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Title: Letters from a Mourning City (Naples. Autumn, 1884)
Author: Munthe, Axel Martin Fredrik (1857-1949)
Translator: White, Maude Valrie (1855-1937)
Date of first publication: 1887
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   London: John Murray, 1887
   [first edition]
Date first posted: 20 June 2012
Date last updated: 20 June 2012
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #958

This ebook was produced by Barbara Watson
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Canada Team
at http://www.pgdpcanada.net

This ebook was produced from images generously made
available by the Internet Archive






LETTERS
FROM
A MOURNING CITY




[Illustration: _Assistants._]




LETTERS
FROM
A MOURNING CITY

(Naples. Autumn, 1884)


BY
AXEL MUNTHE


_TRANSLATED FROM THE SWEDISH BY_
MAUDE VALRIE WHITE


LONDON
JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET
1887




_Printed by_ R. & R. Clark, _Edinburgh_.




PREFACE


These letters date from a little trip to Naples during the autumn of
1884. They were written by a tourist who had given himself a holiday,
and who had made straight for the place to which he felt himself most
attracted. The people amongst whom he moved were hampered by no sort of
authority, no more was he; no sort of tie bound him to any sort of
recognised organisation whatsoever. He went where he pleased as in
former days. He is an old traveller, and like most people who have been
a good deal abroad, has given up writing his name in the Visitors' Book.
Unknown he arrived, and unknown, thank God, he took himself off.

These letters, which first appeared in the Stockholm _Dagblad_, were
written under circumstances scarcely favourable to literary pursuits,
and in a frame of mind not calculated to inspire polished phrases and
well-turned figures of speech,--they were written _sur pied de guerre_.
It was only after considerable hesitation that the author consented to
their publication in book form, and then his first idea was to work them
out, correct their numerous deficiencies, and suppress whatever struck
him as unsatisfactory. That plan, however, he was obliged to abandon,
for he soon discovered that were he to carry it out, very few of them
would survive the operation. He then made up his mind to let them be,
leaving the task of suppression to the critic. Something might be
allowed to stand over, he hoped, his affectionate gratitude to Italy if
nothing else.

And let it be remembered that he rode a broken-winded little donkey, no
strong-winged Pegasus--do not forget that the donkey was so tiny that he
could not prevent his legs from dragging along the ground.

Besides which, Rosina is old and failing; it will not do to be too hard
upon her, if only for the sake of leaving her undisturbed in the
philosophical researches which she still continues to pursue. He has no
such eloquent reasons to urge on his behalf; but before the critics make
up their minds to eat him up alive, let them look out, for it is just
possible that they might swallow a few cholera microbes into the
bargain. . . .

Paris, _December_ 1886.




I


"Partenza _per Napoli_!" So rang the cry through the railway station in
Rome.

We were a crowd of travellers gathered together in the refreshment room,
all busy eating; I was tired and hungry after my long journey, and had
just retired into a corner where I was utilising the few remaining
moments in hastily swallowing my Roman luncheon. The man who had
announced the train looked in at the door, but no one stirred from their
seat; he then came up to the table at which I was sitting, and all the
occupants of the dining-room dropped their knives and forks in utter
astonishment, eyeing me with considerable curiosity as he said to me:
"_Lei va a Napoli,  vero?_"

Yes, I certainly was going to Naples, and hurried off immediately to
secure a good place; an unnecessary precaution, for when the train
started I was alone in the _coup_, at Marino I discovered that I was
alone in the carriage, and at Albano it became quite evident that I was
the only passenger in the train.

An appalling stench of carbolic acid filled the carriages.

Never before had I travelled at such a pace in Italy. The train rushed
madly over Velletri, Segni, Anagni, Ferentino--all old acquaintances of
former travelling days--and before I knew where I was, we had reached
Ceprano, where there was a delay of five minutes, as I found out from
the guard, who was bestowing all his attention on me, seeing that there
was no other hope of a _pourboire_ in the train. Ceprano is the usual
resting-place between Rome and Naples; I just happened to remember that
a particularly good old wine was obtainable in this part of the world,
and ran hastily into the refreshment room; but it was empty, and an old
woman who sat outside spinning, informed me that nothing was to be had
there: "_Non vengono pi nessuni_," said she sadly.

On we sped over Liris, the beautiful river with the beautiful name, and
to the left, high up on the mountain, lay the gray old convent of Monte
Casino, greeting me with peaceful recollections of bygone times, of
quiet working-days spent amongst the convent archives, where I had
turned over many a monk-written chronicle and dreamed thoughts, how
different to the actual thoughts of the present day. . . .

And the train rushed noisily on over Teano, Sparanisi, Pignataro, over
the valley of Volturno, gradually approaching the land of summer. Before
us lay the Terra di Lavoro in all the splendour of its gorgeous
colouring, the green elm-trees and fragrant roses had quite forgotten
that summer was over, but the vines were glowing in all their rich
autumnal beauty, and heavy clusters of ripe grapes were waiting to yield
their young wine.

It was just beginning to grow dusky, and I suppose I must have fallen
asleep for a minute or so; I recollect being under the impression that
the smell of carbolic acid was increasing every moment, and was
gradually spreading through the open windows all down the road along
which we were travelling. An icy draught, as though some one had opened
the door, blew over me, extinguishing the lamp that hung from the
ceiling; I shivered suddenly, an irresistible inexplicable feeling that
I was no longer alone, shot through me, and I felt the cold perspiration
on my forehead. And at the same time it seemed to me that the carriage
had turned into a coffin, flying rapidly over the dusky plains, and that
Death and I were alone together, and beneath my closed eyelids I felt my
gloomy fellow-traveller gazing fixedly at me from the corner
opposite. . . .

Slight carbolic acid poisoning + sleepless night + considerable nervous
excitement, eh, doctor? But anyhow the lamp was out.

At Capua a man really did turn up who was going on by the same train; he
came to the door of my carriage, and, contrary to my usual habits, I
felt quite sociably inclined. He had a head like Augustus, and the proud
mouth relaxed into a derisive smile at the strong smell of carbolic acid
that met him as he opened the door. I felt ashamed of my funereal
meditations, and thought to myself: here at any rate is a fellow who
does not know what fear is. Such at least was the impression he gave me;
he glanced at me that very moment, as though he had been able to read my
thoughts--for an instant only, but very contemptuously, it seemed to me.

We made no attempt at conversation, both of us were on our dignity, he
reserved as a Csar, I morose as a plebeian. The train had now reached
Caserta; desolate and deserted as all the other wayside stations.
Suddenly the door of the carriage next to ours was thrown open, and two
guards ran hastily towards the station-house, carrying between them the
conductor of the train who had been in to look at our tickets only an
hour ago; the light of the lantern fell upon the waxen face, which I
hardly recognised, so great was the terror that shone out of his wide
open eyes. The supercilious stranger and myself glanced involuntarily at
each other, and the same words fell simultaneously from our lips--_il
cholera_! And I took back all I had thought to myself when he had first
come up to the carriage sneering at the strong smell of carbolic acid,
for the brave fellow grew paler and paler, retiring into the furthermost
corner of the carriage, and binding his pocket-handkerchief tightly
round his nose and mouth. Presently the other conductor returned, and I
noticed, as he wiped the perspiration off his brow, that, half
surreptitiously, he made the sign of the cross with his hand; I beckoned
to him to come up to our carriage, and he then told me that the poor man
was the second conductor who had sickened in the train during the last
fortnight; he thought his companion would be better here in Caserta than
in Naples, where the hospitals were already overcrowded.

Naturally, since my companion had wrapped his mouth up in his
pocket-handkerchief, there was less likelihood than ever of our engaging
in conversation, and he looked angrily and suspiciously at me into the
bargain, especially after my little chat through the window with the
guard. He got out at Cancello, and the new conductor--who was now
looking after me with an amount of attention which was in inverse
proportion to the distance from Naples, where the _pourboire_ was to
make its appearance--informed me that he believed it was _il sindaco_,
the mayor of Cancello himself, whom we had had with us. It is in
Cancello that the upward mails from Naples are delayed for a whole day
to be disinfected--saturated with sulphur, sprinkled with carbolic acid,
etc. I remember wondering how far _il sindaco_ superintended this
ceremony himself, and what he would look like during the process. But it
isn't fair to be hard upon him, especially if he be no exception to the
rule that fear paves the way for cholera, for in that case he may be
lying ill at this very moment--he often came into my mind when reading
over the provincial bulletins.

And as I sat alone in the half-dark railway carriage, bright memories of
former days began to light up the road along which we were travelling.
It was again over Campagna Felice, over "the happy fields" that the
September moon was just rising; it was "Italy's paradise," and all the
joys of my youth that were again stretching out their arms to me, and
"_Napoli la bella_" that was, as of old, bidding me welcome to the sound
of song and guitar! Across the bay flew soft breezes with greetings from
Sorrento, and far away, like the most beautiful _fata morgana_ on earth,
lay the blue island of Capri floating in the distance. And the repulsive
smell of carbolic acid inside the carriage oppressed me no longer, the
withered roses of past summers filled the air again with all their
fragrance, and kindly thoughts of heartfelt gratitude to the lovely
country that lay before me, awoke from out their winter's sleep, wherein
they had lain through many a busy working-day, far off from sun and
summer.

Never before had I known the strength of the link which bound me to this
country--it is not in the bright moments of life that we realise how
deeply we cherish a friend, it is when we know him to be unhappy and in
distress, that the hidden voices of our inmost hearts break forth into
their own language, which knows not how to lie, and give utterance to
the soul's most silent thoughts. Naples lies mourning now, shall we not
all hasten thither, even as unto a fellow-creature in distress, we who
have spent such happy days in her midst, we who have learnt to love her
simple, warm-hearted, poverty-stricken children; we who have heard the
mandoline sound across the bay to the strains of "_O dolce Napoli!_" we
who from Camaldoli's convent heights have beheld the loveliest vision
that ever greeted the eye of man, when the sun goes down behind the
Ischian hills, and when the roseate light, which no brush can paint,
floods the mountains of Sorrento, when Capri spreads her veil of
ever-increasing blue across her own fair island, and over the
green-coloured velvet slopes of Vesuvius, fall the tints of that deep
violet that can never be forgotten! Dost thou remember the nightingale's
song in the groves about Sorrento, when the orange-trees were in full
bloom, when thou satest listening all through the soft, still summer's
night to the dreamy songs from some poor fisherman's boat far out on the
bay, and fellest asleep to the last sounds of "_Felicissima notte!
addio, addio!_" still ringing in thine ears, like unto a lingering
farewell to the happiest days of thy life?

And now is the time to give back to Italy a tithe of all she has given
us! Here is room for every one, poor and rich can be of equal use, here
where the distress is so great and declares itself in so many ways; here
strong arms are needed to bear the sick, here strong heads are needed to
think over and carry out the plans for allaying the misery that is
stalking through the land. You need bring nothing with you but pity for
a suffering so great that it has no name, and if the love you bore to
Italy still lives within you, so much the greater will your patience be,
so much the softer the hands that shall nurse the poor sufferers! And
if it should cost you your life, well, what of that! Is it then so
sweet to live, and is it so hard to die, when one can die in the land of
one's dreams, knowing that one has helped others to live, or if their
fate is sealed, that one has at least helped them to die! Ye who are
rich, give, give of your abundance, here are a thousand mouths crying
for bread; and ye who are poor, light ye in kindly thought a votive
candle on the altar of your silent intercessions.

Pure nervousness + innate sentimentality + blind love towards Italy +
suspicious tendency to mysticism--is the fellow a Catholic? eh, doctor?

The train glided into the Naples station. The platform was empty, not a
single gesticulating _facchino_ ready to tear the things out of your
hands, not a single one of the drivers outside, standing up on the box
of their own cabs, cracking their whips and crying, "_Ecco Signor,
buona carozzella, buonissimo cavallo!_" no deafening welcome from the
street life of Naples, in the shape of the hundred urchins who swarm
round every newcomer, swinging their arms one moment, standing on their
heads the next, with outstretched hands, crying, "_Date u soldo,
eccellenza, u bajocco, Signor!_" And my friend Pasqualino, who was
all-in-all to me last time I was here, why has he not come down to carry
my luggage home for me? yet I had certainly written to his mother, my
old padrona, asking her to prepare my former room for me. What has
become of every one? A dark and ominous silence has fallen over all the
streets, and it begins to dawn upon me why my poor Pasqualino has not
come down to meet the train.

Here we are at my old lodgings, over the doorway I read the following
words, "Closed on account of cholera-infection"--Pasqualino was dead, my
dear old landlady was dead, her black-eyed little Teresina was dead!




II


It is in times like these, in the midst of cholera and unequalled
poverty, that the popular character is brought to light and exposed in
all its weakness, but also in all its beauty. No doubt help has come
from every part of the country, from every part of the world; but even
here, as is so often the case, it is the poor who have exercised the
greatest charity, the silent self-sacrificing devotion has come from
those who have next to nothing themselves. Who has given most, the
wealthy banker who is publicly thanked for having presented the town
with 1000 francs, or the poor contadino who comes up to the hospital
dragging his only goat along with him, though he had meant to keep it
for Christmas, and the Mergellina fisherman, who, after a whole night
out at sea, silently empties the contents of his net upon the threshold
of his sick neighbour's door--have you the heart to laugh because he has
reserved a few fish and sold them under way, in order to buy the candle
which is burning now beneath the Blessed Virgin's picture in the
sickroom!

All the praise falls to the share of those aristocrats who have
presented the Relief Committee with so many pairs of sheets and shirts,
their names have figured in all the newspapers, but have they all
together given as much as the obscure young fishwife of Vico Grotta
Santa whom I saw last night? The story is not long, would you like to
hear it?

Anarella--for such is her name--had already attracted my attention
yesterday, when I was up in the little lane in which she lives; she had
even then taken my part in a discussion that had arisen between some of
her neighbours and myself. A fisherman, who shared her husband's boat,
had been struck down with cholera the day before, and had been removed
by one of the ambulance societies, almost by force, to the hospital,
where I accidentally came across him. He was still conscious, but
utterly exhausted; he cried continually for his wife and child, and as
it was out of my power to do anything for the man himself, I promised
him that I would at least go and look after them. He died shortly
afterwards. By the time I reached his home, both wife and child had been
attacked, and the wife died towards evening. She must have been a
general favourite amongst her neighbours, as far as I was able to judge
by the poignancy of their grief and the loudness of their lamentations,
and I heard a low murmur of "_avvelenatore_," "_assassino_," etc.,[1]
run through the crowd below. And I found it singularly difficult to
convince them that if I had not been able to save her, I was at least
innocent of her death--her husband's death they had expected from the
moment he had been taken to the hospital, from whence, according to the
popular belief, no one ever returns.

[Footnote 1: Poisoner, murderer.]

It was then that Anarella undertook to plead my cause, which consisted
chiefly in the assurance that she herself had seen me taste the medicine
before giving it to the sick woman--this appears to have considerably
raised my value in the market, and I was left in peace.

Meanwhile the house had become infected from top to bottom, and two
fresh cases of cholera occurred that night. As I happened to be on the
spot, I glanced round the room in which the mother's corpse still lay.
Some lighted candles had been placed by the bed, and beside her lay the
child on a heap of rags inside a fishing-basket--it was still alive, but
_vavama_,[2] who was sitting there thumbing her rosary, knew as well as
I did that it was dying, whether of starvation or cholera, it was
difficult to say. I sent the old woman off to try and get some milk, but
she came back, having been unable to procure any. Whilst I was
endeavouring to convey to the old grandmother how more and more
decidedly I inclined to the double diagnosis of cholera and
starvation,--the poor old thing looked as though she had had plenty of
personal experience of what the latter meant,--Anarella came into the
room. She looked at the child for a moment, saying in an undertone,
"_Poverina! poverina!_"[3] then took it out of the basket, and with a
superb gesture, which I shall never forget, she tore open her ragged old
fishing jacket and put the child to her breast.

[Footnote 2: Neapolitan dialect, _la mia nonna_--grandmother.]

[Footnote 3: Poor little one.]

At that very moment her husband entered the room; he has been a pilot,
and there isn't much that he is afraid of, still he shared the people's
unutterable dread of cholera, and had come to take his wife away from
the infected house. When he saw her with the babe at her breast he grew
pale; he knew that it was at the risk, not only of her own life, but at
that of their own healthy child's, but he said nothing, and only crossed
himself in silence. And if I remember rightly, the doctor did the same
himself.

       *       *       *       *       *

Ah yes, it is quite true that the popular character is brought to light
and exposed in all its weakness in times like these. But one friendly
effort to look upon life from these poor people's point of view, will
help you to understand and patiently excuse, many things which would jar
upon you otherwise, and teach you at all events to care for this crassly
ignorant, but warm-hearted and long-suffering people. And then will the
aristocrat's white hand no longer shun the lazzarone's rags, then will
the philosopher no longer find it in his heart to raise a laugh at the
people's blind superstitions concerning the Madonna and San Gennaro (the
patron saint of Naples), then will the doctor refuse the revolver which
he has been advised to carry, in order to shield himself from the
outbreaks of popular fanaticism during his night rounds in the poor
quarter. (The complaints that have been so often raised of late are,
alas, only too well founded: doctors have been attacked over and over
again by the sick people's relations, and have repeatedly been obliged
to defend their own lives.) But I don't think the danger is so very
great after all; a little patient sympathy with the sick, a little bread
to the hungry crowd around, and a little forbearance towards their
attitude of defiant suspicion, is more effective than a pistol shot or
an escort of two carabiniers with their clanking swords at your heels.

And a doctor must not be too particular with regard to the consideration
in which his profession is held, nor must he be too sensitive as to the
amount of faith which the poor people repose in his skill; the lazzaroni
are as sceptical with regard to the infallibility of his medicines as
the doctor very likely is himself in the inmost depths of his heart. But
they go a step further, and are of opinion that all sorts of horrors lie
at the bottom of their mixtures--various poisons "the evil eye,"
serpents' tongues, a few hairs off the devil's head, etc. etc.,
ingredients which, to the best of my belief, are not usually included in
the pharmacopoeia. The patient himself is as a rule too ill to offer much
resistance, but those who stand around follow every movement of the
doctor's with the profoundest suspicion. I knew a doctor who, every time
he endeavoured to dose a patient, was greeted with these words,
"_Bevete voi primo_,"[4] and of course he did so--the only objection to
this mutual drug-drinking (which may perhaps be recommended to certain
mixture-loving physicians) being that the doctor, who is not down with
cholera, is pretty sure to feel rather sleepy after all the opium
drops. . . .

[Footnote 4: Taste it first yourself.]

This introduction to doctors and officials is, after all, so new an
experience for the inhabitants of the poor quarters, that one can almost
understand their mistrust. At ordinary times no policeman goes near the
place--which no doubt tends to impart a certain comfortable sensation to
many a black-eyed fellow, whose conscience, may be, is no cleaner than
his face. And the inhabitants of the _fondaci_, _bassi_, and
_sottoterrani_ of the Mercato, Pendino, Porto, and Vicaria quarters,
come into the world and go out of it without the doctor's assistance in
either one case--or the other. But often enough through the little
aperture, which in these sort of houses serves the purpose of both
window and door, a lean old monk may be seen slipping in. . . .

A propos of monks, as we have perhaps had enough cholera for to-day, let
me wind up my letter by devoting a few words to them!

The critic shakes his head as he reads the following words in the above
paragraph, "a _lean_ old monk;" there isn't a novel or a book of travels
on Italy in which monks are not invariably represented as red-cheeked
and corpulent, and our Italian authorities and sthetic oracles at
home--especially if they happen to be fat themselves--refuse point-blank
to allow the monks to grow thin; but the poor old fellows have done so
all the same, since they have been harried to death by United Italy, and
I beg to enter a protest against these gentlemen's classical
representation of the typical fat monk. I know that it is part and
parcel of a modern description of Italy to have a hit at the monks.
Every traveller itching to reduce his impressions to black and white
(scribbling and malaria are the two diseases which invariably attack
travellers in this part of the world, more especially Northerners, and
they are both equally disagreeable to come across), though he may know
no more about Italy than what he has read in Bdaeker's handbook, though
he may never have felt the heart of Italy's ideal beauty beating beneath
the bark, is at all events able to report on the number of round-faced
monks whom he has seen tossing off their bumpers and gormandising _ad
libitum_. I am well aware that it isn't popular to stand up for the
monks, but I mean to do so all the same--and indeed it is no more than
my bounden duty, for I number many a good friend amongst the kindly old
brothers. As it is, they have such a wretched time of it, these poor
remaining monks, they are so timid in the consciousness that wherever
they go they must silently and uncomplainingly accept the scorn and
raillery which is their daily bread; perhaps it is on that account that
they get on best with the poor, who always treat them kindly.

Poor old monks! they are doomed to extinction in any case,--why not let
them depart in peace?

And they are not my only _protgs_. I have others besides them, and now
that we are on the subject I may as well produce them from the hidden
depths of my compassionate sympathy. Were I ruler over a vast, vast
kingdom, I would divide the lands into three equal parts, and deal it
out to the three innocent victims of modern civilisation: monks,
Laplanders, and Red Indians. But how would they all get on
together--that is the question? I wonder whether the Redskins would
modify their bad habits to the extent of scalping one another only, or
whether, when their old inclinations were roused, they would try their
hand on my other subjects as well? But I should wander about my kingdom
and try to keep things straight, and of one thing I am quite sure, I
should be on good terms with the whole lot!--Or perhaps, all things
taken into consideration, I might abdicate and turn monk myself. . . .




III


After having raged for a whole month with fearful rapidity, the cholera
began to diminish, and the poor sorrow-stricken town of Naples to hope
that her days of mourning were over. The voluntary ambulances granted a
sorely-needed holiday to part of their staff, the great fires that had
been lit at night in all the squares were discontinued, the strong smell
of sulphur that had filled the air for so long, diminished gradually,
the shops in the Strada di Toledo took down their shutters one after the
other, there was traffic in the streets again, and the mayor telegraphed
to the king that the epidemic had come to an end.

And the fruiterers began to smuggle in fresh figs from Sorrento, the
beautiful blue luscious figs, of which the sale had been forbidden since
the outbreak of the cholera; and the little osterias, "_bettole_," which
had been closed for more than three weeks, began to lure in, one after
the other, the thirsty customers unable any longer to resist the
temptation of drowning the recollection of so many anxious days and
nights in a glass of _vino nuovo_.

