempted to bridge the gulf between these two worlds by taking a position with a trading firm operating in Abyssinia (now Ethiopia and Eritrea) and the tiny colony of French Somaliland (Djibouti) at the southern end of the Red Sea.

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Yet even in the Horn of Africa, de Monfreid felt stifled by the “terrible yoke” of conventional trading and the bourgeois atmosphere of the European settlements. Buying his own boat, he began dealing in pearls, eventually branching out into firearms and hashish, goods legal or illegal depending on the year, the country, and (seemingly) the direction of the wind. At one point he spied on the Turks for the French, soon to be official enemies with the onset of World War I, but the latter eventually grew tired of his independent ways and imprisoned him for smuggling arms. The British, who admired him no more than did the French, called him the Sea Wolf. As one observer put it, he was “the most remarkable figure from Suez to Bombay.”

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De Monfreid was approached in the late 1920s by admiring writer Ida Treat, who took down his life story and published it in 1930 as Pearls, Arms and Hashish. Soon afterward, de Monfreid began writing his own books, eventually turning out dozens of vivid volumes of memoirs and fiction and attaining cult status in his native country. Three of the first of these—Secrets of the Red Sea, Sea Adventures, and Hashish—form a natural unit describing his exploits up and down the Red Sea and the eastern Mediterranean. As he explained near the end of his life, de Monfreid had “isolated” himself among “primitive people—or, more accurately, men joined with Nature in an immutable and perfect equilibrium—in order that [he] could consciously remain her creature.” The man who emerges from these event-charged pages is impulsive and in love with freedom and the sea, a renegade who excites the envy of some and the hatred of others but who cares little for the opinion of either.

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There’s no biography of de Monfreid in English, but the 1974 Hillstone edition of Hashish  published as Adventures of a Red Sea Smuggler includes a preface by philosopher/novelist Colin Wilson. You’ll find quite a bit of information online, including several book reviews from the Journal of the British-Yemeni Society at https://al-bab.com/albab-orig/albab/bys/journal.htm. A small museum has been opened at de Monfreid’s final home in Ingrandes, France, and Le Centre Français d’Archéologie et de Sciences Sociales in Sana’a, Yemen, changed its name a few years ago to Le Centre Culturel Henry de Monfreid in honor of the adventurer, although its current status in that war-torn country is unclear. A video at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hyCKJmyZ_VI&t=1s shows de Monfreid’s crew apparently stealing a pile of mangrove timber, although no context for the escapade is provided.

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The top image is the cover of my 1973 Stonehill edition of Hashish and features an illustration by Ted Bernstein and a design by Nancy Greenberg. The photograph of de Monfreid and an unidentified crewman aboard ship is reproduced from the site of the British-Yemeni Society. The covers of the 1930 Coward-McCann edition of Pearls, Arms and Hashish(with de Monfreid’s name misspelled) and the 1946 Penguin edition of Sea Adventures are scanned from my own collection, while the fourth cover image is a photograph of a later Grasset printing of Les secrets de la mer Rouge. The map of the Red Sea is by H.W. Mardon and was printed by George Philip & Son for the London Geographical Institute about 1903.

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I mention de Monfreid along with several other louche characters in my story “That Burton MS,” which appeared in La Piccioletta Barca in 2019. See https://www.picciolettabarca.com/posts/burton-ms.

Vespers in Ragusa

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Grove Koger

Over the years, I’ve “collected” classical music associated with the places I’ve visited (or would like to), and one of the pieces on my list is the nocturne “Ragusa” by American composer Ernest Schelling, who died on December 8, 1939.

In his heyday, Schelling was a renowned pianist, composer, and conductor. Born in New Jersey in 1876 to an English mother and a Swiss father, he debuted at the age of four at the Academy of Music in Philadelphia. He went on to study in Europe with several prominent musicians, including famed Polish pianist and patriot Ignace Paderewski, whose friend he quickly became. The relationship was a factor in Schelling’s decision to enlist in the U.S. Army during World War I, and led to his working in Poland (which had been occupied by Germany and Austria) with Paderewski, who served as that country’s prime minister at war’s end. But fame is fleeting, and I probably would never have learned of Schelling if I hadn’t heard “Ragusa” on YouTube.

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Before I proceed, however, here’s a bit of information about the place that inspired Schelling. Ragusa is the historical name of the city of Dubrovnik, which was a domain of the Venetian Empire from 1000 to 1030 and again from 1205 to 1358. Dubrovnik lies in Dalmatia, which was once a Roman province and which formed part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire from 1867 to 1918, when it became part of the Kingdom of Yugoslavia. Since the disintegration of Yugoslavia in 1991, it’s been the unofficial name of the southern region of Croatia.

Schelling’s interest in the region was inspired by a cruise down the Dalmatian coast, although I haven’t been able to determine its date. As he explained in a letter in 1928, he was “deeply impressed” by the coast’s “melancholy beauty” and was inspired to write down his impressions. “Mr. Paderewski did me the honor to ask me to write for him a short Barcarolle to be played on his programs for his tour,” continued Schelling, “and so I wrote this Nocturne.” When the piece was published in 1926, Schelling dedicated it “To my master, I.J. Paderewski.”

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The first page of the published work bears the lines of a poem by an unidentified author, who I suspect was Schelling himself working in an archaizing mode (as he was in choosing his title): “Chapels of the Dalmatian Coast half hidden on the rugged heights / Send out a silvery vesper call, / Ragusa of haunting charm and glorious past, / Its flickering lights lit one by one, / Mirage of  Venice adrift / Across the Sapphire Sea.”

“Ragusa” quickly became one of Paderewski’s favorites, and during the 1924 season alone, he performed it 78 times. He also recorded it for Victor Records three years later, and that’s the version you can hear on YouTube at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3pqWelrMsSM.

In her notes to a 1996 selection of Schelling’s works on Albany Records, pianist Mary Louise Boehm wrote of the work’s “haunting mood, the gradual emergence of sparkling rhythms, its shifting colors and dramatic dynamics, ranging from softest pianissimo to full sonorous fortissimo. Here Schelling creates a tone poem almost orchestral, with the sound of bells, first in the distance and then climaxing in the deep tones of the bourdon. The music fades away on soft, dreamy glissandi, alternatingly on the black and the white keys.” A bourdon, by the way, is the lowest bell in a set.

I can’t help repeating Boehm’s adjective: Schelling’s composition is indeed haunting, and I’m amazed it isn’t better known. I’ve been lucky enough to have sailed up and down the Dalmatian coast several times myself, and the somber beauty of its rugged limestone profile at twilight (the time of Vespers, or Evening Prayer) is beyond my ability to express credibly in words. But Schelling was able to capture it in music.

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The painting “View of the Bay of Ragusa” is by Edward Lear. The photograph of Schelling and his dog aboard ship dates from about 1915 and is reproduced courtesy of the George Grantham Bain Collection, Library of Congress, and Cunard Archives. The American stamp honoring Paderewski dates from 1960. Frustratingly enough, I haven’t been able to identify the painting attached to the YouTube recording, and while it probably doesn’t depict the Dalmatian coast, it fits the mood of the piece perfectly.

Update 12/8/20: My friend Elaine Watson has identified the image attached to the YouTube video as Nocturne, Lake Como, a pastel by Charles Warren Eaton (1857-1937). At least it’s the right continent!