Now October was just at hand, when it was the people's custom to
celebrate their merriest holidays in the _osterias_ of Posilipo, in
order to taste the first wine of the year, which had just been got ready
about that time, Gragnano, Vino del Monte, del Vesuvio, del Procida, and
whatever they are all called; and last Thursday, on the _Ottobrata_
holiday, the sound of guitars and mandolines was heard in Posilipo as of
old, and the tarantella's strains awoke the slumbering gladness to new
life again--_ morto il cholera, evviva la gioia!_

Naples heaved a deep sigh of relief after her long spell of anguish,
every one was in good spirits and on friendly terms, and every one felt
as if they must congratulate each other upon the gloomy days that were
over at last. _Whom_ to thank for the fortunate and unexpected turn that
things had taken, they hardly knew themselves; every one had something
to say on the subject, and the newspapers rang the praises of first one
and then the other. The official authorities thanked the king, whose
courage and energy had put new life into every one, the middle classes
thanked the Municipality and the Relief Committees, and the people, the
poor people who had suffered most--they thanked the Mother of God. And I
think the people were right. They had lit votive candles at her shrines
when the distress was at its height; when death had entered almost all
their homes, they had implored her assistance, and now that deliverance
seemed at hand, humble and grateful they kissed the hem of her garment.

The present generation, grown old enough to have outgrown its faith in
God, laughs at all this "superstition"; but I am one with the lazzaroni
on that score; it is certainly very easy to live without God Almighty in
prosperity and health, but I am beginning to realise that it is a good
deal harder to die without Him.

I wish I had a collection of new-fledged young atheists out here, and
that I were able to take them with me through the poor quarters of the
town, where sorrow and misery are at home. I would show them the peace
which the consolations of religion are able to bring to the closing eyes
of even these poor creatures, who might certainly be excused for
thinking that their debt of gratitude to God Almighty is no large one; I
would show them that the crucifix over the bed is better able to soothe
the pangs of death than all the doctors' morphine syringes. Ah, "there
is more in heaven and earth than our philosophy has dreamt of"--and our
science too for the matter of that; and perhaps such a sight as this
might shake their reasoned philosophies, no matter from what source of
wisdom they had been drawn, and precipitate the pure gold of their
childhood's simple faith to the bottom of their souls.

But still, even though philosophy were silenced, we have the profound
researches of science to fall back upon, the magnificent triumphs of
medicine, and its brilliant discoveries! Well and good! amidst the
_olla-podrida_ of dead theories and living microbes, of groping
experiments and troubled mixtures--"_la main sur la conscience_," what
poor insignificant charlatans are not we all the same, and how little
able to compete with the other Physician whose practice is so large, and
who goes about from bed to bed with his one and only drug, his eternal
sleeping draught! The poor ignorant people here knew at least to whom
to carry their troubles and anxieties; they had from the first confided
all their sorrows to the Mother of God. When every one else had
abandoned them, her arms had always been stretched out to them; no
matter how ragged they might be, she knew how to help them all.

And those who sneered at their superstitions and forbad their
processions, what had they to offer them in exchange for their obscure
but rock-like faith? Ah yes, sanitary rules, veritable sarcasms on their
poverty, printed advertisements, which most of them were unable to read
and none of them were able to understand, recommending them to live in
airy rooms, to avoid vegetables, and take to meat, to disinfect
constantly, either with carbolic acid, which is an excellent remedy
according to one Sanitary Committee, but no good according to another,
or with "corrosive sublimate," the most effective microbe antidote
according to Dr. Koch--although the idea that it is useless is quite
worthy of consideration also.

And what has the obtuse brain of a lazzarone to do with Koch and
microbes, he whose thoughts have never crossed the bay beyond which the
whole of the remaining world is "Barbaria" to him, he who knows a host
of saints' days, a few prayers that he has been taught as a child, the
names of a dozen fish he has seen jumping in the nets at Mergellina, he
who can play at _morra_ and sing _Santa Lucia_, and that is about all!
How is he to manage to "air the room," he who lives with ten or twelve
others in one of those _fondaci_, into which the light of day has never
been known to penetrate, where one of us is unable to remain for more
than a moment without going out to take a breath of fresh air! And he
is, forsooth, to choose his food, he whose expenses at the best of times
never exceed one or two soldi a day, he who never in his life has had
the chance of tasting meat, and whom you may perhaps see standing in
front of the baker's shop, watching, with the expression of a hungry
animal in his eyes, the piece of bread which you have just given your
dog, and then fighting over the remaining crumbs with a crowd of others
such as himself!--

And as to disinfection! what does he know about that, he who, alas,
shows so little inclination to master the first great rule of
disinfection, the popular antiseptic which consists in sometimes dipping
one's hands and face in water. . . .

Just give a thought to all this, and then it will no longer strike you
as so wonderful that these poor people should believe more in the
censer's clouds than in the sulphur's fumes, and more in holy water than
in a ten per cent solution of carbolic acid.

       *       *       *       *       *

I had lingered in Posilipo last Thursday evening, and it was already
late as I sauntered home towards the town. In the Strada di Piedegrotta
sat a boy singing _La bella Sorrentina_--

    "Io te vidi a Piedegrotta
     Tutta gioia, tutta festa."

And a little further on I halted for a moment at Mergellina to let the
sea-breeze blow over me, whilst I watched the fishing-smacks as one by
one they sailed home from their day's work out on the bay. From Villa
Reale there were sounds of music and dancing, and the Chiaia was
swarming with people as though it were a feast-day; and it was a
feast-day in deed and truth, the cholera had ceased, and it was the
first day of that year on which they had been allowed to taste the new
wine! _ morto il cholera, evviva la gioia!_

But no--it was not dead. During the night the grim guest had gone his
rounds again, and when Naples awoke next morning, several fresh cases of
cholera were reported to have occurred the previous day, and the
authorities were unable to conceal the fact that the epidemic had
broken out again with renewed virulence. I see no reason for
transcribing the official bulletins published in the newspapers; they
have already been transmitted by telegraph, and their numbers have no
other significance than that of announcing the increase or decrease of
the epidemic. That the figures have always been kept too low is a
well-known fact here, and no one has ever made a secret of it. That the
figures of the dead are as untrustworthy as those of the sick, I was
able to see for myself yesterday evening, when I was up at the cholera
cemetery; I must have remained there a good hour, and during that time
alone, eighty-three bodies were left there (the official report of the
day announcing fifty-seven deaths and no more).

The dead are laid in a row before they are buried. We bent over every
one of them; it was impossible to make any mistake: they had all died
that day. After they have been lowered into the grave, their names are
written down in the register. The impression produced by the quantity of
blank spaces in the book is singularly uncanny, nothing but a number to
distinguish them, anonymous dead, homeless during their lifetime, one
common cholera grave after their death!

Several hundred of these nameless dead lie sleeping there since the
outbreak of the epidemic; ah yes! they also had a name of their own,
which was about all that society had ever bestowed on them--but Death
has grudged them even that. They certainly had a name of their own,
which once upon a time was whispered lovingly over them in the most
melodious language on earth, when they were infants sleeping on their
mother's knee; but perhaps the only one who knew it had preceded them to
the grave, or perhaps the hungry little orphans who at this very moment
are wandering about the filthy alleys of the poor quarter are the only
ones who might be able to tell us something about them--no one knows
anything about them up here, a number round each one's neck in turn, no
coffin, no shroud, nothing but a covering of quicklime. And so on to the
next one.




IV


The unexpected reappearance of the cholera last week led to a fearful
panic. In a single day the town became as empty and as silent as during
the worst days of the epidemic; the streets again reeked of the horrid
smell of sulphur, and through the night the fires burned as before in
the public squares; the ambulance societies, which had begun to
disperse, again prepared themselves for instant action, and to all
appearance the days of mourning were about to recommence for the poor
town of Naples. The people began to lose their power of endurance, and a
certain agitation of evil omen was noticeable in the poor quarters. The
municipal authorities did their best to compose the minds of the
multitude, and the newspapers were again recommended to dissemble the
real state of affairs. Doctors here have been speculating upon the
reasons of this violent and unforeseen increase of cases, and the
newspapers are still full of such discussion. Most of them have come to
the conclusion that the real cause is to be traced to _il vino nuovo_,
which was tried rather too often on the Ottobrata feast-day, last
Thursday. As one proof of how the day was abused, a correspondent quotes
a merry party of four lazzaroni who suddenly discovered themselves to be
rich enough to buy twenty-four litres of _vino di Posilipo_, and who,
bewildered perhaps at the novelty of the situation, and determined to
wipe out every trace thereof--tossed off the whole lot there and then.
The gay party wound up at the Conocchia hospital, every one of them
being struck down with cholera during the night.

The idea that the recrudescence of the epidemic is due to the excesses
of Thursday's holiday is of course a reassuring, but not, I am afraid, a
correct one. I cannot understand how doctors can bring themselves to
believe that one day's wine-drinking is sufficient to account for so
sudden an increase of cases; that amongst the joyous crowd who up at
Posilipo on Thursday last drank a farewell toast to the cholera, many
were subsequently attacked, I am quite willing to believe; but allowing
the minimum of time for the incubation of cholera, it is nevertheless
longer than the hours which transpired between Thursday evening and
Friday morning, when most of the cases were announced. Without wishing
to enter into this question, which is out of place here, my own opinion
is that the increase of the epidemic may be traced to the varied
temperature of the last few days, (a sudden fall of the barometer, a
change of wind, condition of the water underground, etc.) A careful
observation of the patients at the hospital--who had certainly nothing
to do with Thursday's merry-makings--inclines me to this view, for the
greater part of them exhibited a considerable change for the worse,
coinciding exactly in point of time with the outbreak in the town.

Besides, and this is an experience corroborated by most people here, any
sudden change of temperature must interfere with the process of
digestion, and must for that very reason predispose reception of
disease. Another fact not willingly admitted but nevertheless
indubitable--a certain laxity has crept into the Sanitary Society's
administrations, extending even to the doctors themselves. As far as
these latter are concerned it is not to be wondered at--human beings,
like the rest of us, physical exhaustion is bound to assert itself
sooner or later, and they have had a hard time of it. For the first
weeks everything went without a hitch, most of them (and to the honour
of the medical staff of Naples be it said) went to their duty through
fire, risking their own lives to save the lives of others. To the sense
of duty that bade them stand at their post must be added the scientific
interest, which was the magnet that attracted a goodly number; here were
many experiences to be gained, many dark riddles to be solved--many
laurels to be won. It is as yet too early in the day to decide how far
Science has been satisfied, but this much I can tell you: if, as we are
given to understand, the deepest interest centres in the _search_ after
Truth, then the doctors have every reason to congratulate themselves,
and their zeal ought to be more ardent than ever--for nothing has been
discovered. They have gone forward to meet this epidemic with fresh
weapons, with all the most important results of recent experiences,
Koch's discovery of the cholera microbes, etc. etc., but one can only
bear witness to the fact how much yet remains to be discovered, ere we
can hope to attain to some positive practical result as to the special
_treatment_ which the cholera patient requires,--if such a result be
indeed attainable at all.

And this outbreak has been if anything more terrible than the last;
10,000 cases taken _en bloc_ give a mortality of 6000; and in certain
infected quarters the mortality has increased to eighty per cent (at
Fuorigrotta, in the neighbourhood of Naples, twenty-five out of
twenty-nine patients died; the death-rate of Torre del Greco and several
other suburbs has been enormous). If the hygienic and therapeutic
conditions of the town are not all that they might be, the hospitals, on
the other hand, have been well served by able men, and eager
investigators. Everything has been tried, very little headway made. I,
who have casually been brought into contact with some hundred cholera
patients, have arrived at a very profound conclusion with which I am
quite willing to acquaint you here, where there is no chance of the
doctors overhearing us. To my mind the cholera patients may be divided
into two large classes: those who are going to live, and those who are
going to die. And only towards the last is it at all possible to decide
in which class to include the patient. The same curious characteristic
which distinguishes the epidemic itself, is also discernible in the
patient's case. We are at a loss to understand why one patient dies
after a few hours, another after a day or two, whilst the third
recovers, notwithstanding the fact that the disease has developed itself
with precisely the same symptoms, and, as far as one is able to judge,
with precisely the same virulence in all three cases; why one patient,
who seems to have been but slightly attacked, should suddenly fall into
the agonies of death, whilst another, who lies in the last phase of
cholera, and whom the doctor has already made over to the priest,
should unexpectedly recover. We stand here on unknown, untrodden ground;
the usual indices, the patient's power of resistance, age, etc., all are
at fault in this case.

And whatever may have been said concerning cholera and other contagious
diseases, that the virus loses its intensity with the actual decrease of
the epidemic itself, that the cases towards the end are of a milder
character--I cannot see that the argument holds good here. The cholera
at the present moment is decidedly on the wane, in spite of which there
are a number of these _foudroyant_ cases every day. For instance,
yesterday, during the morning inspection (at eight o'clock), seven
cholera patients were received at the Santa Maddalena Hospital, all
seven had been perfectly well the previous night, and by ten P.M. six of
them were already dead. People are now being struck down in the streets,
just as they were during the worst days of the epidemic, and the man
who drove me out to Granatello day before yesterday, fell off the box
whilst waiting for me, dying four hours later--the poor fellow never got
his fare after all.

And it was just the same last year in Egypt, when the cholera was
supposed to be extinct in Alexandria; after twelve days, during which
there had not been a single case at the cholera hospital, the disease
returned with the same virulence in the case of one of the French
doctors, poor Thuillier, who was roused at three o'clock one morning by
the first symptoms of cholera, and about whom at eight o'clock the news
had already been telegraphed to Paris that he was at the point of death!
True, that as far as he was concerned, a sort of artificial life had
been kept up for about twelve hours, but it was absolutely useless, and
almost cruel under these circumstances, where the extinction of life is
not synonymous with ceasing to _live_, but with ceasing to _die_.

As I write Thuillier's name I am reminded of a graceful act of Dr.
Koch's, the celebrated German savant. Koch happened to be in Egypt at
the same time as the French doctors, pupils of Pasteur, who had been
sent out by their Government to study the cholera question. As is well
known, Koch and Pasteur have come to close quarters on many a scientific
battlefield, and the discussion has been carried on with a vehemence of
which the origin, alas, can be traced to political animosity; for Koch,
no matter how great a man, is nevertheless _le Prussien_ in the
sensitive Frenchman's eyes. Even in Alexandria some latent enmity
existed between the French and German emissaries. The great German
experimentalist had a fine opportunity of proving that the echo of these
slight differences dies away when face to face with death, and that the
grave is the neutral ground on which all men meet. Dr. Koch was present
when the French physicians laid their colleague in the grave, and in his
own name and that of the other German doctors, he laid two laurel
wreaths upon the coffin--"they are simple," said he, "but still they are
made of laurel--they are those we offer heroes!"

I wander from my subject, but Koch's name is so intimately connected
with everything concerning cholera, that I may almost be allowed to do
so.




V


A propos of doctors, as I said before, many of the Neapolitan physicians
had remained at their post from a sense of duty, whilst others had
thrown themselves into the fray stimulated by a certain amount of
scientific interest. But there is a third sort of physician out here,
and it is impossible to include him in either the former or the latter
series, _i.e._ the runaway. And he deserves a special mention, but I
will spare him here. That society will bear him in mind for some time to
come, I think I may safely venture to affirm, after what has just
happened in the case of a Neapolitan gentleman of some standing in the
town. Whilst all his colleagues had looked upon it as their duty to
remain on the spot, and lend every possible assistance in their power,
he had kept away, excusing himself in a public letter[5] from returning
to the town, on the plea of family matters! He took this opportunity of
mentioning that he was an excessively courageous fellow, and as a proof
thereof, he modestly reminded those of his oblivious countrymen who
dared to question his heroic attributes, that "alone with six
_bersaglieri_ he had taken a cannon from the Austrians at Villafranca."
But this was not of much avail--time seems to have somewhat rusted the
cannon--and the tide of popular feeling rose so high, that he was
requested to resign his appointment without further delay. The matter
grew so serious that at last he was compelled to put an end to his
_villegiatura_. He came back on Thursday and found that it would be
impossible to regain the people's confidence, unless he reported
himself that very day as volunteer "_infirmier_" at the cholera
hospital. As was to be expected, this new act of heroism was immediately
advertised; the "Villafranca cannon" was again lugged out of its arsenal
of oblivion, and dragged with rattling phrases across the columns of
every newspaper in the town, pouring great broadsides into all those who
dared to entertain a single doubt as to the worthy gentleman's
courage,--and public opinion was again satisfied. Such are the
_galantuomini_, the so-called better classes out here, ostentatious and
ridiculous. I hold more and more to my poor lazzaroni, who are far more
interesting as a study, and infinitely more sympathetic in themselves.

[Footnote 5: Printed in the _Piccolo_ newspaper.]

It irritates me to think that they actually complied with his request to
be allowed to play the _rle_ of infirmier at the cholera hospital. No
doubt it was a convenient platform on which to enact a reconciliation
scene with his discontented fellow townsmen, but in my opinion far too
solemn a place to desecrate by such a farce. (The director of the
hospital is nevertheless a very able man, and a member of Parliament
into the bargain; here, as in France, the medical faculty furnishes a
number of representatives to the Chamber.)

The Villafranca hero (he is also a colonel of the Reserve Force) is now
and again to be seen up at the hospital. He absolutely reeks of camphor,
which is, I suppose, his ideal disinfectant. He often slips out into the
corridor or into the garden, where fearless friends or newspaper
reporters are to be found paying their tribute of admiration to his
infirmier's costume. I wonder if it ever strikes him that he ought to be
proud of being allowed to wear the simple gray blouse, which is perhaps
more deserving of medals than the gold-laced coat of his colonel's
uniform! I know some one who saw him the other day helping to put one of
the cholera patients into a bath, and it seems that, according to all
appearances, the gloved infirmier might have been handling nothing short
of a fiery shell itself. . . .

If he would like to know how heroes conduct themselves in battles such
as these, let him go into the next room where lies Soeur Philomne, the
brave sister of charity, who, without flinching, has nursed the cholera
patients day and night; she has fallen at her post, and now lies calmly
waiting there for death.

It is a different sort of courage to that with which cannons are taken
that is required here--the silent, unsung courage which Napoleon, the
great taker of cannons, valued at so high a rate, the courage which he
called, "_le courage de la nuit_."

As far as the municipal authorities are concerned they have certainly
done their duty during these hard times, if not at the beginning, at any
rate during the last period of the epidemic. And the work that had to be
got through was gigantic, it was a case of beginning from the beginning,
for Naples is absolutely innocent of anything like sanitary
arrangements; I shall take some other opportunity of returning to the
question of the sanitary conditions of Naples--it is interesting enough.
There is no doubt that the king's visit during the worst days of the
epidemic had a most stimulating effect upon the official authorities.
But I am bound to admit that during these last times they have somewhat
relaxed in their efforts, and I reckon this factor to be one of
considerable importance in the discussions that are still going on as to
the reason of the recrudescence of the epidemic last week. Fortunately
the cholera did not wait for the doctors to finish their discussions, it
took the matter into its own hands, and diminished rapidly. To-day the
_tramontana_[6] is blowing, sweeping away a large quantity of cholera
virus from amongst us, and in about a week it is my belief that the
cholera returns will be no more numerous than they were a fortnight
ago. And it is high time, for Naples is as near her complete ruin as
possible.

[Footnote 6: North wind.]

I know for a fact that a petition has been sent up to the Home Office in
Rome, for permission to discontinue the publication of the cholera
cases, for it is a question of life and death to Naples that the
epidemic should come to an end--officially at all events. A continued
publication of these cholera cases will be enough to scare away all
foreigners for the whole winter; and as foreigners are the only real
source of income to Naples, it is an absolute necessity that silence
should be kept on the subject of the epidemic, and that every endeavour
should be made to forget all about it as quickly as possible.

But in such hotbeds of infection as the _fondaci_ of the Mercato and
Porto quarters--dark damp holes into which neither air nor light ever
penetrates, and where so many people, reduced to the most frightful
misery, are so closely packed together--the cholera may easily retain
its vitality for many a day to come.

And it isn't much better in the suburbs of Naples than in the
surrounding villages. I went again to-day to the _Bagno di Granatello_,
the convict prison, situated between Naples and Portici, where the
infirm convicts and those who are chronic invalids are kept. There had
been several cases of cholera during the past week, but they had been
hushed up, and nothing had been done for the poor prisoners, of whom the
greater part are old and crippled. The cholera patients have not been
isolated, but are obliged to lie with the rest in the terribly small
room where 260 unfortunate wretches are huddled together. The cholera
has cleared a space for them now, for many of their companions have
died, and many will be dead ere long. These prisoners are human beings
like ourselves, and are not ruffians at all, their crimes for the most
part consist of smuggling, of having repeatedly deserted the coral
fishing-boats, etc.--perhaps at one time when the blood was young and
the quarrel violent, a knife may have glistened in one of the hands so
withered now. One can imagine the despair of these chained witnesses of
the cholera's invasion, as one after the other succumbs to the disease.

I went there to-day for no other reason than that of being present
during the advertised inspection of the prison. I am still indignant at
the remembrance of all I saw as I write these lines. Since yesterday
there have been seven fresh cases, and four people died whilst I was
there to-day. It would have moved a stone to have seen the despair of
the poor captives as they kissed the clothes of the fine gentlemen
around, and to have heard their agonised entreaties for succour and
relief--it was well that I was no inspector of prisons, for I would have
thrown the doors open to every one of them!

But the inspectors, more accustomed to the dark episodes of prison-life,
were of a different opinion, and they were pleased to attest "that the
sad condition of the locality itself and its overpopulation, had made
isolation and disinfection impossible, rendering every other hygienic
amelioration equally so."

And the long-looked for and anxiously-awaited deliverance was reduced to
this, that one of the members of the committee very carefully and very
solemnly filled a little flask with drinking water, drawn from the
prisoners' well, to be taken up to Naples for analysis--and then they
took themselves off!

But this, however, was no question of finding, or not finding microbes
in the water next morning; the sick ought to have been removed that very
day to the cholera hospital, and--as it was impossible to disinfect the
miserable hole--all the rest ought at once to have been put under
inspection in some other isolated place.

I am out of all patience with the heroes of the day, the wretched
microbes, _for human beings are being forgotten for microbes_. As the
actual returns were too inconveniently high to suit the inspectors and
sanitary commissioners, it was thought desirable to take a middle
course, and to advise the public of forty-two cases and thirty
deaths--and these were the figures with which the morning papers
reported the inspection of il Bagno di Granatello.

I heard in the meantime that the member for Portici had telegraphed to
the Home Office for immediate assistance, and I only hope, for the poor
prisoners' sakes, that the help will come soon, and will take a more
energetic form than that of lax inspectors and microbe hunting chemists.

A good deal has come under my notice during these last times, but my
experience of the Granatello prison was certainly dreadful. The most
appalling stench all over, dark cellars, with damp, moss-covered
walls--this last is not to be wondered at, considering that the prison
is situated at the water's edge. There are not many people who have seen
the Bagno di Granatello, for the old building cannot be distinguished
from either Portici or Resina. When the sea is rough, as it was day
before yesterday, when I was out there, the water runs down the walls,
and an icy draught blows through the so-called gloomy halls, inside
which several hundred of these unfortunate prisoners dwell. Even one of
the Neapolitan newspapers admitted that the place was one which might be
turned to account as a _Scuola di piscicoltura_,[7] but was altogether
unfit to harbour human beings!

[Footnote 7: Piscicultural establishment.]

If you think that my description of an Italian prison is altogether too
gloomy, just read one of the recently-published official reports
concerning the penal establishments of Italy, by "Commendatore"
Beltrani Scalia, a book which the newspapers speak of as
"_interessantissima_," but which, in my opinion, is ghastly.

The book fell accidentally into my hands yesterday. I looked in vain for
anything worthy of remark concerning the Bagno di Granatello, but on
another page the following paragraph caught my eye: "The medical duties
of the . . . prison are confided to a barber, who is a "bleeder" into
the bargain."--Well, that is enough, is it not?

       *       *       *       *       *

I felt I must have a breath of fresh air after all this--I had become so
embittered inside that wretched prison, and so depressed at the idea of
all the misery one is obliged to witness in this weary world, and which
one can do nothing to relieve. I went out to Resina, and came home on
foot. And as I tramped along, I began to wonder whether, after all,
there might not be something in the old legend that maintains that we
shall all meet again in another planet, where a sort of mutual
transmigration of souls is to take place, where all the _rles_ are to
be reversed; where all those who have been unhappy here below are to be
happy, where the poor are to feast whilst the rich stand looking on,
where those who have had the lash down here are to hold the handle of
the whip in their own hands, where the hard-hearted jailors of this
world are to sit in the cells, whilst their former prisoners go round
inspecting them! And in that promised land animals should be allowed to
go about illtreating human beings, all the little birds and butterflies
should fly about on free wings, and in their turn see the sportsmen
sitting stuffed and shut up in enormous glass cases, and all the
butterfly catchers in long rows dangling their legs, with long pins
stuck through their bodies--but would they be half so good to look at as
their former victims, the butterflies? And this planet's steep hills
should swarm with all the broken-winded old cab-horses, who should also,
in their turn, sit on the coach-box, returning every bloody stroke of
the whip dealt out to them by their former tyrants, the cabmen of this
world. . . . Except that animals are much kinder-hearted than human
beings, and would not care to torture the "lords of creation" for very
long.

But I myself, what would become of me up in this remarkable planet?

If, at this very moment, I were to find myself translated from this vale
of tears and transported thither, and my future destiny were to depend
upon what I had been doing during this last period of my earthly
existence, I really don't know what I ought to expect! I don't think I
have had much occasion to quarrel with my fellow-creatures just lately,
but I am very much afraid I might be accused of cruelty to animals. For
I do nothing but torture animals all day long. Either I "catch them
alive," or I bring them up with every cunning precaution by means of
cultivation-tubes, feed their little ones, in just the right degree of
warmth, on what they most prefer, such as Pasteur's bouillon, gelatin,
etc., and all that for the sake of illtreating them as much as possible
later on, for the sake of fumigating, cooking, drying, poisoning them,
and afterwards peering at them through the microscope, to make sure that
I have really succeeded in torturing them to death, the poor unconscious
(I had almost written _innocent_, but I dare not on account of Dr. Koch)
microbes, who have no idea of my evil intentions towards them! Shall I,
all things taken into consideration, be turned into a cholera microbe
myself, to be tortured after the same fashion by one of that planet's
physicians, who shall peer at me through his gray spectacles with the
same sinister intentions?

A propos of doctors, I wonder what will become of them up there? Will
they by any chance be made to exchange places with their former
patients? That were a hard punishment!

But supposing I am not turned into a cholera microbe, what then? Perhaps
I shall be condemned to sit and read in print, all the rubbish that has
flitted across this poor, restless brain of mine--that would be rather
too much of a good thing, I think I would vote for the microbe.




VI


Perhaps it was stupid of me to make fun of the cholera microbes in my
last letter: I really begin to think that I am wrong and Dr. Koch is
right, as far as their being dangerous is concerned--at any rate the
cholera microbe must be a vindictive little beast. Since last I wrote,
two weeks ago, I have had plenty of time for reflection--it is
astonishing what serious thoughts come into one's head now and again.[8]

[Footnote 8: Between this letter and the last one, the author had been
ill.--M. V. W.]

It were interesting enough to write an account of the cholera in its
march across the world, but I don't happen to know it by heart, have no
source of information to draw from here, where I am now laid up, and
the consequence is I really have nothing to write about. Here is what I
remember, and for the matter of that, it is all that concerns us for the
present, as I mean to limit myself to the Neapolitan cholera--about
which I do know something.

We are aware that cholera is an Indian disease, that it is at home on
the delta-land of the Brahmaputra and Ganges, where it reigns as an
endemic. It began to travel round the world in 1817, appeared the
following year in British India, Siam, Tonquin, China, Persia, the
Mediterranean coast of Syria, etc., but left off between 1823 and 1824
without having spread to Europe. In 1827 it again recommenced its march
across India. . . . nay, I think we'll go no further, I have been ill,
am still weak in the legs, and quite incapable of "marching" along with
the cholera any longer. To cut the matter short, Naples was visited by
this epidemic for the first time during the autumn of 1836; it broke
out in one of the quarters that has been most severely tried this time,
_i.e._ Porto, spread rapidly over the whole of Naples, and came to an
end in February 1837.

As regards the epidemic of 1884 (the seventh since then), it is as yet
too early in the day to cast up the accounts; the cholera is still in
existence, though there are but few cases, and it is likely to hang
about for some time to come. I do not inclose the bulletins--they are
already well known. One need not be specially quick-witted to arrive at
the conclusion that these figures are inadequate to gauge the actual
extent of the damage done by the disease. There are manifold reasons for
keeping these official bulletins so low. First and foremost, attention
must be drawn to the fact that, as long as it is possible, the people
refuse point-blank to have anything to do with the municipal
authorities; and no one who has set foot in the poor quarters during the
days of the epidemic will attempt to deny that many of the sick and
dead of Mercato, Porto, Pendino, and Vicaria were never reported to the
municipality at all. And of course this was more than ever the case
whilst the epidemic was at its height, when there were neither cabs nor
stretchers in sufficient numbers to transport the sick, and when the
town authorities were compelled to hire the Portici omnibuses to convey
the dead up to the churchyard.

Another explanation of these low figures: the municipal authorities
dared not publish the real amount of reported cases, they even
diminished them considerably in order to avoid a panic. The highest
official entries of the sick and dead are respectively 966 sick, and 474
dead (in twenty-four hours); but there are others besides myself who
share the belief that during not _one_, but _four or five days_, there
were _about 1000 cases per diem_.

One proof of the absolute insufficiency of these bulletins can be
obtained by the perusal of the reports issued recently by the "White
Cross." During the twenty days' existence of this voluntary ambulance,
there had not been, according to the official statistics, more than 9689
cases, and 5356 deaths--well and good, during these self-same days,
_this association alone_ provided medical assistance for 7015 cholera
patients. If it be taken into consideration that at the same time the
"Red Cross" and "Green Cross" (the other two ambulances of importance)
had as many sick on their hands as they were able to attend to, added to
which the medical staff of the municipality, although it had been
doubled, was quite insufficient to attend to all the town cases brought
before the authorities, and if the above-mentioned fact be remembered,
that for a great, and very great quantity of the sick in the poor
quarters _no medical assistance of any kind had been sought_--then it
will easily be understood, by virtue of these proofs alone, that the
official numbers were invariably below the mark, did not perhaps
correspond to half the actual cases.

The people's inveterate dislike to everything concerning the
municipality--which strikes us as so strange--is a fact that I shall try
and explain to you another time; I think I understand it somewhat.

If you wish to know which parts of the town have been most severely
tried by the cholera, you will find that, during this epidemic as during
the previous ones, the four poor quarters are precisely those in which
most cases have occurred.

The expression used by the Prime Minister Depretis, _Bisogna sventrare
Napoli!_[9] has become the watchword of the day; these miserable poor
quarters must be done away with, for they are a standing danger, not
only to the rest of Naples, but to the whole of Italy and Europe into
the bargain. Hotbeds more favourable to infection are not to be found in
any other European city, and here the epidemic, which otherwise might
possibly have decreased, takes a new lease of life with which to
continue its journey. And this does not apply to cholera alone.

[Footnote 9: Naples must be disembowelled!]

Strangers are always afraid of the Roman malaria, but one never hears a
word about the _Neapolitan typhoid fever_--by far the most dangerous in
my opinion. Typhoid fever is _endemic_ out here; it is a permanent
disease, which, with its large death-percentage, craves an annual number
of victims, more especially amongst the new arrivals, whose power of
endurance is less. And it is from these self-same quarters that this
atmosphere of contagion spreads out over Naples. This is not the only
malady which flourishes here; there dwells another creeping disease in
these regions which is not sufficiently well known, which may be
compared to the Roman malaria, and which goes by the name of _febbre
napoletana_.[10] And do you wish to know what that is like, you need only
take a turn in the alleys and "fondaci" of the poor quarters, and you
will be brought into contact with more specimens of this disease than
you care to see. Here never shines the sun, but should you come upon
some corner into which a stronger light than usual has found its way,
then look into it closely--it is there that you will most surely
discover your new patients, for they think that is the sun, and they are
shivering with cold! Look at the attenuated little children as they
stretch out one hand, dry as a skeleton's, to beg a soldo; the little
one puts the other in his mouth for you to understand how hungry he
is--if he speaks at all it is to say "_muojo di fame_"![11] Look at the
jaundiced, faded little face in which two large eyes are glowing with
fever--and you have a picture of _febbre napoletana_ before you. Look at
it closely--but give him a soldo, he needs it so sorely, he is, alas!
so often right when he tells you how hungry he is--poverty and fever go
hand in hand, and I hardly know whether I wish _la febbre_ did not
exist, it is perhaps more merciful than we, for it so often bears the
poor little one far from hunger and distress up to the pauper's
burial-ground.

[Footnote 10: Neapolitan fever.]

[Footnote 11: I am dying of hunger!]

       *       *       *       *       *

The laws of hygiene teach us how close a connection exists between the
sanitary conditions of a locality and the density of its population. The
history of the Neapolitan epidemic furnishes us with an example of this
law concerning density of population. Upon a surface of eight square
kilometres (amount of surface that has been built over), there dwell no
less than 461,962 human beings. _And according to the official
statistics no less than_ 128,804 _of these people inhabit underground
dwellings and cellars._ But there is something worse than these
"_bassi_" and "_sottoterrani_"; another step down the shelving ladder of
society and we come to a still more wretched form of habitation--to the
"fondaci." You have often heard me speak of these places as the scenes
of the most appalling misery out here--I mean to tell you what a fondaco
is when we have come to the end of our medical inspection. There are
eighty-six fondaci in Naples at the present moment; formerly they were
still more numerous, but more modern constructions have done away with a
good many of them. Three of these fondaci (in the Chiaia, S. Ferdinando,
and S. Guiseppe quarters) are pretty clean, that is to say in comparison
with the others; and as this is only a question of _the most ghastly
human habitations on the face of the earth_, I do not include these
three. Of the eighty-three remaining fondacos, the Mercato quarter
contains 13, Porto 19, Pendino 12, Vicaria 17, and all the other
quarters put together 22. _As many as 9846 individuals dwell in these
fondacos_, all of whom are included in the enumerated population (a
distinction which has not been conferred upon a good many of the other
poor creatures--in consequence of which the figures run low).

A third sort of dwelling-place consists of the so-called _locande_ where
lodgers are received for the night at two and three soldi a head. (I
have even seen locande where they are received for one soldo a-head, but
there the people sit and lean their arms and heads _against a rope_ that
is stretched across the room from one wall to another, not a bad idea
for accommodating a crowd). It is quite impossible to say how many of
these locande are to be found out here; the only statistics on the
subject are of ancient date, and they report 105 locande in Porto, with
space for 2793 beds; 81 in Mercato, containing 276 rooms, and space for
1319 beds, etc. etc.

Fondaci and bassi I know well enough, but my acquaintance with locande
is somewhat limited, although once, with a Camorrist for guide, I went
over every locanda in the Mercato quarter, in order to look up an old
guitar-player, a former friend of mine--I mean to tell you that story
some day.

There is a fourth class of human beings here in Naples who live neither
in houses, in bassi, in fondaci, or in locande--a very numerous class
indeed, but they do not come into the reckoning, as we on our solemn
sanitary inspection go the round of the houses, in order to calculate
afterwards the extent of space occupied by each inhabitant, and the
cubic metres of air exhausted by each of them per diem. No, they do not
come into the reckoning, these representatives of the fourth class, but
they are old favourites of mine, and they are, if not from a hygienic
point of view, at all events from an artistic point of view, the most
interesting of the whole lot, and that is why they are included in my
classification of the Neapolitan poor. This fourth class of human
beings--well yes, goodness only knows they have space enough to dwell
upon, and how many cubic metres of air they exhaust is more than I can
say, for they have the starry heavens above them and--the sewers beneath
them.

This is the class of Neapolitan poor who have no home at all.

What their numbers are, no one can tell; the individuals of which this
class is composed shun all statistics, stand entirely outside the reach
of the census. If you want to inspect them, you must set about it at
night. Go out for a few hours when the noise of the day is over, and you
will find them everywhere. Your foot stumbles accidentally against a
soft bundle, the bundle moves away, and with a "_scusate, Signor_"--not
with an oath as would be the case at home--the poor wretch whom you have
awoken draws his legs beneath him, and rolls himself up in his rags
again. He begs your pardon because he has no home but the streets to
sleep in! Beneath the lamp which lights up the Madonna's picture in the
corner, on all the church steps, beneath the upturned boats at
Mergellina, beside the newspaper kiosques, beside the _acquafrescaio's_
stand, on the benches of every public place and garden--everywhere do
you come across them; mothers with their babes at their breast and a
couple of little ones half-concealed beneath the ragged old shawl,
cripples whom you will find on the same spot early next morning, in
order to beg their way through the day, half-grown boys, some of them
sitting alone rolled up like hedgehogs to keep themselves warm, others
lying in a heap under one common shelter, an old cloak, a sail, one or
two old sacks, and the like.

It is incredible how much can be stowed away under one of these old
cloaks! I had been out to one of the Mercato fondaci the other night,
and was going home towards morning, it must have been between three and
four o'clock, it was still dark. Meditating profoundly, Heaven only
knows on what subject, I crossed the Piazza del Carmine, when suddenly I
stumbled against the old church steps. At the same time I trod upon
something soft which happened to be lying on the ground--and in the
twinkling of an eye, seven startled urchins sprang to their feet. I told
them how sorry I was to have awoken them, and they laid themselves down
again in the best of tempers, conscious that they had very unexpectedly
earned enough to keep them going for the next twenty-four
hours--"_morgonstund har guld i mun_"[12]--or at any rate copper! I, who
lie awake so long before I can get to sleep, gazed wistfully at the
fourteen legs as they kicked about for a few seconds under the ragged
old cloak; the next moment all was still and quiet--the positions were
familiar, and had often been rehearsed--and the seven homeless little
lads slept on in peace, upon the tumble-down old steps of Santa Maria
del Carmine.

[Footnote 12: Swedish proverb--"The morning hour has gold in its
mouth."--M. V. W.]




VII

ASSISTANTS


Last time I wrote I promised to tell you what a "_fondaco_" was. Well, I
ought to have no difficulty in describing one of these homes of misery
and distress, they are familiar enough to me. But now let me suggest a
plan, which, if you have no objection, will suit us both equally well,
for then I shall be spared the trouble of describing it to you, and you
will be spared the trouble of listening to me--come and see one for
yourself! I am going down to one of the Mercato fondaci this very
evening to look after a patient--come! let us go together.

We begin by driving down to _Il Lavinaio_; no cabman cares to go
further at this time of day, and it would be no easy matter to do so,
for the streets have become so narrow that we are obliged to go the rest
of the way on foot.

You are surprised to see how well I know my way about this labyrinth of
lanes and alleys, but then, you see, I have been here so often; we are
now going through streets the names of which you have never even heard,
and which you would certainly be unable to find on any map of Naples; no
stranger has ever set foot in them before, and very likely no Neapolitan
either for the matter of that. However, it is not very long before I
come to the end of my own acquaintance with them, but it is of no
consequence, for over there in the corner, just where the little lamp is
burning beneath the Blessed Virgin's picture, is the Vicolo Duchesca,[13]
where we shall find a cicerone to guide us further. Do you see the boy
standing over there, holding a tiny little donkey by the bridle? It
raises me considerably in your opinion, does it not, to hear that I am
the proud possessor of both boy and donkey. They are the only survivors
of a whole family who used to live in this street; the boy's father and
mother and two sisters are lying at rest up in the _Campo Santo_. The
father was a green-grocer (_verdummaro_ as the Neapolitans say), and the
little donkey used to trot round with him, bearing the travelling shop
upon her back. But everything went wrong when the hard times set in, and
then the cholera attacked him and he died up at the hospital; and a
couple of days later, his wife and two other children sickened and died
in their own home. I heard the sad--and alas, the usual--story that very
same day from a woman in the neighbourhood, and being so close at hand I
thought I would go round.

[Footnote 13: The cholera was fearful in this alley. According to one
telegram, thirty cases were reported to have taken place in one hour
alone.]

A miserable hole as usual; the little lad was sitting on the cold damp
floor crying bitterly, and in the corner stood a wretched-looking little
donkey who had not been included amongst the survivors. She had
evidently been quite forgotten, and was almost dying of starvation, her
last meal having consisted of a portion of the straw mattress, on which
the dead woman was still lying.

The boy and donkey are now under my special protection. Peppino (the
boy) lives with a woman in the neighbourhood, and the donkey has set up
a separate establishment of her own, in the tumble-down old place which
did duty for the family abode, and which is certainly more suitable for
a stable than for a human habitation. I don't flatter myself that I have
done much for them--it is so easy to play the _rle_ of patron here! The
boy costs me four soldi a day, the donkey two, six soldi altogether; the
cigars we have just lit cost eight soldi apiece--so you see the
sacrifice can hardly be called a great one. Well yes, no doubt a good
deal of pleasure is to be got out of smoking, but those six soldi
procure me something I like even better than that--look at the boy's
graceful limbs, look at his pretty curly head, at the soft outlines of a
face almost feminine in delicacy, and at the large melancholy eyes that
look you straight in the face down to the inmost depths of your soul!
Antinous must have been just such a child at that age. We are now such
good friends, Peppino and I, that, did I not think it would be a
positive sin, I would take him back to Paris with me. And then you can't
imagine the amount of pleasure I have got out of the tiny, thoughtful,
melancholy, little donkey! I certainly have not as yet contemplated
taking her back to Paris with me, but I look after her in the meantime
as well as I am able. And she tries, after her own fashion, to show me
how grateful she is; she grinds away like a saw (I suppose you are
familiar with a donkey's usual way of expressing itself--I at any rate
know of no better comparison) every time I go in to have a look at her;
since I have been ill she has found a more practical way of proving her
gratitude, for it is she who carries me about on all these nocturnal
expeditions, whilst I am still so weak in the legs. The boy follows in
the wake, he knows the Mercato quarter by heart, and has procured me
many a patient. You won't be able to understand a word he says, and I
doubt whether he will be able to make out your refined Italian either;
"_Iamo ncopp al maruzzaro?_"[14] asks Peppino. Yes, amico mio, we are on
our way to the poor fellow's bedside--we were up there yesterday and he
was bad enough then, but I have not had a moment to give him till
to-day. Well! I mount my charger, Peppino gives the word of command,
"iaaah, iaaah!" the donkey does a little grinding, and off we go. I
have no donkey to offer you, but your legs are strong enough, and you
will not find it difficult to keep up with us; besides which, we are not
going quickly, the donkey is in the sere and yellow leaf ("_ antica_,"
says Peppino), and a bit of a philosopher into the bargain. Every now
and again she comes to a sudden standstill, to meditate upon the
"missing link"--which she will certainly never be able to account for.
That there is something very unintelligible in the system of things in
general, and something utterly unfathomable in life's dark riddle, is
all she has made out as yet--I have got no further than that myself, and
it isn't likely that either of us ever will. However, I uphold liberty
of thought on every subject--besides which, she isn't the first donkey
that has plunged into philosophy, and I daresay she is quite as likely
to find the philosopher's stone as any one else; therefore I allow her
to follow the bent of her own inspirations, and make no objection to
her standing stock still when overwhelmed by reflections on the subject
of the missing link; on the contrary, I sit calmly on her back,
meditating on the prospects of my own life, which are about as gloomy as
the donkey's. I tell you all this so that you may not be afraid of being
left behind. As I ride along my thoughts turn involuntarily to Don
Quixote--there must be some point of resemblance, I imagine, as I sit
there, mounted on the scraggy little animal, dragging both legs along
the ground, thin and wretched-looking myself, as I am told on all sides.
But if I am the knight-errant, then it is certainly the faithful Sancho
who is following close at our heels. He is by far the most respectable
member of the company, and must come in for his share of attention,
since it is he who chronicles the day's adventures, and signs his name
to these letters.[15] And if you think that he has no special vocation
of his own, just glance at the basket round his neck, we shall be
obliged to have recourse to it by and by; do you know what it contains?
Well, you will find both wine and brandy inside it, and if that is not
sufficient to entitle him to a full description on his own account, let
me tell you that there are plenty of other things besides--ether,
morphine, a Pravaz syringe, a Dieulafoy's ditto, etc. etc.

[Footnote 14: "Are we going up to the maruzzaro?"]

[Footnote 15: When these letters were first published, I made an
unsuccessful attempt to shift the responsibility of authorship on to my
faithful companion of the last ten years, my trusty dog Puck. I only
wish I might be allowed to dilate upon this subject.]

The relations between him and my gallant steed are, as yet, dashed with
a certain amount of mystification on either side; he is an extremely
well-bred individual, who never fails to salute the donkey in the same
way his Creator taught him to salute his own species,--a fact which
always bewilders the donkey in the highest degree, as she evidently
doesn't know what to make of it all. They are about the same size, and
she has never seen anything the least like him before; that he isn't a
donkey is about the only thing of which she is quite sure. Her lawful
owner Peppino sympathises with his _protge_ in her complete inability
to classify the species of creation to which this new comrade belongs,
and has finally come to the conclusion that he is a "_lupo_"[16]--an
opinion, moreover, which is shared by all the surrounding neighbourhood.
Somehow or other I have managed to make these poor friends of mine
believe in me, they are thoroughly persuaded of my good faith, and of
the fact that I mean to help them as far as it lies in my power--but
that the big dog who follows me everywhere is not a wolf, of that I have
been quite unable to convince them. And perhaps, all things taken into
consideration, it is just as well that they should think so, for he has
inspired a certain amount of wholesome fear which has been far from
useless,--unfortunately it is only too true that these regions are not
particularly safe after dark. But we know each other so well now, I
don't think there is any fear of danger--besides, we hardly look as if
there was anything about us likely to tempt the poor hungry eyes. An
empty stomach, some one lying ill at home, for whom the doctor has
ordered good strong soup, not a farthing wherewith to procure it,--all
these things are hardly conducive to the honesty that seems so natural
to us. And that watch and chain of yours glittering in the dark--well,
perhaps you, being a stranger, would have done as well to have left them
at home in their case, if for no other reason than that of exposing one
of these poor souls to one temptation less. However, Peppino, the
donkey, and "il lupo" are watching over us; here and there the dusky
alley is illuminated by the tiny lamp that hangs beneath the Blessed
Virgin's picture--besides, our errand is a good one, there is no
danger, believe me, so "_avvanti!_" And if you do not happen to be a
Catholic--or a fatalist, like myself,--above all, if your mind has been
unsettled by the daily accounts in the newspapers relating to the
insecurity and danger of the poor people's quarter, and the constant
accidents and attacks to which a stranger is likely to be
subjected,--then come a little closer and I will whisper something in
your ear:

[Footnote 16: Wolf.]

"Don Salvadore Trapanese is watching over us!" You have no idea to what
I am alluding? Well, just keep your eyes open and look about you as well
as the darkness will permit, and you will soon see what a powerful ally
we have on our side. The old woman sitting there in the corner--no, it
is not she who shall solve the riddle for you, though she is well able
to do so; see how she nods to us; she is one of my firm friends,
although I never could make up my mind to become one of her customers;
she is a vendor of chestnuts and "_chioccioli_,"[17] and her goods are,
alas, far from appetising--I used to give her a soldo now and again when
business was bad (I have had some experience on that score myself), and
the cholera had just robbed her of her daughter. Just glance for a
moment into yonder corner--the light cast by the old woman's lantern
will help you to penetrate the darkness--do you see that figure over
there, half-concealed by one of those projecting doorways? He looks
uncanny enough, does he not, lying there in wait for us, as it were? But
you have nothing to fear from him; on the contrary, it is he who will
prove our safeguard. Do you hear how he greets us--"_Buona notte,
Eccellenza!_"? The reporter, running behind us, is the only one who
refuses to acknowledge his greeting--he growls, and an expression the
reverse of amiable comes across his face--but that is often the way
with newspaper correspondents; besides, there is a certain amount of
reason in his mistrust, for the fellow really has a suspicious look
about him. As you see, he is wholly unlike the type that is usually to
be met with in the poor quarter; a long cloak is thrown over his
shoulders, he wears his hat on one side, has a stick in his hand, and
his clothes are perfectly good--a distinguished-looking fellow, in fact,
but a bad face for all that. Ask Peppino--he will soon tell you who he
is. The boy looks round to make sure of not being overheard, and then he
whispers, "_Signori,  a Camorra_." You have read that the Camorra is a
thing of the past--but you have been misinformed, my friend, the Camorra
is still alive! And perhaps it is owing to the Camorra that we also are
alive at the present moment! The man you saw just now occupies no high
rank; he is not even a _masto_, he is a simple subordinate--a
_picciuotto di sgarro_; but he has orders to watch over us, and
therefore, although we are now in the very heart of the thieves'
quarter, we can go along as safely as though we were at home in our own
rooms. You think that it would be as well to call for the police, but
there are no policemen within a good half-hour's walk, and if you manage
to come across a single official during the whole night's expedition, I
will give you all my worldly goods--and the guardianship over Peppino
and the donkey into the bargain! The only discipline in this quarter is
still such as the Camorra chooses to enforce--and that is the secret
that makes its existence possible. I also was under the impression that
the Camorra was dead, but this year has taught me that it is still in
full force, and some day I will give you a description of this wonderful
institution, and provide you with an example which will show you how
useful it is at times to be on good terms with the Camorra.

[Footnote 17: Snails.]

But let us get on. The darkness is falling fast around us, the streets
become narrower and narrower at every step, so the donkey and I go
ahead, Peppino behind (perhaps you know where an Italian donkey-driver
usually holds his animal!) then you, and, last of all, "il lupo!"

The whole neighbourhood presents a deserted appearance. You ask what has
become of every one. Well, you see, the cholera has been terribly busy
here, and has robbed the streets through which we are now passing, of
well-nigh all its inhabitants. The only living creatures about the place
are a few lonely _pipistrelli_,[18] fluttering round in the thick,
repulsive air, and innumerable rats, the size of half-grown cats,
jumping about from one slimy puddle to the other all down the filthy
street--I candidly confess I was afraid of them at first. We are now in
the very centre of the poor quarter, and the dirt, which is, alas, the
inseparable companion of poverty such as this, has increased to a
degree that is almost unbearable. You would like to turn back, would you
not? You are unable to control your disgust at the sight of all this
filth and squalor! Well, you don't suppose that I take much pleasure in
it either, do you? But we will push on for all that; we have done harm
enough in the world, perhaps this is the only chance we shall ever have
of doing any good!

[Footnote 18: Bats.]

And then, you see, when one can get rid of a thing so easily, the harm
cannot be great, there is not much danger in the stains that can be
washed away by soap and water. I have dwelt long enough in the midst of
all this misery; my hands have touched the rags of these poor creatures
over and over again--well, look at them, are they not as clean as yours?

And when the night's hard work is over we will go down to Mergellina,
and there, at daybreak, we will inhale the pure, fresh air in long, deep
draughts, and the blessd sea-breezes shall blow over our faces,
cleansing and purifying our lungs, and then we will bathe in the
glittering blue waters before Naples shall have awakened from her
slumbers and dimmed the transparent loveliness of her crystal mirror by
a single breath--and of the remembrances of last night's horrors there
shall remain no single trace!

And then we shall go home and lay us down to rest, and we shall sleep
like kings! And the painful memories of the night shall take the form of
dreams; thou shalt dream that thou art diving deep, deep down to the
lowest cave of the ocean of life, where, buried beneath the sand and
slime, the shipwrecked mariners of life lie wrapped in death's last
slumber; thou shalt search with anxious eye amidst the corpses and
amidst the shattered planks, to see if, perchance, one single heart be
beating still; thou shalt grope about, striving to haul some of these
poor drowned souls to the light of day again--but alas, their battle
with the cruel waves is over for ever and ever, it is out of thy power
to restore them to life again--and just as in thy dream, it seemeth to
thee that thou art being borne to the surface, thou shalt awaken to find
the sun, the morning sun of Italy, streaming into thy room! Thou shalt
awaken, but thy dream shall not have faded into nothingness, for see,
thy hands are full of shells from which the dirt has fallen, disclosing
the pearls within, the pure pearls of the good thou hast striven to
attain, of the generous thoughts that have passed through thy mind! And
thou shalt twine those pearls with loving hand, into the garland of
those Italian roses of thine, whose fragrance fills the air of a spring
that never wanes; and of those pearls shalt thou fashion the rosary that
thou shalt clasp within thy hand, when, like the Publican of old, thou
shalt fall upon thy knees before the God whose wrath thou hast provoked
so often!

And perhaps up in the happy fields one or two of these same pearls may
find their way on to the collar that shall, some day, adorn the neck
of     PUCK.




VIII

PATIENTS


We have arrived at our destination; Peppino and the donkey come to a
standstill, whilst you and I and the assistant with the basket round his
neck, pass on through the arched doorway leading into the fondaco. The
municipality is a good sort of institution after all, it is the
municipality that pays for the fire that is burning now in the middle of
the court, and lighting up the picture for your benefit--the fire is
intended to purify the air, a highly necessary operation, as you will
readily admit. One might fancy oneself in a cave, or, at any rate, at
the bottom of some dried-up well--this is the courtyard of the fondaco;
it is surrounded by dwelling-places, hovel upon hovel, one hole after
the other, all provided with the tiny aperture that serves the purpose
of both door and window. As often as not, several families live together
in one of these holes, and to come across one in which less than six or
eight people are gathered together, is the exception.

And what a terrific exhibition of children, eh? We have always been
taught to look upon them as an expression of God Almighty's good
will--if so, to what a terrible extent have not these poor starving
people been blest! A child seems to creep out of every available corner,
every woman has a babe at her breast, the whole court swarms with boys
playing about the burning pile. A long row of children sit crouched
round the fire, of which the red glow, falling across their faces, lends
a sort of momentary colour to the poor little cheeks--you should see how
pale they look by daylight! They do not appear to pay the least
attention to the games and frolics of the other children, there they
sit staring into the fire like so many old people, half of them are
probably fatherless and motherless, but all of them are down with _la
febbre_. The boy close by, who turns to greet us with that soulless
expression on his face, and the imbecile smile which is for ever on his
lips, is suffering from spine-disease, and has been a cripple for about
two years. He is carried down to the fire every evening, and told me
himself that he had never had such a good time as since the cholera
broke out. His father is a convict, and his mother and two sisters died
last week. Both girls died the same night--and well do I remember the
mother's unwitting cruelty, as she pointed to the poor cripple--who,
unable to be of the slightest use to any one, was sitting all of a heap
on the only chair the family possessed, following us about the room with
eyes in which there was no other expression than one of complete
indifference to all that was going on around him,--well do I remember
her continuous cry, "_Solo questo, il Dio non si lo piglia_."[19] At the
same time I glanced towards the cripple; the awful tragedy of the night,
the sight of his sisters' fatal struggle with death, must have awakened
some portion of his dormant intelligence; for, as the mother's voice
fell upon his ear, the reflection of a soul flew across the faded,
meaningless face, and the veiled understanding seemed to grasp the
purport of her words,--he was a human being again, for sorrow had
touched him, and he knew what it meant! But that did not last long,
there he sits with the same soulless expression on his face as of old;
and if you happen to ask him what has become of his parents, he will
tell you with an imbecile laugh at every word, "_Pap  al Bagno e mamma
sta al Campo Santo!_"[20] The woman standing beside him with the babe at
her breast, has taken him into her own house since his mother died,
although she herself has hardly enough to keep body and soul together.

[Footnote 19: "This one alone God Almighty will not take away."]

[Footnote 20: "Father is at the galleys, and mother is up at the
churchyard."]

The boy dancing round the fire over there, has lost both parents, and is
now left with eight brothers and sisters; the eldest girl is sixteen
years old: there she stands roasting chestnuts over the fire--the little
ones are to dine off them by and by. The little fellow does not look a
bit sad, he is far too young to realise what he has lost, although he is
quite capable of understanding that for the first time in his life he is
possessed of a decent garment, and you may be quite sure he is
thoroughly enjoying the novelty of the situation. As you see, the whole
costume consists of a shirt, which he drags after him, and the length of
which considerably interferes with the joyous patter of his little feet;
but if you look at the youngsters by whom he is surrounded, you will
then understand that a shirt is an extremely distinguished garment in
this part of the world, and if it happens to be a new one, such as his,
it attracts considerable attention. Dozens of his small admirers are
skipping about, just as God Almighty sent them into the world,--but they
are quite happy for all that The Relief Committee has provided our
little friend with his new garment. A distribution of 200 shirts had
taken place a few days ago, in the Piazza Mercato; I happened to be
there (not as a competitor, but simply as an eyewitness of the
tragi-comic scene)--indeed there were aspirants enough and to spare, for
they considerably outnumbered the shirts. The various toilettes were
performed there and then, for the orders were that all the rags which
presented too doubtful an appearance, were to be burnt at once. (A fire
had been lit on the spot, from which the distribution was taking place,
and several hundred street boys were gathered round it; the effect of
the whole scene was whimsical in the extreme.)

The same odd destiny, which at conscription time at home, presides over
the distribution of uniforms intended for the new recruits, and which
humorously bestows on a _small_ conscript a coat just twice his size,
presenting the _full-grown_ warrior with another which, owing to its
inadequate length and breadth, exposes the graceful outlines of the
burly fellow's natural charms to full view--this same mischievous-loving
destiny seemed to be presiding over the distribution of shirts in the
Piazza Mercato. Great big lazzaroni, who had come up with their _omnia
mea mecum porto_, and had already confidingly given over the whole of
their wardrobe to the flames, stood now buried deep in thought, trying
to solve the problem as to how they should stow away their great, brown
bodies into the baby-shirt that had fallen to their lot; half-grown boys
tripped unceasingly over the long baggy shirts with which the
municipality had presented them, whilst tiny babies crawled all over the
ground completely hidden from view amongst the wide folds of shirts that
would have fitted their fathers.

But let us go up to the fondaco.

There stands our patient's wife warming a tattered old blanket over the
fire--so her husband the "maruzzaro," whom we are about to visit, is
still alive. But do you see the way in which she answers my silent
question, she makes the sign of the cross and points upwards--he is
dead! But why then is she heating the blanket? "_Carmela l'ha presa
stanotte_,"[21] sobs the mother. Carmela is her daughter, she had been so
good to her father, had watched so tenderly over him. Well, up we go! In
one corner lies the father's corpse, and in front of it, on the floor,
stand two lighted candles, some half-withered flowers have found their
way even up here, and lie strewn about the dead man's head. The corpse
is quite uncovered, for it was the family's only blanket that the mother
had been warming down below for her daughter, who must be cold, for she
is shivering so. The girl lies opposite the wall, in such close
proximity to the corpse, that were she to stretch forth her hand, she
would be able to touch it.

[Footnote 21: "Carmela was taken ill to-night."]

Poverty, awful, incredible, unspeakable poverty! is then the misery that
follows in thy footsteps not sufficiently heavy a burden wherewith to
have laden these poor creatures, must they then be compelled to receive
into their midst the most ghastly of all diseases, until the very
measure of their suffering be running over! To be reduced to taking the
mattress on which the dead father is lying, in order to put it beneath
the sick child, to be obliged to cover, with the same filthy blanket
that has been thrown over his corpse, the daughter who now lies
struggling for life, face to face with death in its most repulsive,
horrible aspect! No pillow to lay beneath her head, no rag wherewith to
rub her, no spoon into which to pour the medicine, no sort of utensil in
which to warm the wine!

And here comes the mother with the heated blanket, wrapping it round the
girl with all the tenderness which a mother alone is capable of
lavishing on her suffering child. She, poor mother, has watched over her
husband for three nights, and this last night over her daughter, and
now, exhausted with fatigue, she drops on her knees beside the bed and
sobs, "_Vergine sanctissima delle grazie, salvami la figlia mia! Tu sei
tanto bella Madonna mia ed ai fatto tante grazie, che queste ad una
povera madre non la recuserai! La senti Madonna, come si lamenta! Dimmi
che cosa vuoi da me per farla guarire? Vuoi il mio sangue, il mio
cuore?_"[22]

[Footnote 22: "O Holy Virgin, full of grace, save thou my daughter! Thou
art so lovely, Blessed Virgin mine, thou art so gracious that thou
could'st not find it in thy heart to deny a poor mother's prayer! Dost
thou hear her, Holy Virgin, how she moans? What shall I give thee to
induce thee to spare her life? Is it my blood, my life, that thou
requirest?"]

We begin to understand something about cholera, you and I, and we shake
our heads, she looks very bad, no pulse, the extremities are quite
cold, and the unconscious-looking eyes are half-open.

And now to work! There is so little space in the wretched hovel that we
are obliged to stand the corpse almost upright in the corner, so as not
to trample it underfoot.

The only thing to be done is to restore some sort of warmth to the poor
sick child; if you can find nothing else, off with your coat, and rub
the frozen limbs therewith! And you, doctor, now is the time to make use
of all you have brought with you!

And with what sympathy does not your heart go out to the poor half-dead
child, how earnestly do you not watch for every favourable sign that
encourages us to hope that we are on the right road, how gladly you
welcome the first return of life, penetrating at last through the cold
and steel-like eyes, which tired, only half-open, and disfigured by the
deep black rings beneath them, are slowly gazing upon your own in the
endeavour to follow every movement! There, they grow brighter now--it is
the return of consciousness, it is the soul that has awakened! You bend
over her, realising that she has recognised you, and then you tell her
that all shall yet go well; you see that she has understood you, and
that she wishes to speak, although she is unable to do so. And then the
lips begin to move, and her first words are that she cannot, will not
die! You wipe the cold perspiration from off her brow, saying unto her
that she shall live! "_Si, tu guarirai, si, si._"[23] Then she begins to
grow restless, throwing herself wildly about the wretched bed,
succumbing with the returning dawn of consciousness to the overpowering
dread of death and pain, and crying aloud "_Salvatemi! salvatemi! ma mi
salverete! Non  vero che sarebbe un peccato se morissi?_"[24]

[Footnote 23: "Yes, thou shalt live, yes, yes."]

[Footnote 24: "Save me! save me! is it not true that it would be a sin to
let me die?"]

And then, exhausted with the heat, she cries unceasingly for something
to drink. "_Ho sete! brucio! neve, neve! io ardo!_"[25]

[Footnote 25: "I am so thirsty! I am burning! ice, ice!"]

You were prepared for all that, and have brought ice with you in the
basket, and there you sit, wondering from whence the patience has come
that enables you, so restless as you are, to sit there, hour after hour,
dropping pieces of ice from time to time into her mouth. The large eyes
meet your own so trustfully and yet so interrogatively, striving to
detect in every glance, in every change of countenance, whether you are
anxious, whether you still think all is going well.

And should she recover! No one will ask to whom she owes her life. You
need not expect any thanks for your tiny, tiny share of credit in the
matter--and none will be bestowed upon you either. The mother has her
own belief that it was the Blessed Virgin, not you, who saved her child,
and the more you have to do with sick people the more likely are you to
come round to the mother's way of thinking. Neither are you in the
humour for taking medical notes; you do not feel the least inclined to
announce to the world that you have just "saved" a cholera patient, or
to publish the "case" with a series of theoretical reflections setting
forth the various merits of certain treatments, Cantani's,
"hypodermoclys," and "enteroclys," etc. etc.--leave all that to others,
or wait at least until you shall have settled down at home again, and
until, in your own study, in dressing-gown and slippers, you find
yourself thinking over all you have gone through.

Here you are a human being and nothing more.

Do not you disturb your peace of mind with thoughts of adorning the
altar erected to the demigod of Medicine with the faded herbs of your
medical experience, or of illuminating it with the tiny flame of your
scientific light--there are so many crowding round it, each one trying
to extinguish the other's candle, leave the care of that altar to those
more worthy of adorning it than yourself! Do you go bravely up to the
High Altar of Humanity, and light the little tallow candle of your
slight knowledge there, and lay your simple flowers upon its lowest
step; they boast no brilliant hue, no high-sounding Latin name
distinguishes these flowers of yours--but at all events they have sprung
from the same soil as Goethe's lines--

    "Grau, teurer Freund, ist alle Theorie,
     Und grn des Lebens goldner Baum!"[26]

[Footnote 26: "All theories are gray, dear friend,
               And green the golden tree of life."]




IX

TWO PESSIMISTS


You recollect the little donkey I took down to the fondaco the other
night, do you not? You recollect my telling you what a philosopher she
was, and the way she would stand stock still every now and again, to
muse upon the "missing link," whilst I turned over the problem of my own
existence, not particularly easy of solution either?

Thus have we sat together for many an hour, buried deep in thought. For
the last few days Rosina (for such is her name--every Italian donkey
goes by the name of Rosina) has been more sociable and more
communicative, the sorrowful expression in her face has somewhat
diminished, and now and then a gentle breeze of humour has set her
melancholy ears a-flapping. Yesterday morning we had both gone down to
Mergellina, to see the sun rise behind Vesuvius, and whilst we sat there
waiting, I ventured--after having endeavoured to inspire her with a
savoury cauliflower--to touch upon the Past, which I had every reason to
suppose had stamped itself indelibly upon the little donkey's soul with
many a mournful recollection. At last I asked her to tell me the story
of her life, she should hear mine afterwards,--she must not run away
with the idea that donkeys have a monopoly of all the suffering in this
world! Rosina smiled bitterly, and whilst we sat there watching the
awakening bay, she let me into the secret of her wretched life. Would
you like to know what she had to say for herself, as she gazed over the
water with those lustrous unfathomable eyes of hers?

       *       *       *       *       *

With gay ribbons at her bridle, her flower-decked saddle resting lightly
on her shiny back, she had in bygone days borne many a smart young
English miss up to Camaldoli's Convent (she was stationed on that line).
And whilst the fine gentleman in attendance had tried to show off his
own cleverness by insisting on the stupidity of the asinine species, she
had tramped along, flapping her ears and thinking to herself, that had
she chosen she could have delivered herself of quite as many platitudes
as this short-eared individual, but she was too sharp for that--and the
consequence was she held her tongue. And the young lady was no doubt of
the same opinion, for she often patted her gently on the back with her
little gloved hand, suffering her to rest awhile in order to feast upon
the grass that here and there sprang up between the stones; and from
time to time she would even drop a luscious fig into her mouth.

And the donkey looked out upon the world with her pretty bright eyes,
and came to the conclusion that life was very sweet, and that her older
companions up in the stables were altogether mistaken in looking at
things from such a gloomy point of view. "But do not let us linger over
those happy days--_Nessun maggior dolore che ricordarsi del tempo felice
nella miseria!_" quoth the donkey, as she described her youthful
experiences--"let us get on with our story!"

And thus a couple of years passed over her head. Conscientiously and
patiently she bore her burdens up the hill, where everything looked so
bright, and where she herself was often given a draught of sparkling
water, and never once in coming down did she miss her footing, no matter
how slippery the stones. It was hard work sometimes, "but that is part
and parcel of the battle of life," thought the donkey, and forthwith
plucked up fresh courage.

As time went on their care for her steadily diminished, whilst the soft
down upon her back was gradually worn away by the friction of the hard
saddle. One day a large wound formed upon her shoulder, but no one took
the trouble to dress it, and when she tried to shake off the flies that
settled upon it, they only thrashed her for her pains. But she held out
bravely and did her duty patiently nevertheless, although she burned
beneath the saddle. And men and women seemed to her to grow heavier and
heavier, as she herself grew thinner and thinner. She, whose pride it
had always been to head the cavalcade, as it wound its way up the steep
hills, began to find herself in the middle, and finally towards the tail
end, surrounded by those companions who held such sombre views on life
in general, and dragged themselves along with heads bent low. No flowers
were laid upon her saddle now, the ribbon-covered bridle was hung upon
the neck of a newcomer, and after a while, a dirty, worn-out bit of
leather fell to her share for ever.

Few and far between the caresses now, rarer and rarer the tit-bits on
the journey, whilst heavier, ever heavier fell the whip.

"What if I returned their blows!" thought the donkey one day, as one
cruel stroke after the other fell from the whip of the great lumbering
fellow she bore upon her back, whilst the driver thrashed her
unmercifully from behind; but an old donkey, who was limping along
beside her, tried to dissuade her--"they always manage to prove that
_we_ are in the wrong," said she, mournfully.

But Rosina lashed out with her hind legs for all that, endeavouring at
the same time to shake off her tyrant, saddle and all. But it was of no
avail, the girths were bound so fast, and during the rest of the journey
they beat her more than ever. And when she got home that night, tired
and hungry after the hard day's work, the manger was empty, not a drop
of water was to be had, and there she was obliged to lie the whole night
through, in spite of which they made her work harder than ever the
following day.

That was her last attempt at kicking.

But it began to dawn upon her that the world was not the pleasant place
she had imagined at the outset, neither were human beings as good as
they professed to be. And thus she became bitter and hypochondriacal,
inclining ever more and more unto that school in which the elder donkeys
held forth their desperate and pessimistic philosophy.

One day they put no saddle on her back, but harnessed her to a great
cart full of stones; she dragged it round for a couple of years till her
strength was almost exhausted, but the blows fell just as hard as ever.
She wasted gradually away, lost all her interest in those things that
had attracted her in bygone days, and became indifferent to the fact
that no one ever decked her now--what did it matter to her that she
became dirtier and more wretched-looking every day, they always beat her
regardless of circumstances. Patiently and submissively she held her
peace and dragged her heavy load after her, and when the whip fell
heaviest she would silently raise her eyes to her tormentor's face.

And thus she fell into a complete state of decadence. One day they led
her to a large square in which many of her distressed companions were
gathered together; plenty of people passed by her, some of them opened
the poor sore mouth, grown so sensitive from the chafing of the bridle,
and examined her teeth, so worn by the dried-up straw on which she had
been obliged to live--but further than that no one appeared to take the
faintest interest in her. At last, towards evening, a man turned up,
leading a little boy by the hand; after a few moments' conversation with
her oppressor, he took her by the bridle and led her to his own home,
and then she began to understand that she had been handed over to
another master. She was now in the service of Peppino's father, and went
round selling vegetables with him; no doubt they beat her as before, but
at all events the work was nothing like as hard.

"And so on to the bitter end," finished the donkey, "till at last I
thought I would really have to wind up my laborious, honourable career,
by slowly dying of starvation, after having been reduced to eating up
that old straw-mattress, cholera microbes and all! But then you appeared
on the scene, doctor." . . . Here I interrupted the donkey with the
assurance that no thanks were necessary, begging her at the same time to
use no compromising titles--for were it to get abroad that a doctor was
actually to be found philosophising for hours together with a little
donkey at Mergellina, not even a veterinary surgeon would condescend to
recognise him as a colleague. I thanked her, however, for her story, and
felt ashamed of my own bitter thoughts,--she had a much greater right to
be bitter over her destiny than I had to be over mine! And the poor
little donkey had certainly every reason to meditate upon life's
insoluble riddle!

And thus we got on to philosophy. She told me she began to fear she
would never be able to raise the mysterious curtain which hides the
future from us, and that she would die without having discovered what
truth meant--"_Arcano  tutto, fuor che il nostro dolor!_" quoth she.

I had for some time suspected my little donkey of being an inveterate
pessimist, and was not in the least surprised to hear her quote
Leopardi, the poet of despair. I asked her if she knew anything about
Schopenhauer. No, she knew nothing about him; but two donkeys of her
acquaintance had mentioned him one day, after having been up to
Camaldoli with two German professors on their backs--their conversation
under way had turned exclusively on Schopenhauer, and the donkeys had
endeavoured to follow it as closely as possible. But they had returned
home more soured than usual; they had been flogged more unmercifully
than ever by their drivers, who had received no _pourboire_ that
day--and the consequence was, that as far as donkeys were concerned,
they didn't think much of Schopenhauer. (I verily believe the sly little
donkey wished to allude to the fact that Schopenhauer was as stingy as
he was surly--but as I have a weakness for him myself, and did not feel
the least inclined to quarrel with Rosina, I pretended not to have
understood what she was driving at.)

No, according to her ideas Leopardi was much nearer the truth, the noble
Italian poet whose pessimism never led him into revolting against the
principle of life, but on the contrary, to resignation, to silence, to
contempt; she reminded me of that saying of his: "_Nostra vita a che
val? solo a spregiarla!_"

I advised her to discontinue her search after truth, assuring her, that
even if she found it, she would be all the more unhappy on that account,
_for truth is sad in itself_! She would do much better to cling to the
illusions that adorn this life, and to make it a solemn duty to try and
forget that they are nothing but _illusions_.

"But what then is the object of that process which we call Life?" cried
the donkey; "if what Kant says be true, that morality is its object,
why, then, it is our duty to approach this object day by day, the
principle of goodness and its development ought to be seen penetrating
deeper and deeper into every grade of society, and men ought to become
better and better!

This, however, is not the case--all I know is that the longer I live,
the more mercilessly am I beaten!"

I had at first intended to take up the cudgels in Kant's defence, but
face to face with this slashing argument I held my tongue, and as my
eyes fell simultaneously upon her poor, lacerated back, I made up my
mind to abandon the philosopher of Knigsberg to his fate.

"And besides all that"--continued the donkey--"if our object in life is
the continual endeavour to raise our intellectual standard, to further
the development of our thinking and feeling powers, well, then we are
doomed to a still greater consciousness of sorrow and sadness, for does
not this very consciousness keep pace with the development of our brain,
and the refinement of our nervous system?"

"Thou'rt right enough, my poor friend," I answered, "and that is the
very reason why the power of suffering diminishes the lower we descend
in the scale of creation, till at last we reach the solitary calm of
all sensation, where unconsciousness begins, and where life slumbers on
in painless repose.

And wert thou an ordinary little donkey, Rosina, I would tell thee that
thou art far less unhappy than I myself. A moment ago thou quotedst
Leopardi, but dost thou remember his _Canto notturno di un pastor
errante_, where a shepherd, wandering about the Himalayas, turns to the
moon, condemned like himself to everlasting unrest, and takes her to
witness that his flock is happier far than he himself! For animals at
least ignore the extent of their unhappiness, the memory of their
anguish fades speedily away, they do not know what real sorrow means!"

"The idea of asking me whether I remember those splendid lines!"
answered Rosina, and forthwith the verses which I had that instant
alluded to, fell upon my ears in the language of Petrarch and Dante:

    "Che fai tu, luna, in ciel? dimmi, che fai
        Silenziosa luna?
     Dimmi, o luna: a che vale
     Al pastor la sua vita,
     La vostra vita a voi? dimmi: ove tende
     Questo vagar mio breve
     Il tuo corso immortale
                                
     O greggia mia che posi, oh te beata
     Che la miseria tua, credo, non sai!
     Non sol perch d'affanno
         Quasi libera vai;
     Ch'ogni stento, ogni danno
     Ogni estremo timor subito scordi
     Ma pi perch giammai tedio non provi!"

"And dost thou remember La Ginestra?--

    'E tu, lenta ginestra
     Che di salve odorata . . .'"

"Thou must declaim all that another time," interrupted I, "for see, the
morning-sun is already rising over Sorrento's hills--we must be off, my
friend. We will continue our conversation to-morrow."

"But then stones ought to be happier than we?" hazarded the donkey, as
we prepared to be off.

"So I believe," answered I, "provided that all life and capability of
perception be absolutely extinct,--though I have my doubts on that
subject, and so had Heine, for the matter of that--and just imagine, if
they be indeed capable of feeling, how much unhappier is not their lot
than ours! For flowers at all events shed tears of dew, and we are able
to confide our sorrows to one another, but they are condemned to
silence!"

"Well, but look at idiots," ground out the donkey, "they are always
happy!"

"No doubt, my little donkey, _for the power of suffering is an
intellectual function_, and is directly connected with the development
of our intelligence."

"Just one word more," said the donkey. "We two, who have never been
particularly happy, why then, our brains must be singularly developed,
and we are no doubt misunderstood geniuses, both of us!"

"No, my poor little friend," answered I, "neither of us are shining
lights, perhaps we are rather smaller donkeys than some of the
rest--_voil tout!_"




X

"THE PHILOSOPHY OF THE UNCONSCIOUS"

(_Something that occurred to me on returning from the poor quarter_)


"What was it thou wert muttering to thyself as we went home the other
night?" said the donkey to me a few days ago.

"I thought I overheard the name of that well-known author who has
written so extensively on the subject of poor life, who, with his
harrowing description of distress, has done so much to increase the
general feeling of compassion for the poor,--and the editions of his own
romances."

"Ay, thou hast guessed rightly, Rosina, but no names; we discuss
everything in a general sort of way, we see things _en grand_, thou my
little donkey and I.

But thou knewest well enough about whom I was thinking, about him, the
celebrated writer of the new school, whose works are all 'founded on
fact'; who sits there in his comfortable arm-chair at his well-appointed
writing-table, running his pen swiftly over the paper. We will not
disturb him, we will only watch him for a few moments--his time is very
precious, his manuscript must be finished in a day or two, and it isn't
so easy to limit oneself when the publisher is paying at the rate of so
much a line. See, now he lays his pen aside, thoughtfully passing his
hand across his forehead--the forehead wherein so many charitable
thoughts abide, the hand that signs the protestation of oppressed misery
against its cruel fate in so many volumes. The fixed eyes are riveted
intently upon some distant object, which the busy thoughts are in the
very act of shaping--it is to be hoped he has not caught sight of either
of us, our forlorn appearance might easily lead him to suppose we were
beggars, and then there would be an end to our observations,--he does
not approve of beggars. He is a theorist. Rousing himself suddenly he
begins to wander up and down the thick-pile Persian carpet--what can he
be thinking about? Ah! I have it! There has already been some talk about
a certain new novel that is to see the light of day ere long--that's
what he is brooding over. The book is said to be harrowing in the
extreme, full of the most distressing scenes gleaned from the lives of
the poor. _Le clou_, the culminating interest of the book, is to centre
in the touching story of a mother who dies of starvation with her babe
at her breast. It is this very chapter which he is now revising, and
which, according to all appearance, is giving him such a world of
trouble. He paces up and down the room, his nerves strung to the
utmost, talking to himself, and stopping short every now and again to
dot down a few notes on the margin of his manuscript. Let us see what he
has to say for himself, and take a peep over his shoulder at those
memoranda of his."

"The youngster must be done away with--it is absolutely necessary,--that
is what the whole plot hangs upon!

I've worked up the mother to my entire satisfaction; that scene where
the light falls upon 'the countenance that anxiety and distress have
rendered unrecognisable' (_Mem.! but on which the traces of rare beauty
were still discernible_) is excellent; but the youngster, the youngster!

She _must_ be found holding a dead baby in her arms, it simply doubles
the pathos of the situation, and the child must appear to be sleeping.

(_Mem.! trade as much as possible on the mother's desperate agony, which
has betrayed itself in the convulsive embrace with which she has
strained the child to her breast. Mem.! latter removed with considerable
difficulty._) I have two or three different sorts of deaths at my
finger-ends--we modern authors are obliged to read up everything,
medicine into the bargain--but I cannot quite make up my mind whether
this death from starvation, _which is what I hold to most, will allow_
the brat to look as if he had merely fallen into a deep sleep! And this
new book of mine must be absolutely faultless as regards the minutest
details of this description, for I let it be understood in the preface
that the distressing story is not only a _true_ one, but one that has
come under my own immediate notice. But how the devil is a fellow to
know what a youngster looks like who has just died of starvation!"

Here the donkey grinds into my ear: "He should have come down with us to
the Vicolo del Monaco this evening, and then he would have had an
excellent opportunity of judging for himself."--"Be quiet, Rosina, and
pay attention--this is all extremely interesting in case we should ever
go in for novel-writing ourselves."

The celebrated author cuts short his peregrinations, pulls up before the
great marble chimney-piece, and pokes the fire.

"Were it possible to allow of the child being _frozen to death_, it
would simplify the whole thing. I know for a fact that people _do_ fall
asleep under such circumstances, but it is out of the question in this
case, as the scene is laid in Italy, and it is summer time into the
bargain, (_Mem.! corpse surrounded by a few rose-trees in full bloom,
nightingales?--something might be made out of this!_)--though, hang it
all! I should be repeating myself, there would be a certain amount of
monotony about it, seeing that no less than three children were frozen
to death in my last novel.

How to despatch this wretched child into the next world is really
worrying me out of my senses. The medico-legal handbook maintains that
the vitality of children at the breast is something extraordinary, and
that they are able to exist for several days together without food of
any sort. What if I were to hurry up the mother's death by a week or so,
postponing the discovery of both corpses till the child has had time to
die, according to the medical authorities--ah! but then the mother would
be _too far gone_; there would be no more poetry about the corpse, and I
should be obliged to bar the whole of that telling scene where Rudolf,
throwing himself beside her, kisses her (_Mem.! cold lips!_) No one
feels inclined to kiss a corpse of several days' standing!

No, that scene must remain untouched--it is unique--there isn't a man
alive who could have written anything to touch it; the whole of modern
literature contains nothing to equal that passage in which Rudolf cries,
'_O cruel and inexorable power that art nought but fate, blind fate; may
I not ransom her dear life with mine own, may not her closd eyes be
once again allowed to . . ._'"

(Here the donkey took to grinding so sardonically and noisily that it is
still a matter of astonishment to me that we were not overheard; but
when authors are in the act of declaiming their own works, they are
capable neither of hearing nor seeing.)

"I am delighted with the description of the corpse, I believe it to be
quite complete (eleven pages are dedicated to the shade of the face
alone). No one can beat me at a corpse--no one!

What a pity it is I cannot make up my mind to inspect one for myself, my
intense dislike to anything of the sort is really most unfortunate, as
corpses figure so very successfully in these sort of pictures, and are
no doubt one of my strong points. And I don't believe that any one, as
far as my handling of the subject is concerned, will be able to find
fault with a single detail; besides, I have again consulted my new
handbook, and am fully persuaded that no alteration is necessary."

"What sort of a handbook?" asked the donkey; I pointed silently to the
book-case, whereon there lay a

                  "_Handbook
                      of
      Anatomy, Physiology, Pathology, and
Therapeutics for the use of Novelists and Poets,
                 followed by a
  supplement containing in alphabetical order
     a full description of all the various
        deaths suited to fictitious and
              dramatic purposes._"

"But the youngster! the youngster! To suppress him altogether, is out of
the question, the whole plot would fall to the ground, the exchange of
the two infants by the bribed nurse, the mark upon the child's arm,
which eventually leads to the discovery of the rightful heir."

("That is an old story," ground out the donkey, who was no doubt a novel
reader herself)--

"No, the child must live, must die, and what is more, must die now, as
the tragic element in the story unhesitatingly demands."

Just as our author reaches this point, he is interrupted by the entrance
of a footman, bearing a message from the _chef_, to the effect that the
soup was growing cold--the dinner-bell had already been rung twice.

Such is the force of inspiration, such are the giddy heights to which
the soul of man is sometimes borne upon the wings of idealism, that he
has actually been known to forget his rapidly-cooling soup! But
ecstasies such as these cannot possibly last long, and the author wends
his way into the dining-room, where we slip in after him. Nothing
particular occurs during the meal, silently and reverentially our genius
devotes himself to his dinner, a dinner upon which the starving family
might easily have been kept alive for a fortnight. But the _pt de foie
gras_ has hardly been served before he again begins talking to himself:
"the more I think of it, the more I hold to the idea of starving them to
death--it is not only original, but effective into the bargain, and
there are few passages in contemporary literature that come up to that
death scene of mine!"--("Are they all equally modest?" asked the
donkey.--"Yes," answered I, "every one of them;") "if the thing cannot
be managed any other way I must just dash off something like this at the
beginning of the sentence: '_Strange to say_, the child, according to
all appearances, had not survived his mother more than a few moments.'

"(_Mem.! child naturally delicate, mother utterly exhausted by previous
suffering, and incapable of nursing it herself, child ill towards the
last--of what?_)"

And dinner over, he goes back to his study, the busy author--towards
evening he devotes himself to another work, a sea-story, in which a ship
goes down with all hands, except a little cabin-boy and a Newfoundland
dog. The dog howls so piteously and miserably through the night, that he
is overheard by fishermen on the coast; but the sea is rough, and no one
will venture to the rescue--"_what was he but a dog after all!_"

Here the author smiles complacently to himself; he sees the tears start
to the eyes of every lover of dogs, as he reads the account of the poor
beast's death-struggle, and the final words, "_What was he but a dog
after all_," fill him with entire satisfaction.

The surviving cabin-boy must of course be rescued, for he is the
illegitimate son of a very great personage indeed, who, in order to get
rid of him, has shipped him off to Australia; he is to return after a
while to revenge himself, etc. etc. Of course he is driven out to sea by
the wind, and is left for twelve days without a morsel of food. . . .

Here the author's pen stops short--"let me see, twelve days without
food of any sort; is not this a trifle too long according to the
handbook?"

The cabin-boy, of course, lives upon the fare with which novelists are
in the habit of supplying their shipwrecked victims, _i.e._ shoe-soles
and leather straps, and, of course, the sentimental tortoise, who, out
of sheer compassion, lays herself upon her back and allows herself to be
caught, is likewise introduced upon the scene--but twelve days? He
cannot possibly be allowed to have any wine about him (salt water is the
only thing put at his disposal), for the wreck occurred at midnight, and
as the ship went to the bottom at once, there was no time to collect
provisions; but something or other he must have to fall back upon, to
pull him through those twelve days!

Buried deep in thought our author lights his Havannah cigar--and whilst
he puffs the thin blue smoke across his manuscript, he allows the poor
little castaway to discover a packet of tobacco at the bottom of the
boat.

       *       *       *       *       *

Oh ye authors, who in thrilling and high-flown romances portray the
lives of the poor, you need not draw on your imaginations in order to
describe the misery of this world, you need not strain after "effects"
or search after a combination of appalling situations, you need not shed
a single artificial tear over fictitious sorrows! Go back to the "old
school," when pictures were not painted in the studios after hired Paris
models and dressed-up lay-figures, when artists went straight to the
Nature they wished to paint, and authors lived amongst the people they
wished to describe!

Go out among the poor, look their misery straight in the face, and lay
your hands upon their rags and tatters! And you will bear witness to the
fact that there is no romance so stirring, so thrilling--and so
heartrending as Life's great epic! And you will blush at the remembrance
of your own heroes of romance, you will guard against the creation of
more poor than are already to be found in this weary world, you will not
have the courage to allow your imaginations to feed upon new victims of
starvation and poverty, for the sake of leading them later on to
literature's market, shut up between the gilt covers of your own
volumes, to be exhibited for money like wild beasts! The greater the
smoothness, the more remarkable the finish of the literary bars behind
which the poor imprisoned victims writhe, the higher the entrance fee
across the threshold of the title-page on which the publisher sits,
rubbing his hands. But the victims themselves--"the wild beasts," whilst
you are heaping up your gold, they roar aloud for food--but what do you
care about that!

I see, that according to Rosina, I have rather overshot the mark in my
description of these illustrious authors, and that my wholesale
condemnation of their cold-blooded copying system is rather too
exaggerated--but I can't help that! Have ye no pity for your models, ye
celebrated annalists of the lives of the poor?

I speak as I feel, and away with all metaphors!

I have no love for you, ye sentimental chroniclers of want and
destitution, ye who rant about poverty and distress at two francs a
line! Too well do I know these literary friends of Naples, these
enthusiastic admirers of the bay's clear waters, of the people's poetry
and song, ye, who write long stories, the heroes of which are chosen
from out the crowd of children who swarm in Santa Lucia, ye, who feast
upon your description of the handful of chestnuts which keeps the
lazzarone alive, ye, who buy your silks and velvets with the rags of the
half-clothed children of whom you have drawn so bright a picture!

What has become of your poetical admiration for Italy, of your
oft-repeated wish, "_Vedere Napoli e poi morire_;" has she then
disappeared from off the face of the earth? Have you nothing to write in
behalf of sorrowing Naples, in behalf of her hunger and desolation, you
who are able to write at such length about her songs and the tinkle of
her guitars? Not one appeal to enlist sympathy on her behalf, not one
fond word of gratitude for all you owe to Italy, not one hand stretched
out towards your fellow-creatures in distress, if only to give them a
scrap of bread, ye who have so often stretched out your hands to pluck
her summer roses and drink the wine of her gladness!

But there is no one to understand me--and it isn't the first time that
that has happened either. It is no longer the proper thing to have an
ideal, and dare to acknowledge it before the world--all our ideals have
vanished before the uprising sun of so-called modern culture, and
people seem to have lost their faith in them, as they have lost their
faith in fairy tales.

But thou, Rosina, thou wilt surely understand me! Thou art a neglected
little donkey who has realised that it is not her mission to flaunt
along the sunny walks of life with all the rest, and I am a poor devil
who has also been rejected as unfit to figure in the great review of
Life! And now we wander up and down the dingy alleys of the poor
quarter--it is not worth while to show ourselves in the open streets, we
are not welcome anywhere, my poor friend! Thy legs are tired, and my
head is tired also, but thou trampest along as bravely as thou art able,
and I strive to make the best of the little I know in the endeavour to
be of some use. No one knows whence we come, no one knows whither we are
bound, and no one asks us who we are, but we get along just as well for
all that. But every now and again we stand still to philosophise
awhile, and it is then we grow so bitter, old friend; but thou art
right, 'tis best to hold one's peace! Thou art right with thy plaintive
utterances which I now regret having compared to the grinding of a saw!
Now, do I realise how much more lies hidden beneath the rasping sigh I
misunderstood so often, and reach thou hither that drooping melancholy
ear of thine, and I will whisper unto thee my own interpretation thereof
in human language, and in words that apply unto thee, even as they apply
unto me,

    "_Seul le silence est grand, tout le reste est faiblesse!_"

       *       *       *       *       *

No, there is no romance so stirring, so thrilling, and so heartrending
as life's great epic; but its fate is the same as that of the
Bible--there are but few who care to read it. But hast thou once looked
through a page or two thou shalt discover how impossible it is to lay
it down; thou readest on till the book falls from thy hands, until the
advent of Death, who extinguishes the lamp by which thou workest. And
how empty and tiresome do not all other books appear! How sharp hath now
thine eye become to detect the strings by means of which the writers of
romance succeed in dancing their miserable marionettes across the boards
of that literary puppet show which, according to them, represents life!

And how severe are not thy literary criticisms now, how bare the shelves
on which thy favourite books were wont to lie! Thou flingest them away,
one after the other, their contents satisfy thee no longer, their heroes
are dead, of that thou art assured, for thou hast held the mirror of
truth before their lips, and no breath of life has dimmed its surface;
their descriptions of Nature are like the countries that surround the
Dead Sea, where no flowers scent the air, and no birds sing, their
pictures are like Pompeii's faded frescoes, which dissolve when the sun
of life shines down upon them!

And neither the "old school" nor the "new school" is able to satisfy
thee now--thy judgment falls as heavily on the one as on the other, thou
wilt have nothing to do with either idealists or realists.

And you, ye realists, reformers of the new school, you, ye
heaven-scaling Titans who in your own estimation have already reached
the summit of Art's temple, who strive with outstretched hands to
overthrow the spire thereof, shaped by the bravest thoughts of centuries
into the likeness of a cross--you fall to the ground with all the rest!

Think you, ye modern authors, who, until we have bestowed our undivided
admiration upon you, are content to worship at your own shrine, think
you that your celebrated "studies after Nature," your photographs,
obtained by means of all the apparatus of modern realism, are truer to
life than the nave pictures of the old "idealists"?

You talk of a return to _Nature_ in literature as in art, but you
entirely forget that _Nature herself is not realistic but idealistic!_
Where will you find a symphony of which the romance can be compared to
the murmur of the sea, where will you find a tragedy so impressive as
the vast solitude of a pine forest, where will you find a poem so pure
as the silent language of the violets, where will you find a sonnet so
tender as the nightingale's song about Sorrento! And where will you find
a greater idealist than the sun, where will you find a more
incorrigible, sentimental, old enthusiast than the moon who, at this
very moment, floats the glittering interpretation of her dream across
the slumbering bay!

       *       *       *       *       *


CONVERSATION WITH ROSINA

_Donkey:_ "What on earth art thou driving at with those merciless
criticisms of thine that refuse to approve the works of either the old
school or the new? Are we to leave off writing altogether?"

_I:_ "Yes, that is about it."

_Donkey:_ "But thou thyself art always scribbling, and often have I
watched thee as, seated on a stone, thou wrotest all those letters down
at Mergellina!"

_I:_ "I should never have expected thee to classify those letters as
literary works. Their utility is so evident, their purpose so
_practical_, that they ought hardly to be considered from a literary
point of view.

What has enabled thee to stand here philosophising with me by the hour
together, what has provided thee with the clean straw on which thou
liest at night, and the fresh cabbages and lettuces on which thou
feedest morning and noon? What but these very Mergellina letters to
which thou wert just alluding! And Peppino, whose transformation has
surely not escaped thee--of what thinkest thou does his new suit
consist? Of nothing more nor less than one or two of these self-same
_Dagblads_ stitched together, my friend!"

_The Donkey:_ "If that is the case, I am of course reduced to silence."

_I:_ "And a very good thing too, 'tis always best to be silent! And
silently should we pursue our way, watching the immortal thoughts that
sail like clouds above our heads, and silently should we congratulate
ourselves upon being allowed to follow their lofty course from here
below--but we ourselves would do well to be silent always."

_The Donkey:_ "But if every one is to leave off writing, what is to
become of critics and reviewers? A good many of my colleagues have
devoted themselves to criticism,--what is to become of them?

And into what channels would'st thou turn that immense ocean of ink
which threatens to flood the newly-ploughed fields of civilisation, on
which an ever-increasing number of mariners venture out for the purpose
of taking part in the regatta of Fame? Boats of every description are to
be found cruising about this ocean, the pleasure boats of easy, graceful
diction, heavy barges of solid knowledge, toiling wearily along, laden
with great blocks hewn out of hidden strata, men-of-war and inoffensive
merchantmen, amateur yachts and clumsy ferryboats, etc. etc."

_I:_ "I understand thy metaphor as regards 'the ocean of ink,' and will
carry it on. Well! Yonder sits the self-elected jury--having prudently
determined to remain on shore--watching the race through criticism's
telescope; let us only look at the brightest side, let us endeavour to
forget the boats that have run aground, all those that have collided,
and all those that have foundered, and let us take for granted that
thou reachest the haven of Fame, and succeedest in hoisting the
flag--what then? The goal appointed by the jury is not thy journey's
goal--thou hast a longer journey before thee. And after thou hast
journeyed for a while, the sea appeareth unto thee to become narrower
and narrower, the shores appear to draw closer and closer together, and
soon thou discriest land--the isle of Immortality, thinkest thou,--not
so, my friend, 'tis but the other side of the river of life over which
thou'rt bound to pass. Thou who hitherto hast only looked forward, thou
turnest back to gaze upon the road which thou hast just traversed, and
which seemed to thee so endless. How startled art thou on discovering
that close behind thee there is also land, how great thy astonishment on
realising that 'tis but a little river, after all, on which thou hast
been struggling for so long, till at last it begins to dawn upon thee
that thy first glimpse of the great ocean will be obtained on reaching
the other side. And now do the distances appear but short to thee; thou
who hadst deemed thyself so far ahead of thy unsuccessful, flagless
rivals, discernest now that they have caught thee up, are close behind
thee--for they, like thee, must also cross the stream.

And then an ugly old ferryman rows up in a rotten boat; thou askest him
to tell thee who he is, and he answers that he is the pilot who shall
conduct thee to the other shore where the great distribution of prizes
is to take place. Thou rejoinest that thou'rt able to steer thy boat
thyself, that hitherto thou hast not discovered the necessity of any
landmark, that thou would'st rather sail alone, indeed, thou would'st
return if possible. Thou askest him if he would care to see thy medals,
thou pointest to thy waving flag, and tellest him that thou hast carried
off a prize--but this impresses him in nowise; he hauls down thy
fluttering rag, and hoists a black flag in its stead. And then he bids
thee step into his boat, for he has orders to ferry thee over to a place
where thou shalt be detained awhile in quarantine--he insists upon the
fact that thy papers are not in order, and that thou comest from an
infected port. Thou art afraid of being put into quarantine, thou hast
been told how strong a smell of sulphur pervades those regions, and thou
remindest him that a celebrated Wittenberg doctor, whose name is Luther,
has decided that quarantine is out of date and quite unnecessary--but
it's my belief thou'lt be detained there all the same. And then. . . ."

_The Donkey:_ "I am obliged to interrupt thee now, no longer am I able
to keep pace with thy obscure language. What is the name of this place
of quarantine, what is the name of the other shore, who is the
traveller, and who the ferryman?"

_I:_ "Dear little donkey, thou shalt have the answer to the riddle; we
have taken a few liberties with mythology, and have introduced boats
upon the scene, in order to enable thee, who art but an indifferent
swimmer, to accompany us on our travels. There is no need for thee to
meditate upon this place of quarantine, for thou shalt surely escape it,
but its name is 'Il Purgatorio'; the ferryman's name is Charon. . . ."

_The Donkey:_ "And the river, the dark river's name?"

_I:_ "The river's name is Styx, my friend,--the river of oblivion!"




XI


We who live in a well-regulated and enlightened state of society, are
scarcely able to credit the ever-recurring complaints of the newspapers
with regard to the people's ill-feeling; we find it difficult to believe
that they prefer to live and die in their abandoned poverty, rather than
apply to the authorities for assistance. Yet this is nevertheless the
case. The upholders of order and discipline were perfectly right in
believing themselves to be in danger during their inspections of the
poor quarters, and doctors have often seen their best intentions split
on the rock of the universal distrust inspired by their medicines and
themselves. That a popular belief existed to the effect that doctors
received a premium on every cholera patient they were able to report, is
an indisputable fact. The idea that they were paid by the Government for
the express purpose of spreading the disease, is now exploded, and I
have never heard it broached save in the case of a few old men who had
picked it up during the epidemic of 1836; as a rule it has been modified
to the extent of believing that the town authorities, desirous of
reducing the surplus population (it is in this form that the echo of the
long-continued discussions on the over-population of Naples has reached
the alleys of the poor quarters) had _let the cholera loose_ in order to
give more room! This view was universally held by the people, and was
unfortunately often interpreted by acts of hostility and violence. But
the very enormity of such suppositions is in my eyes sufficient to
absolve the ignorant and hapless creatures by whom they were
conceived--_they are wholly irresponsible_--as little to blame for their
ignorant want of confidence, as the fever-stricken patient who tries to
turn his doctor out of doors, or the lunatic who with delight sets fire
to the hospital.

And this is why I am unable to understand how this undisguised contempt
of his medical capabilities can succeed in wounding the professional
pride of any doctor, or how the peevish, irritable attitude of the poor
people can possibly cause any diminution of his sympathy whilst working
on their behalf. Any way it is a good thing to be in my position and to
have nothing to be proud of--for my sympathy has never flagged. Yet have
I never met with so little consideration as in this part of the world,
where they have thrown my wonderful mixtures out at the door, tried to
send me after them, and thrashed me into the bargain.

Were they to draw the line at throwing one's medicines away, it would
not be so bad, but do you know how an old crone up at Pendino once
treated me? The old lady, who belonged to the _ancien rgime_, was
struggling with all her might to oppose the efforts that we were making
on her behalf, and was so exhausted that she was hardly able to speak;
after several unsuccessful attempts, when we had finally succeeded in
pouring the medicine into her mouth, she made a sign which I failed to
understand, but which the _commare_ at her side interpreted as a wish to
speak to me. I bent over the poor old thing, who looked inoffensive
enough, for the matter of that, but scarcely had I lowered my head to
the level of hers--than she spat the medicine back into my face. That
was her way of treating doctors, and it was certainly not worth while
endeavouring to lead her benighted ideas into new grooves--so I just
wiped my mouth, and we continued to be as friendly as before.

Often whilst wandering through the poor quarters, one would come across
a crowd of women in front of one of these squalid little houses, some
of them warming blankets and articles of clothing over a fire, whilst
others knelt on the threshold in fervent prayer--a sure sign that
cholera was within. To the question whether any one was ill, or whether
medical assistance was required, the same churlish answer was invariably
returned: "_Siete del municipio?--qui non v' nessun ammalato!_"[27] I
soon discovered that there was nothing for it but to go in quite
quietly, to look as unofficial as possible, and, above all, not to allow
one's own remedies to interfere with the application of theirs. As often
as not a couple of sick people were to be found within, buried, head and
all, beneath everything they had been able to scrape together in the way
of blankets and old clothes (the most striking characteristic of
cholera, _i.e._ the rapid diminution of temperature, is naturally what
impresses the people most). Could one help them in no other way, one was
at least able to give them a little wine, some ice to quench their
terrible thirst, and a few soldi wherewith to purchase bread for the
starving family around.

[Footnote 27: "Are you sent by the municipal authorities?--there are no
sick here."]

And often enough as one turned to go, the threatening, suspicious
expression in the eyes had softened, and "_Iddio vi benedica! la Madonna
vi accompagna!_"[28] sounded kindly after one down the dingy little
street.

[Footnote 28: "May God bless you! may the Blessed Virgin be with you!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

You have read in all the newspapers full accounts of the voluntary
ambulances out here, Croce Bianca, Croce Rossa, Croce Verde, etc. etc.,
you have been informed of their extraordinary exertions, for which
indeed no praise is high enough. It is but fair that I should mention
them in my turn.

Yes, they have done their work splendidly, these ambulances. First and
foremost stands the Croce Bianca, by virtue of its inexhaustible
resources, its large stock of ready money--and its vast advertisement
system. The perpetual struggle for notoriety, the continual mention in
all the newspapers of its own heroic deeds, is so striking with regard
to this association, that it disturbs the impression of all the great
and good work it has actually accomplished. Nobody wishes to deny that
the White Cross is worthy of every benediction--but after all? the whole
thing is so simple it ought never to have been mentioned by any other
name except its own, which is fine enough, in all conscience,--they were
doing their duty, _voil tout!_

That the work undertaken by these ambulances was no child's play, can be
testified by the recent reports issued by the White Cross; the tenth
part of its members, and the seventh part of its doctors were attacked
by the disease against which they were struggling. The same report
contains an announcement to the effect that this ambulance has nursed
7015 cholera patients and _salvato_ 3500. Happy Croce Bianca! I know
doctors who have given all the help that it was in their power to
bestow, and who hardly venture to assert that they have "saved" a single
soul--at most murmuring to themselves at intervals "_gurir quelquefois,
soulager souvent, consoler toujours_."

The White Cross came to an end after twenty days' existence, not alone
on account of the cholera's diminution, but also, to a certain degree,
owing to the strained relations that had sprung up between itself and
the medical staff of the town. These latter, who were doing their duty
as bravely as the former, began to weary of the incessant and exclusive
mention of the White Cross, and of the newspapers' continuous and
undivided admiration of all its sayings and doings.

The extraordinary readiness of the press to celebrate the deeds of the
White Cross is easily explained by the fact that its president happened
to be one of the principal journalists in the town, the editor of the
_Piccolo_ (a member of parliament and well-known author, a clever fellow
for the matter of that, and vastly superior to most of his vain-glorious
colleagues of the White Cross).

I defy you to read a single Neapolitan newspaper written within the last
few months, in which you do not come across some of these
advertisements. I firmly believe that very soon there will be no
inhabitant of the town who will not have seen his own name followed by a
superlative of some sort, "wonderful," "superb," "heroic," etc. A
chemist who, knocked up one night for a bottle of laudanum, gives it
away gratis, awakes next morning to find himself famous (name, address,
and everything), and the appreciative newspapers weave a laurel wreath
about his brow, quite large enough to enable him to dispense with the
usual autumn outlay on bay-leaves for his apothecary shop.

The wine merchant who sends a few bottles of Marsala to the Relief
Committee is dubbed _ammirabile_, and should he refuse to take back the
empty bottles will no doubt be _ammirabilissimo_.

The lady who forwards a dozen shifts is at once pronounced an _angelo_,
and so successfully enveloped in the flowing drapery of these celestial
beings--that it becomes an easy matter to make over the rest of her
terrestrial wardrobe. And her husband who despatches three pairs of old
boots--requires his own no longer, for he is flying on newspaper wings
far above the dust of this workaday world.

One was continually told to be on the look-out for pickpockets, but to
my mind newspaper correspondents and reporters were far more
dangerous--the greatest amount of prudence, I may say cunning, was
necessary, unless one wished to pose alongside the apothecary's
apotheosis and boot-donee's ascension into heaven. For the matter of
that I was once caught myself, and it was only the merest chance that
prevented me from becoming famous--a stately apparition of myself would
indeed have put the finishing touch to this Pantheon of theirs.




XII


You have followed me into the abodes of misery, you have obtained an
insight into the life of the Neapolitan poor, and have shuddered at the
sight of their unequalled poverty. And you ask if it can be really true
that human beings of the present day are suffered to live and die as you
have seen these poor creatures live and die? You ask why they have been
left so far behind the rest of Italy in its advance on civilisation and
freedom?

Yes, I will tell you on whom the responsibility falls--and it falls
heavily. _Nothing has ever been done for this people, nothing!_

There was a time when their degradation was convenient to the interests
of the mighty, when it was considered a good stroke of policy to keep up
the atmosphere of ignorance and oppression in which they breathed. That
time is over, but the Italy of to-day has done no more for them than the
Italy of the past, they have all lost sight of Naples in their
beneficent reformation. Now every one has a stone to throw at the
people's ignorance and mistrust--but they all forget that nothing has
ever been done to remove this mistrust, that no hand has ever been held
out to raise them up to better things.

Would that I were able to proclaim these words so loudly, that the sound
thereof should travel up to Rome--_it is a disgrace_ to Modern Italy,
this complete forgetfulness of the Neapolitan people. It admits of no
excuse. Every one has long been aware of the appalling misery that
reigns here, and schemes for its immediate alleviation have been lying
ready for many a day.

Ever since 1860 the municipality of Naples has been studying the
question. Committees of thoroughly competent men have drawn up plans for
the reconstruction of the poor quarters; I have seen eight of them
myself.

In 1871 there was a public competition of projects for the
reconstruction of old Naples, and the amelioration of its miserable
sanitary condition; to my certain knowledge all the competitors were
presented with medals, four of them received a reward of 6000 lire, and
two others received 3000 lire. But the result? Yes, as the years succeed
each other, the dust falls thicker and thicker upon the
laboriously-constructed volumes that lie slumbering within the archives
of the municipality, and _nothing has been done_. For want of means,
think you--not so, for in the meantime the aristocratic quarter of the
town has been rebuilt at enormous expense, public gardens and large
squares have been laid out for the benefit of the rich. Bianchina
Carraciolo, Rione Amedeo, Via del Duomo, Galleria Principe di Napoli,
have all been built, and a sum of 300,000 lire is the annual
subscription that has been voted towards the San Carlo theatre. The
people have been kept quiet by means of the _Banco di Lotto_,[29] which
is to them what the gin-houses are to our people at home. And whilst the
rest of Naples rejoices in her lovely gardens and well-lit streets, the
poor people's quarter has been left to its fate; here the people live as
before, and now the cholera has entered their wretched homes and done
its work of destruction with appalling success. Here grow apace the
seeds of virulent disease, here does fever ferment in the swampy alleys.
Here do the miserable children, fearful of the light of day, grow up
without care for their bodies or culture for their souls, in complete
ignorance of either good or evil, here sin loses its guilty character,
here a man hungers for a while and then turns thief, here do the Camorra
and vice seek their recruits, and here die these sullen and degraded
beings in the same state of mental darkness as that in which they have
lived! But here also amidst unheard-of suffering and untold woe, hatred
of the rich is fostered, here do the threats of the oppressed
accumulate, here does the dagger glitter beneath the rags!

[Footnote 29: Lottery bank.]

And remember that, notwithstanding the degradation of this people during
centuries, it has nevertheless proved itself capable of rising up in
arms when exasperated by the heavy yoke of its oppressors, remember that
the poor of Mercato and Porto have shaken the foundation of a mighty
throne, though stones were their only weapons, and a simple fisherman
from Amalfi their only leader![30]

[Footnote 30: Masaniello.]

       *       *       *       *       *

Has it ever struck you in looking at a Neapolitan woman, that however
miserable her home, however ragged her personal appearance, she nearly
always wears some pretty pearls or corals round her neck or in the
braids of her blue-black hair? It is even so with this people of whom
she is the daughter--there is something about them that defies complete
degradation, that has survived centuries of misery and oppression. It is
the inheritance bequeathed to them by the ideal beauty of the life of
Greece and Rome.

And even now you meet, midst dirt and filth, types that bear the stamp
of beauty on their brow, even now amongst the younger women, who like
beasts of burden pass before you with heavy weights upon their heads,
you come across living models of the ancient Caryatides, even now
amongst the fishermen of Mergellina you can trace the noble head of the
imperial Julian dynasty, even now amidst the children at play you
discover the Grecian profile of Antinous, with the thoughtful brow and
dreamy eyes beneath, even now you may see a lazzarone drape himself in
his ragged cloak, even as Csar draped himself in his mantle, as he fell
by Pompey's statue!

And in spite of all the defects that characterise this people, one is
sometimes struck by a certain nobility, a certain magnanimity which
reminds one involuntarily of days of bygone splendour--it is as though
one stood inside the Roman Forum, where amongst the unsightly and
insignificant modern houses, the eye falls upon the columns of crumbling
temples and imperial arches of triumph!

Yes! it is easy enough to laugh at the people's ignorance and dark
superstitions--but I have never felt inclined to make merry over it, I
have witnessed too much of this silent misery, silent because it is
unable to tell its woes in the language of our nineteenth century
civilisation.

I always feel as if I had stepped into another century when I am with
these people, on whom modern development appears to have had no
influence for either bad or good, where even now-a-days the veil of
medival mysticism shrouds their understanding. And yet even this
medival darkness has its bright side, the eternal stars pierce the
gloom of even such a night as this--even here the little lamp beneath
the Blessed Virgin's picture shines lovingly upon the kneeling poor,
here glows even now the beauty of the monastic life of bygone days, in
the silent charity of the much despised monks, as they wend their way
from house to house. Call it if you will crass superstition on their
part, and idiotic sentimentality on mine, granted that the devotion of a
handful of monks is unable to wipe out a single item of the long list of
debts contracted by the religious orders--I am deaf to all your
reasonable arguments, I remember nothing but what I have so often and
often seen for myself during these last few weeks, I remember nothing
but the consolation they bring with them, the despair for which they
have a remedy, the agony which they are able to soothe! And again I
raise my hat to the poor old monks--and I do so with regret, for it is
to bid them farewell. I am just about to leave their country, their time
will soon be over, and who knows whether they will still be here, if
ever I return at some future date?

Yes, I am to start this very evening. I am nothing but a truant
schoolboy after all, and now has Duty, the stern old schoolmaster, come
after me, birchrod in hand, to drag me back to my everyday work. I told
him I thought it was Sunday, I had felt so devotionally inclined the
whole time, and on Sundays no one is expected to go to school. But I had
evidently made a mistake, for he answered that we had got no further
than the middle of the week. And then the severe old pedagogue asked me
if I had any recollection of all he had tried to drum into me with such
infinite pains; and before I knew where I was, he was examining me in
geography, and asking me if I happened to be aware that there was such a
place as Paris in the world.

And then he scowled at my slouched hat and airy summer suit, and
requested me to be so good as to put on my frock-coat and top-hat, and
bid farewell to the lazzaroni, farewell to the philosophical donkey,
farewell to the bay, farewell to Vesuvius, farewell to the summer,
farewell to the roses beneath my open window! Farewell to the
cholera--no, that he did not insist upon, I was merely to say _au
revoir_, I should see it again in a day or two.[31] Had he caught sight
of my scribblings, he would certainly have obliged me to bid a long
farewell to the _Dagblad_--but he hasn't the least idea of their
existence, and you must help me to conceal them, or I shall certainly be
plucked next time I go up for examination. Farewell to you in any case,
my readers--we will part as we met, without exchanging visiting-cards,
not so, it will not matter to you, and is more agreeable to me.

[Footnote 31: The author was obliged to return to Paris, where he
practises, on account of the sudden outbreak of cholera there.--M. V. W.]

But who are the friendly authors of the many letters which I have
received here? The anonymous hand that forwarded so large a cheque "to
be distributed amongst my poor patients," to whom does it belong? They
themselves are unable to acknowledge its receipt, for none of them know
how to write; but, believe me, you have done a good work whoever you
are!

Yes, even though I be birched for having run away from school to come
here, even though I receive nothing but bad marks--I shall never regret
a thing I've done, no, not even the letters I have written home.

For a few of these hastily-scratched epistles are enough to build a
fishing-boat, two _Dagblads_ (the _Dagblad_ is a big newspaper, you
know) are quite sufficient to manufacture a sail, Rosina, the donkey, if
you still remember her, will live upon printer's ink to her dying day,
Peppino and dozens of other hungry urchins have profited more by the
_Letters from a Mourning City_ than all the other subscribers of the
_Dagblad_ put together.

Have you any doubts now as to the "signal importance of the press for
the benefit of society!"




_These three Letters were written under calmer circumstances after
leaving Naples._




XIII

HOW PUCK WAS LOST

          ". . . the firmest friend,
    The first to welcome, foremost to defend."

                                     LORD BYRON.


It had become quite dark inside the old church of _Santa Maria del
Carmine_, here and there alone did the light of a wax-candle fall upon
the kneeling poor who had just one more sorrow to confide to the Blessed
Virgin, who wished to invoke her powerful assistance just once more
against some trouble, to implore her, just once more, to grant some
peace unto their weary souls.

_Santa Maria del Carmine_ is the church of the poor people, and the
poor people were well aware that now, more than ever, did they stand in
need of the Blessed Virgin's help. A few of them had timidly ventured up
to the wonder-working crucifix which human hands had been unable to
destroy, and which was better able to protect them than San Gennaro
himself,[32] but most of them stood beneath a side arch, whilst others
deemed themselves unworthy of drawing nearer than the door, where humbly
gathered together, they kissed the threshold of the Blessed Mother's
sanctuary.

[Footnote 32: Here is what the sacristan will tell you about this
crucifix. During the bombardment of Naples by Alfonso of Aragon in 1439,
a bullet pierced the window above the high altar and went whizzing
through the air in the direction of the crucifix, but the image bowed
its head and the bullet lodged in the wall. At the same time Alfonso's
brother fell to the ground mortally wounded by a bullet which struck him
on the head.]

The bells rang out the Angelus, and with a profound obeisance, one after
the other got up to go. The doors were just about to be closed, and I
walked slowly down one of the side aisles. At that moment a man entered
the church, he fell upon his knees, his lips moved hastily in earnest
prayer, over and over again did he make the sign of the cross, and
repeatedly and despairingly did he strike the ground with his forehead.
As the sacristan came up to lock the door, he rose, threw his cloak over
his shoulder, and hurriedly left the church. Just as I passed the spot
where he had knelt my foot stumbled against something, and I heard a
metallic sound; I bent down and took up a long Calabrian dagger which
lay upon the floor. We two were the last to leave the church, and I
caught him up outside on the piazza. He started as I handed him the
knife, hastily snatching it out of my hand. His face was deadly pale,
and there was a strange uncanny expression in his eyes; I was so much
struck by his appearance that I could not resist telling him that I had
seen him in the church and that I felt sorry for him. He looked at me
grimly for a moment, and then he muttered through his clenched teeth:
"_cholera in casa!_"

I told him I was a bit of a doctor and pointed to the case of
instruments under my arm, offering him my services at the same time, in
case he thought they might be of some use, but he shook his head and
walked away.

I lingered on the piazza for a moment or two, ruminating as to what the
next move should be, whether, on the whole, it were not best to go
straight home to bed--I had been hard at work all day, and happening to
pass the quiet old church had gone in to rest there for a while.

Just as I was about to take myself off, I saw to my astonishment that
the cloaked fellow was making straight for me.

"_Siete forestiere?_"[33] said he curtly.

[Footnote 33: "Are you a stranger?"]

"Yes," I answered.

"_Non avete niente a fare con Il Municipio?_"[34] he went on.

"_Niente affatto_,"[35] answered I.

"_Volete venire con me?_"[36] was his next question.

[Footnote 34: "You have nothing to do with the Municipal authorities?"]

[Footnote 35: "Nothing at all."]

[Footnote 36: "Will you come with me?"]

I asked for nothing better.

We went down the _Via Lavinaio_ and turned off into one of the narrow
streets behind the little church of San Matteo; for some time I had a
very fair idea where we were, but little by little I ceased to recognise
the neighbourhood, and ere long was quite unable to make out in what
direction we were tramping along. Once or twice I inquired after the
names of the streets, but he did not answer. At last it became quite
dark and I began to wonder what the time was, but none of the poor
devils we came across looked as if they were likely to be possessed of
watches, though I must frankly own that plenty of them looked as if
they would have liked to have one. It is always best to leave one's
watch at home on these occasions,--to wear one is not fair on those
inhabitants of the poor quarters with whom one is brought in
contact,--it only tends to rouse their evil instincts.

But no one even hazarded an uncivil word, once or twice it seemed to me
that they actually made way for us, whilst every now and again a sort of
mutual greeting was exchanged between some of them and my companion;
that is to say as far as I was able to see by the uncertain light that
fell from the little lamps that hang at every street corner beneath the
Madonna's picture.

We went through a vaulted passage and emerged into a little alley, so
narrow that we were hardly able to walk abreast. All of a sudden the
fellow asked me if I knew where we were, and I answered with perfect
truth that I had not even the remotest idea what part of the town we
were in. Shortly afterwards we halted before a wretched tumble-down
house, which, according to all appearances, was quite deserted, although
I heard him address some one within whom I did not catch sight of. But
what amazed me most was the fact that I could not understand a single
word they said--I who had flattered myself that my knowledge of the
Neapolitan dialect was vastly superior to that of many a native of the
place! A man came out of the house, all three of us went down a
pitch-dark passage, and I heard the door close with a bang behind us. My
companion took me by the hand, which was just as well, as I was unable
to see an inch before me. We then crossed a yard, and finally pulled up
before a miserable little hovel, from which a faint light was glimmering
through the closed and tiny window. I could not help thinking that the
sort of adventure with which this was likely to wind up was only
possible in Naples, or in the pages of some melodramatic robber-story;
and certainly the man who came forward to light us up the steps might
easily have posed anywhere as a bandit's model.

More conversation ensued between him and my companion, of which, in
spite of all my endeavours, I understood nothing. I just managed to
distinguish the word _misericordia_, which occurred several times, from
whence I concluded that he was giving an account of our meeting in the
church; that _misericordia_ meant _knife_ in the language of the
Camorra, was a piece of information I had gleaned from Peppino.

The man then raised the lantern to the level of my face, and scrutinised
me closely for a minute or so, but I could not make out whether he liked
the look of me or not, for he said nothing.

We were now standing in front of a half-open door, my companion made the
sign of the cross, and silently we entered.

It was the usual scene. The mother lay upon the floor before an image of
the Blessed Virgin, wringing her hands in despair, and at some little
distance two or three other women knelt in earnest prayer. All of a heap
beside the fire, sat an old and crippled woman, muttering to herself in
a weird, sing-song voice, a string of disconnected words that sounded
more like incantations than prayers--I heard afterwards that she was _la
nonna_, and that she was not quite in her right mind.

No one stood beside the bed; the patient was, as usual, fighting alone
with death. (The Neapolitans of the lowest class are as a rule afraid to
touch a dying person unless it be absolutely unavoidable, they remain in
the room but always at a certain distance from the bed.) Whilst the one
man stood in the doorway, the other from _Santa Maria del Carmine_ and
myself went up to the bed. I took the lantern out of his hand, and as
the light fell full upon the livid little face on the pillow, the
stalwart fellow beside me shuddered, and then I felt that it was his own
child we were gazing upon. It was already half-cold and quite
unconscious. Surreptitiously, under the blanket, I administered an
ether-injection, after which she rallied, as is often the case, and
though the improvement of her condition was merely transitory, it
nevertheless succeeded in softening the suspicious eyes around me. The
little girl now opened her eyes and began to moan softly, whereupon they
all gathered eagerly round the bed, alternately watching her and myself.
The mother, who in her blind despair had not even noticed our arrival,
rose hastily from the floor the moment she heard the child's groans, and
half beside herself, began to help me to rub her with the blanket.

Just about that time I used to make a trial of intravenous injections. I
had administered just such an injection that very day and happened to
have my instruments with me. Unfortunately it is not often that the
relations of the sick person will allow one to do so. To win over the
mother was, as usual, the principal thing; I thought I had detected an
expression of anxious confidence in her eyes each time she looked at me,
on the strength of which I ventured to make the attempt--if anything was
to be done it was necessary to set about it at once; the rubbing had
proved useless, and the child was sinking fast. Whilst I was preparing
my instruments (out here, like surgeons in time of war, one is obliged
to make the best of everything and content oneself with very little) a
heated discussion arose in the room, resulting in very divided opinions,
most of the women voting in favour of "_lasciare fare la Madonna_,"[37]
and the whole thing being brought to a conclusion by the mother's cry:
"_Sia fatto la volont di Dio e di San Gennaro Benedetto!_"[38]--whereupon
I was allowed to proceed. But hardly had I made the incision and exposed
the vein than they all shrieked aloud, and as the child, to my horror,
collapsed a moment afterwards, the mother cried in her despair, "_Mi
muore, mi muore!_"[39]

[Footnote 37: "Let the Blessed Virgin do as she likes."]

[Footnote 38: "May the will of God and of Blessed St. Gennaro be done."]

[Footnote 39: "She is dying, she is dying!"]

Just then one of the women pointed to the Blessed Virgin's image, and
speechless with terror, they saw _la lampada_ flicker and go out. A dead
silence fell over the room, and then all of them dropped on their knees
and crossed themselves repeatedly; the old grandmother alone moved
neither hand nor foot; seated in her dark corner she continued to shake
her head and mutter: "_Ira di Dio, ira di Dio!_"[40] The mother darted
towards the image, and seizing it with both hands, cried aloud in a tone
of voice that was almost threatening, "_Perch ai fatto spegnere la
lampada, Madonna Santa? Vorresti far spegnere cos la vita della
piccola? E tu fai grazie? E tu sei madre del Dio? No, no, non avresti
cuore, non avresti viscere di madre. . . ._"[41]

[Footnote 40: "The wrath of God, the wrath of God!"]

[Footnote 41: "Why didst thou extinguish the lamp, O Holy Virgin? Is it
thus that thou wouldst extinguish the life of my little one? And thou
art full of grace! And thou art the Mother of God? No, no, thou hast not
the heart, the bowels of a mother."]

She poured fresh oil into the lamp and placed two lighted candles before
the little statue: "_ora te ne  portato due ceri benedetti--va bene
cos? Tu sei contenta adesso, Madonna mia?_"[42]

[Footnote 42: "Now have I brought thee two votive candles--is all well
now? Art thou satisfied now, O Holy Virgin?"]

I sat there with the inanimate child in my arms, fully alive to the
savage and suspicious eyes that were following my slightest movements.

I shall not forget that night in a hurry.

They had interpreted the extinction of the sacred lamp as a
death-warrant, and therefore none of them had even attempted to come to
my assistance. Amidst alternate prayers addressed to the Madonna and
threats hurled at myself, the night wore on. I expected the child to die
every moment, and began at last to ask myself, whether, in point of
fact, it was not my own life that I was watching over. There I sat,
gazing fixedly at the child, wiping the cold perspiration off her
forehead and off my own; I had done everything that lay in my power, and
had given up all hope. At last the cold, gray daylight fell into the
room, and upon a corpse, as I should have thought, but for the fact that
I was still able to distinguish the faint beating of her heart.

Towards morning a sort of reaction set in, the heart-beats became
steadier, the pulse appreciable, and to some slight degree the warmth of
life returned. Again she began to moan, and you should have seen the
mother's face as the child's voice fell upon her ear: "_Mamm, mamm!_"

I was wrong again, thank God--the child was returning to life.

I left the house shortly afterwards, followed by the father, and after
threading our way through a labyrinth of lanes and alleys we emerged on
to the Piazza Mercato. I gave him his instructions for the day, and he
gazed at me with an expression that more than compensated for the
sleepless night. According to our agreement we met again that night, and
I was happy indeed to hear his first words: "_Sta meglior, sia benedetto
San Gennaro!_"[43]

[Footnote 43: "She is better, blessed be St. Gennaro!"]

Yes! she really was better, and after I had been to see her the next
evening, I ventured to hope that her recovery was assured. I saw her
three days running, being each time accompanied there and back by the
father, who always met me on the Piazza Mercato. I no longer insisted on
going there alone and by daylight, for I had discovered that they very
much preferred to receive my visits after dark. The evening of my last
visit I was on terms of the firmest friendship with the whole
lot--always excepting the old crone, who sat there muttering,
"_Ammazzacane_"[44] at me the whole time--and as I left the house towards
night time, the mother stood upon the doorstep, and watched me down the
street, and long did her last words ring in my ears: "_Possiate avere la
pace che desiderate!_"[45] Poor woman, she was wishing me what seemed to
her the best and most desirable of all things, and it was no fault of
hers that she happened to wish me the one good thing that never can be
mine!

[Footnote 44: "Dog's murderer"; one of the usual epithets applied by the
people to the Medical Staff.]

[Footnote 45: "May the peace which you desire be granted unto you!"]

As I took leave of the father I asked him what his name was, and he
answered, "Salvatore Trapanese"--it did not interest me as a doctor, but
the family initials were certainly not those that stood engraved upon
the silver cup into which I had poured the child's medicine.

Don Salvatore added that if ever I wanted him, his services, his life,
and his _coltello_[46] were at my disposal. He then pointed in the
direction of the Via Lavinaio, where a ragged old _ciabattino_[47]
(_solechianiello_, as the people say) was seated cobbling a pair of
boots, and told me that if ever I required anything I had only to
address myself to him.

[Footnote 46: Knife.]

[Footnote 47: Cobbler.]

I thanked him for his kindness, and he in his ignorance thanked me for
his child's life, and then we bade each other farewell.

       *       *       *       *       *

This was not much of a story, neither was it, for the matter of that,
the one I meant to tell you at the outset. I often went down to that
part of the town, but never came across Don Salvatore again, and ere
long had completely forgotten the whole affair.

But I heard on all sides that the insecurity in the poor quarters was
very great during the whole of that period; the newspapers teemed with
accounts, more or less gruesome, of nightly attacks, whilst the Camorra
appeared to be displaying an amount of vitality unexampled since the
good old days when half Naples was under the sway of this extraordinary
institution.

Personally, I had never been exposed to the slightest danger, in fact
I began to wonder whether a good many of these descriptions were not
all moonshine. One evening, however, whilst wandering through the
Vicaria quarter, I fancied that I was being followed by a very
suspicious-looking character. I had something to attend to up in that
direction, and am bound to admit that, after having had the fellow at
my heels for so long, I experienced a certain amount of relief upon
reaching the Fondaco, where I had plenty of good friends. The man to
whom my visit was intended had died in the meantime, so that I did not
remain there more than a few minutes.

By the time I left the house it had become quite dark, and hardly had I
got under way before I heard stealthy footsteps in the rear. The rule to
be followed on these sort of occasions is a very simple one, all one has
to do is to keep one's back free. I therefore pulled up once or twice to
allow the night-walker to get ahead, but each time I did so the sound of
his footsteps died suddenly away, and had I not, every now and again,
detected a dark shadow upon the wall, I would most assuredly have
concluded that what I heard was nothing further than the echo of my own
footsteps. But Puck growled suspiciously the whole time, and as I
crossed the Piazzetta dei S. S. Apostoli I discovered my pursuer and the
man who had dogged my footsteps the whole evening, to be one and the
same person. I turned a minute afterwards into the Via del Duomo, the
only decent street in the quarter, where a certain amount of traffic
goes on all night. I stood for ever so long at the corner just to see
whether he would follow me up, but the blackguard was afraid to show
himself in the well-lit street. The next evening I was again followed at
some little distance by the same rascal. I went the whole way home on
foot, but after reaching my room, happened to step out on to the balcony
for a moment, and there he was, sure enough, still hanging about the
street corner. He lingered there for a little while--but was frustrated
for the second time, as I had no intention of going out again that
evening.

That the fellow in question had some sort of design upon me I was no
longer able to doubt, for wherever I went he would suddenly make his
appearance, and I could easily see, notwithstanding all his efforts,
that he did his best to hide his espionage from me. One night I actually
found him standing outside the cholera cemetery--the burials always took
place at midnight, so that I did not get away till the small hours.

But for the matter of that I never saw him until after dark--like all
beasts of prey he lay concealed during the day.

One gets used to everything in time, and very likely I should have
become quite accustomed to having this man at my heels--in spite of his
uncanny appearance--but for the fact that my misgivings received ere
long a direct confirmation that left nothing to be desired in the way of
intelligibility.

I stood one evening upon the Molo, gazing at the twilight as it spread
over the bay, whilst high up against the darkening firmament I saw old
Vesuvius light the lights in his gigantic watch-tower.

All of a sudden I saw my man dash up to the pier, jump into a boat, and
row out to sea in a desperate hurry. The next moment two "_carabinieri_"
jumped into another boat and began to pursue him. In less than one
minute at least a hundred people had assembled on the beach, all of them
watching the race with breathless interest, and one enthusiastic urchin
who stood beside me, shouting: "_coraggio_, _coraggio_!" after the
fugitive, informed me that the man whom they were trying to catch was a
Camorrist. The bay was swarming with fishing-smacks returning from their
day's work, and it was easy to see that they did their best to get in
the way of the carabineers' boat. One of the carabineers drew his
revolver, but hardly had the first report resounded than the Camorrist
threw himself into the sea. It was so dark that I was unable to see
anything, but the others assured me that he was unhurt, and could still
be seen swimming in the direction of a large boat that had just hoisted
her sails to go out fishing for the night. She made straight for the
swimmer, and for a moment it seemed as though he really would succeed in
reaching her--in which case he would be perfectly safe, as the pursuers
had no sail, and once it was dark it would be easy enough to land him
somewhere on the coast. (I have sailed in a smuggler's boat myself, and
know for a fact that coastguards are but few and far between).

The people by whom I was surrounded made no secret of their sympathy for
the Camorrist, and I was surprised to find myself hoping that he would
get off--I know this sounds very bad, but I can't help that, it isn't
often that I side with the police, at all events in this part of the
world.

Justice, however, carried the day this time, they managed to secure him,
and a moment afterwards landed with their prisoner. His hands were tied
behind him, and he was so exhausted by his long struggle that he could
hardly drag himself along between the two carabineers.

Most of the crowd followed him down the much-dreaded road to the San
Francesco prison. But I stood there for ever so long, rooted to the
ground, as it were, for as he had passed me, the prisoner had raised his
head, and his eyes had dwelt upon my face with an extraordinary
expression, in which hatred and reproach were strangely mingled.

The next day I read in the _Pungolo_ newspaper that a dangerous
Camorrist had been arrested on the Molo after a desperate struggle, the
police being of opinion that they were at last on the track of a gang of
Camorrists guilty of every sort of outrage.

My practice had become quite large in the people's quarter, and it was
there that I spent the greater part of the day, more especially in the
Mercato and Porto districts. Experience had taught me how to deal with
these poor people, and I had managed to secure several good friends for
myself amongst them. And just about this time it seemed to me that the
circle of my acquaintance began to augment very considerably. Wherever I
went, first one ragamuffin and then another would nod to me, and on my
way home at night, friendly greetings of "_Buona sera, Eccellenza!_"
were bestowed upon me by night-wanderers with whom, to the best of my
belief, I had no acquaintance whatsoever. The cabmen on the Piazza
Mercato began to crack their whips as soon as they caught sight of me,
shouting after me in a tone of voice very unlike their usual one,
"_Sign, vult a mme!_" and did I not care to drive, they were none the
less friendly on that account.

Did I enter some little _osteria_ or _bottegha_ I noticed more than once
that a nod exchanged between the guests and the host resulted in a
double amount of attention towards myself, and once that I had already
settled down to my _fiaschetto_ of wine the innkeeper came up and
exchanged it for a bottle of good _vino vecchio_, but not before I had
detected an animated series of gesticulations between himself and the
driver who sat outside waiting for me.

Of course I was flattered by all this attention, but could not help
wondering at the extraordinary development of my friendly relations.
What puzzled me most of all, however, was the fact that another fellow
had begun to follow me about wherever I went, and once or twice he
followed me up to my own door. He was quite as suspicious-looking as his
predecessor, and it soon became quite evident that he had completely
taken upon himself the other man's inexplicable _rle_ of nightly
espionage.

One day I was driven down to the Porta Capuana by a cabman who
overwhelmed me with attentions, though I did not recollect having ever
seen him before. We drove past the San Francesco prison, and just as we
passed the gate the driver winked mysteriously at me, and the following
conversation ensued--I think I had better translate the Neapolitan
dialect in which it took place, as you would certainly be unable to make
it out:--

"Has Eccellenza been to see him?" said the driver.

"Whom?"

"Is not Eccellenza aware that he was arrested and put into prison? But
it was his own fault, what business had he to show himself on the Molo,
where he was sure to come across a policeman? And Eccellenza is in no
way to blame."

"But, _sapristi_, whom are you talking about?"

"_Il fratello del vostro amico_"[48] said the driver, winking for the
second time.

[Footnote 48: "The brother of our friend."]

It was Don Salvatore's brother who had been arrested on the Molo.

       *       *       *       *       *

My expeditions came to an untimely end the very next day, for I fell ill
myself--Naples is such an unhealthy place, you know. It wasn't much to
speak of, but still it came upon me very suddenly. I believe I fainted
in the street, for when at last I rubbed my eyes and looked about me, I
found myself half-lying in a cab and seated opposite a policeman, who,
pale as death, was staring at me with an expression of absolute terror
in his face. I tried to recall what had gone before, and wondered what
sort of a crime it could be for which I had been arrested, but my head
was altogether too weak, and as for the Camorra, Don Salvatore, myself,
and the San Francesco prison, I had muddled them all up together.

"_Sta un poco meglio?_"[49] said the policeman.

"_Gnors_"[50] (=_si_), I answered, in genuine Neapolitan dialect.

"_Coraggio, un altro poco siamo arrivato!_"[51] were his next words.

[Footnote 49: "Do you feel better?"]

[Footnote 50: "Yes."]

[Footnote 51: "Courage! another moment, and we shall be there."]

We drove down the Strada Piliero, and the sea-breeze blew over my
forehead, where by slow degrees everything seemed to become clearer and
clearer. Suddenly I remembered the fact that I was a doctor, and begged
the policeman to put his hand in my pocket and give me the bottle of
ether which he would find there, but, by the way he touched my coat, you
would have thought I had asked him to put his hand into a fiery furnace.

Every now and again the people in the street turned round to look at us,
and I noticed that they made the sign of the cross as we drove past.

We were on our way to the Santa Maddalena cholera hospital.

By this time I had become capable of thinking tolerably well again, and
had come to the conclusion that the Santa Maddalena hospital was an
uncanny sort of place, after all; the policeman, I discovered, was
entirely of my opinion, whereupon at my request we drew up before a
little public-house, where, in a bumper of pretty stiff cognac, I drank
his health, whilst he and the driver each tossed off their own
_foglietta_ of wine.

I told the policeman I required no doctor, that I was in fact a doctor
myself, and quite convinced in my own mind that this was no attack of
cholera; and the kind-hearted fellow told me that that was just what he
had thought all along--"_un poco di febbre_,"[52] that was all.

[Footnote 52: "A little fever."]

I got home right enough, but remember nothing after reaching the door.
Immediately after my arrival I found that Csare was dropping bits of
ice into my mouth, and as I opened my eyes I noticed that the evening
sun was still streaming into the room; but Csare said it wasn't the
same sun--I had been lying there for twenty-four hours, so he informed
me.

Having skipped the whole of that time in my own mind I think I may just
as well do so here. I asked Csare--Csare was my servant, groom of the
chambers, cook, anything you like--if I was down with the cholera, but I
did not recognise my own voice, which sounded like that of an infirm old
woman. Csare answered that he was not quite sure, but that on the
whole he feared it was so--his opinion was not without a certain weight,
for he had seen his own wife and child die of the same disease.

Yes, it was very possible that it was cholera, although the symptoms did
not strike me as the usual ones, but cholera was never absent from one's
mind during those days, and I felt curious to see what the night would
bring forth.

Csare had gone out--to get more ice, so he said--and I lay pondering
there alone.

When one's head is weak, one's thoughts are always sad, and at last _one
tries to give up thinking altogether_. One feels so tired that one longs
to lie down and rest in peace for good and all. To die is not so
terrible, but cowardly natures shrink from the idea of a lengthened
period of suffering.

It is a psychological error to suppose that familiarity with the
death-struggles of our fellow-creatures is apt to breed more confidence
in us when face to face with death ourselves; it may be true as far as
others are concerned, but when after calm and dispassionate reflection,
one is more or less convinced that the last hours of one's own life are
at hand, one begins to wish that one had never seen what it is to die.
"Be a man," one says to oneself, "and if you have not known how to live,
show at least that you know how to die!"

Yet ceaselessly does one's imagination conjure up visions of the
terrified eyes that have so often sought for hope in the expression of
one's own, when, as doctor, one has stood beside the deathbed; again and
again there rings in one's ears the hoarse dry for help even after all
power of speech and thought has fled, again one looks upon the
stiffening fingers that one has so often seen grasping spasmodically at
the bedclothes, even as a drowning man grasps at a straw, and groping
feverishly in search of some hand whereon to cling to life, again and
again one calls to mind the gasping breast, which, straining every
muscle to catch a breath of air, strives, for one or two brief moments
more, to prolong the struggle with the executioner, who slowly but
surely continues to strangle his victim. Yes, Heine was right: "_Der Tod
ist nichts, aber das Sterben ist eine schndliche Erfindung!_"[53]

[Footnote 53: "Death is nothing, but dying is an ignominious invention."]

The window stood wide open, and I could see right away across the bay.
Everything looked so bright and happy outside, it seemed to me the
shores had decked themselves more radiantly than ever to bid me
farewell. I looked out on to Capri, which lay there wrapped in roseate
slumber, and I could not help thinking that it would be very hard should
I indeed be obliged to say good-bye for ever to the place I loved so
well. A sort of mist fell over the bay, and I heard voices from the joys
of my life calling me by my name.

And then there was a dead silence; it became quite dark, and a feeling
of utter loneliness came over me.

I stretched my hand out to my friend, but he sat not beside me; I called
him by his name, but he did not come. I tried to think he had only gone
out with Csare and breathlessly I began to listen for the sound of his
footstep on the stairs. Presently the door was quietly opened, and
Csare entered on tip-toe. "Where is he?" I asked. Csare evaded the
question, assuring me that he would be back in a moment; but I insisted
on hearing the whole truth, and then I realised that I was alone--quite
alone.

Csare had happened to be looking out of the window at the time of my
arrival, and had carried me upstairs, for I had fainted in the endeavour
to get out of the carriage. The driver had seen nothing of Puck, and
Csare had been so horrified at my appearance that, sorry as I am to
have to confess it, he had never even attempted to find out what had
become of him till a few moments ago, when he had rushed downstairs to
send for the consul, and I am not quite sure that even then it was
entirely on Puck's account that he took these steps. I did my best to
lash myself into a rage with him, but felt so tired that I was obliged
to give it up.

The consul turned up almost immediately. He was a good fellow, but had
no notion what the matter was, having misunderstood the whole affair
from beginning to end; however, once he had realised the situation, he
promised to do all that lay in his power to find Puck. He then said he
hoped his endeavours on his behalf would be more successful than those
he had made on mine. He had a heap of letters and telegrams for me, and
had himself received a telegram some time ago directing him to try and
find out whether I were "dead or alive"; he had done his best to do so,
but the Authorities had been unable to tell him anything about me.

I laughed in my sleeve, sad as I felt, and asked him if he did not think
it would be just as well to wait for a day or two before answering that
telegram. Csare followed him downstairs, and I heard my factotum
volunteer this piece of information to the consul in the course of their
whispered conversation: "_Parla con lo cane come era un Cristiano._"[54]

[Footnote 54: "He speaks to the dog as though he were a Christian."]

Towards evening I received a line from the consul to the effect that a
hue and cry had been raised on Puck's account, that every policeman in
Naples had received orders to be on the look-out, and that I had every
reason to hope for the best.

My sickness did not develop into real cholera, and there I lay the whole
night through, waiting for some of the well-known symptoms to declare
themselves, but they did not make their appearance after all. I felt
rather better next day, but far too restless to bother about myself, as
you may well imagine.

But perhaps having got thus far you are laughing at my expense--well, if
that's the case, all I can say is, you are welcome to laugh as much as
you like! But I found it no laughing matter, I can tell you, as I lay
there thinking of the faithful friend I had lost.

I recollected how for eight whole years we had fought the battle of life
together, how for eight whole years we had stuck to one another through
thick and thin, honestly sharing the heavy burdens and the light. I
recollected how when I was happy he was happy too, never once stopping
to think whether he himself had any grounds for rejoicing, he asked no
questions, to share my pleasure was all he cared about--a look, a nod, a
friendly word, and his honest face would light up with the gladness that
he saw in mine.

And were I depressed and low-spirited he would sit beside me, just as
miserable himself. He never tried to cheer me up, for he was well aware
of the insufficiency of consolatory words, he said nothing, for he knew
that silence is soothing when one is feeling sad. But steadily would he
look at me and softly lay his head upon my knee. He knew that his poor
brain was unable to keep pace with mine, but still his faithful heart
claimed his share of my grief.

Did others vote me rough and cross-grained, his patient forbearance
would overlook it all, and his friendship stand proof against every
injustice. And were I irritable and hard upon him when I left the house,
yet did he always return good for evil, and affectionately and
good-humouredly would he always run to greet me when I came back.

Others might sit in judgment on my many faults, and abuse me up hill and
down dale, but eagerly and lovingly he always strove to look at
everything from the least unfavourable point of view, refusing to
believe that I was capable of wrong. Did I enter heart and soul into
some cause or other, defending it to the best of my abilities, the rest
of the world might abuse me for my pains, but he was always of the same
opinion as myself. And in the hour of need, when other friends were not
forthcoming, he always stood beside me, ready to shield me from every
danger, and glad, if need be, to lay his life down for my sake.

We had seen a good deal of the world, we two, we had come across a good
many specimens of humanity, our experience of life was large enough. We
were ambitious once upon a time, ay, that we were--very ambitious
indeed. Both of us dreamed dreams about first prizes and honourable
mentions, dreams in which the finest Persian carpets lay beneath our
feet, and dreams in which savoury little birds, all ready cooked, flew
into our mouths. That time is over, and one of us is already gray, but
no savoury little birds have flown into our mouths as yet, and no
Persian carpets have made their appearance either, for the matter of
that. And if the floor be damp and cold I spread my own coat for my
faithful comrade.

Once upon a time we had a very good opinion of mankind. We were
idealists because we thought the rest of the world were idealists too.
We were tender-hearted and kind because we thought that others were the
same. We were philanthropists.

But after a while we found out how mistaken we were, and came to the
conclusion that there was not much love lost between most of our
fellow-creatures. They talked a good deal about friendship, but we found
out how few of them had any conception of the word's significance and
depth.

And one and all they laughed me to scorn because I dignified a dog's
unselfish devotion by the name of friendship, because gratefully I
strove to repay, as far as lay in my power, the humble comrade of my
life who according to their lights was nothing but a soulless animal,
whose keen and sensitive understanding they dismissed as mere instinct,
and whose honest, upright soul, they said, would live no longer than his
faithful heart!

If his all-sacrificing, all-charitable affection be not _virtue_, well,
then I do not know what virtue means--and if he is merely to be shot in
his old age and buried beneath some tree in the park at home, if that is
the only reward that is to be meted out to him in return for his life's
devotion--well, then all that I can say is, I don't believe that any of
us either will ever get beyond the graves in which we shall be laid some
day!

And where was he now, my faithful friend? Fallen perhaps into the hands
of some hard-hearted brute who was kicking and ill-treating him, for
aught I knew, sitting there bound fast and anxiously waiting for me to
come to the rescue--and I--incapable of putting one leg before the
other. I had an idea that were I only able to get out myself I should
find him in less than no time, and all but cried over my utter
helplessness. I begged and prayed Csare to help me into my clothes, I
stormed at him, hoping thereby to induce him to carry me down to a cab,
but he turned a deaf ear to all my entreaties. The consul came to see me
that same evening, but brought no tidings of the dog, and then I made up
my mind that he was lost to me for ever. He did his best to cheer me up,
and told me that a friend of his had lost his dog twice, in precisely
the same way, but that he had recovered him on both occasions, and that
he now paid a Camorrist five francs a year to see that the dog was left
alone.

After the consul had left, Csare and I held a council of war. Neither
of us reposed much confidence in the Municipal Authorities, and Csare's
antipathy to the police was, if anything, more pronounced than mine.
That same evening Csare went down to the Piazza Mercato to hunt up the
old _ciabattino_, and about eleven o'clock an individual made his
appearance, whom, under any other circumstances, I should have been
startled to see in my room at that time of night. He greeted me in a
familiar sort of way, and asked me if I recognised him, but I was
obliged to confess I didn't. He looked like the devil himself. He was
the bearer of greetings from Don Salvatore who, on account of important
engagements, was unable to come himself, but he begged me to rest
assured that he was my very good friend. I thanked him for his kind
expressions, and told him all about Puck. I took up my purse, emptied
its contents on to the bed, and told him that everything I possessed
should be handed over to whosoever brought the dog back. The state of my
finances is never very brilliant, I don't believe I had more than 200
francs in the house. He listened attentively, and I shall never forget
his words as I ceased speaking: "_Si non  morto sara cc domani
sera!_"[55]

[Footnote 55: "You shall have him back to-morrow evening, if he be not
dead!"]

I asked him if he felt quite sure of himself, and told him that I knew
what cunning fellows those dog-stealers were, but as he answered with a
certain amount of dignity, "_Sono tutti miei amici_,"[56] I felt that I
had underrated his influence.

[Footnote 56: "They are all friends of mine."]

I thanked him for the hopes he had given me, and then he left me. He
turned as he reached the door and invoked the protection of the Blessed
Virgin and San Gennaro on my behalf. And then I recognised him--he was
the man who had followed me ever since the first one had been arrested
on the Molo.

I slept better that night, and next morning it was quite evident that
the consul might telegraph that I was still alive, with perfect truth,
and without any danger of being put to the expense of contradicting the
news. But as the day wore on I grew more and more restless. There I lay
worrying myself more than ever, having suddenly recollected that the day
before I fell ill I had been rather hard on--not to say downright
unjust--to poor Puck, and you cannot think how unceasingly this thought
recurred to me, and how wretched it made me feel.

And evening came, and yet no news. Csare had been told to stand on
watch down below in the street, and now that he again saw fit to obey my
orders he had actually gone and left me alone for a few moments. I was
so tired after all this worry that at last I fell into a sort of
half-sleep. I don't know how long I lay there in the dark, but I know
how I was awoken. Csare came rushing into the room, I heard a panting
on the stairs that very nearly caused me to try and jump out of bed, and
Puck dashed into the room, dragging Don Salvatore after him. Don
Salvatore let go of him, and my dear old dog came bounding up to the
bed and laid his great head softly on my breast. His bonny coat was torn
and bloody, and round his neck there hung a great thick piece of rope.

Neither of us said a word--neither he nor I, but we have never stood in
need of words to understand each other.

Don Salvatore stood quietly in the doorway. He looked pale and tired,
and was about as tagged as my friend of the day before, but
notwithstanding the soiled and torn condition of his coat, the white
band upon the sleeve was visible.[57]

[Footnote 57: When a child falls ill, the parents invariably make a vow
to the Blessed Virgin for its recovery. They promise to wear her colours
for a certain period, sometimes for years, and nothing in the world
would induce them to lay them aside before the expiration of the time.
Brown, with a binding of white, is what is worn in honour of the Madonna
del Carmine, white with red bindings for the Madonna delle Salette,
etc.]

I reached him my hand and thanked him for the happiness he had procured
me, but he looked almost confused, and I noticed that he tried to avoid
my eye: "_Sono un uomo di mala vita_," said he; "_e non sono degno di
toccar la vostra mano_."[58]

[Footnote 58: "I am a bad man, and not worthy of touching your hand."]

I had certainly no reason for being hard on any one, but I had several
excellent reasons for being hard on no one; and so I told him.

And then I handed him the money, but he put it back on to the table with
these words: "_Voi avete salvato la figliuola, io ho trovato lo cane--va
bene cos!_"[59]

[Footnote 59: "You saved the little girl, I found the dog--it is all
right now!"]

And then he threw his ragged cloak over his shoulder and took himself
off.

But I think I owe Don Salvatore even more than the recovery of my dog!




XIV

GOLFO DI NAPOLI


I stood the other day upon the Immacolatella, and beside me stood
Rosina, buried deep in thought. How we came to be there is more than I
can say--but somehow or other we had drifted thither.

The Immacolatella is the harbour for all the fishing-boats upon the bay,
but now that Naples is inaccessible from the sea, the place is
absolutely empty.

"_Un bajocco, Signoria! Eccellenza! un bajocco!_"

Ah yes! we are so familiarised with that appeal by now that I instantly
pretend not to have heard it. But the beggar was not to be put off--he
must be a bit of a psychologist, thought I, as I put my hand into my
pocket with the intention of handing him over his percentage on the
_Dagblad_ letters, poor ragged fellow, his right to a share of the
proceeds is certainly greater than mine.

"_Piet, Signoria!_" There was a ring of such despair in the tone of the
man's voice, that I instantly made up my mind to deal him out a sort of
extra field-service allowance, and then take myself off as quickly as
possible--I felt quite sure that it was hunger and destitution that had
blanched the lips that were appealing to my charity at that very moment,
and could not trust myself to look at him, knowing that if I did so, a
whole column of the _Dagblad_ would disappear into his pocket, and
economy was the order of the day in those hard times.

I spurred Rosina on . . . that is to say, I suggested that we should go
and see what the bay was like a little lower down. Fate, however, had
decreed that just then she should be wholly absorbed in the solution of
some vexed problem, and not an inch did we stir off the spot--I have
already confided to you elsewhere how much I respect liberty of thought;
besides, there was no other alternative, for, as you may perhaps
remember, Kant's philosophy, according to Rosina, is open to a good deal
of criticism, and she has always refused point-blank to admit his
_Kategorische Imperativ_.

The beggar was still standing there with the coppers I had given him in
his hand, when suddenly I happened to look the ragged fellow straight in
the face--_Sapristi!_ it was Francesco himself, the very same Francesco
who was with me five years ago, one stormy autumn evening that we were
driven into Pola, and it was under his own cloak that, frozen and wet, I
slept the whole night through! Povero Francesco, what is the meaning of
this?

And Francesco, quite as astonished as myself at coming across a friend
upon the Immacolatella, welcomed me with an outburst of genuine Southern
eloquence--the big fellow fairly sobbed as he told me that two months
had already elapsed since his return from coral-fishing in "Barbaria,"
(Algiers), two months which he had spent on shore waiting in vain for
permission to land at Capri.

He had not been able to find work, his savings had come to an end, and
to-day he had been obliged to beg his bread.

I put Francesco up that night--when one has lain for weeks together
under a boat, one's ideas of comfort are not apt to be extensive, and it
was Francesco this time who slept under the cover of my cloak.

The rest of his unfortunate companions, so he told me, had lingered in
Sorrento, waiting for permission to return home.

Regular communication between Sorrento and Naples had only just been
re-established, and next morning we both went over in the steamboat. We
had hardly reached the Marina before I recognised a host of old Capriot
acquaintances, and I was distressed indeed to see the misery to which
they were reduced.

During the first few weeks they had received five soldi a day from
Capri, but after a while this assistance had been withdrawn, Sorrento
found that it was as much as she could do to succour her own distressed
inhabitants, and the poor devils were now living on the charity of their
Sorrentinian companions down on the Marina. Most of them were coral
fishermen from Africa, a few others were sailors on their way home after
a prolonged absence, and the rest were simple fishermen who had been out
fishing in the open sea. Twice already had they sailed over to Capri
endeavouring to land, and during their last attempt the quarantine
officials had threatened to fire on their boat. We held a meeting down
on the Marina that same afternoon, for the express purpose of talking
the matter over and deciding what was to be done; our speeches were
neither lengthy nor brilliant, but we were all of one mind, which was
the principal thing, all agreeing that the best thing to do was to make
one more attempt, and set off the next morning.

Before the commencement of our meeting I had hastily run over to greet
Donna Mariucci, the friendly hostess of the little osteria, which in
former days it had been my custom to frequent. And whilst our
cogitations were going on below, the maccaroni was steaming away above
in the padrona's largest saucepan, and shortly afterwards the whole of
the Capriot colony was seated round the dining-table in the garden
below.

A rare feast, my friend, this feast of ours beneath the shadows of the
orange-trees, the sun setting in a blaze of glory behind us, the murmur
of the waves beneath us, the rich ripe grapes, the brilliant blue figs,
and the golden oranges above us! You, who have never tasted anything but
the adulterated, sour wines they give you in the hotels, you should have
had a draught of some of Donna Mariucci's rich old wine, pressed from
the purest grapes, in the same simple way that was the custom of the
land 2000 years ago, innocent of all modern ingredients, fragrant as the
flowers, joyous as the summer's sun! The wine is old, my friend--it is
the same wine that Horace drank with the song upon his lips, and the
bays upon his brow!

Sorrento is not much of a place, the news of our banquet has run swiftly
down to its only harbour upon the naked feet of many a little urchin,
and one by one the fishermen's bonnets make their appearance above the
garden wall.

Welcome, all good friends, here is a glass of prime old wine in which
you can drink to our _buon viaggio_ to-morrow morning! A good many of
these Sorrentinians are old acquaintances of mine--types of honest,
friendly, sunburnt fishermen, every one of them. The introduction to the
newcomers is accomplished by general desire without any disturbing
element of etiquette.

"_Chi ?_" I hear them ask one after the other, pointing towards me. And
with a look of the profoundest importance and mystery, his Capriot
neighbour whispers into his ear: "_ il Signor con lo cane._"[60] "_Il
Signor con lo cane!_"--Ah well, that name is just as good as any other,
once upon a time it belonged to a very happy fellow, and I am very proud
of the title.[61] And to-day is a grand day for me, it is such a joy to
see how well these good, kind people have remembered me, and it is not
the generous old wine, ah no, it is the blind love with which I worship
the country itself, that fills me, heart and soul, with such a sense of
jubilant gladness.

[Footnote 60: The gentleman with the dog.]

[Footnote 61: Puck has often been here; his last "villegiatura" in Capri
extended over a year. He is the biggest dog in Southern Italy, and
enjoys a widespread and deserved popularity.]

And here comes Narella, the padrona's youngest daughter, to inquire if
"il Signor" still remembers that they have danced the tarantella
together on more than one occasion. Ay, Narella mia, I remember it well
enough, and bring hither the tambourin and guitar, to-day, when I would
take the whole world to my arms, thou mayest be sure I'll dance the
tarantella right willingly with the prettiest girl in all Sorrento!

And whilst the young ones dance upon the terrace down below, the old men
smoke their pipes above, glancing from time to time towards the bay, and
wondering from which quarter the wind will blow on the morrow.

At last we separate to meet again next day on the Marina, where the boat
lies ready and waiting for us.

And thank ye for this day _tutti quanti!_ and thank ye for your kindly
remembrance of me during the past years!

"_Grazia a voi Signor!_"--Nay, do not thank me, thank the _Dagblad_; we
have dined off the "_two Pessimists_," and eaten up the whole article
from beginning to end!

And now the twilight falls across Sorrento's mountains, the murmur of
the sea grows fainter and fainter, the bells ring out the
Angelus,--good-night!

       *       *       *       *       *

A Sorrentinian summer's day, my friend!

The sun stands high above Monte St. Angelo, and darts his brilliant rays
upon the glittering blue of the gulf beneath. Still dreaming in the west
lies Ischia, enveloped in the roseate mist of early dawn, whilst
Posilipo drapes herself in green and glorious raiment. Naples awakes in
purple and gold, whilst Portici, Resina, and Torre del Greco cast their
glittering string of pearls about the foot of Vesuvius. There lies the
volcano in gigantic repose; summer has flung her verdant mantle about
his loins, but has not dared to venture higher up,--the sun alone is
allowed to approach the summit, and strew his gold upon the Titan's gray
head. A little cloud, the offspring of the youthful day, is gazing
boldly into the giant's very jaws, but he is slumbering still, and the
vapour of each deep-drawn breath stands out against the clear blue sky.
Other clouds come sailing from afar, floating out over the dark
violet-tinted mountains to the gulf beyond. They are going in the same
direction as ourselves, high overhead they sail along in all their
pride, and down below we spread our sails upon Sorrento's shores, but
the same blue light is irradiating heaven and earth, and the same soft
wind is directing our onward course.

The sails are swelling in the morning breeze, and with seething foam at
the bow, the port gunwale tearing through the water, and the ripple of
the waves under the keel, we bid farewell to Sorrento.

Off with thy hat and let the wind blow straight across thy brow!
Unbutton thy coat and inhale the splendid air in long deep draughts, for
it is pure and sweet as early spring, and fresh as Nature's youth
itself! Long enough hast thou dwelt in the city's stifling atmosphere,
long enough hast thou wandered through its dusty streets and infected
sickrooms, long enough have sorrow and misery cast their gloomy shadows
over thee--now let boundless space stretch forth its health-restoring
arms to thee, now let the sea flow out to meet thee, and to flood thee
with its buoyant gladness!

Look up at thy fellow-travellers overhead, look up at the clouds that
but a moment ago shut out the sun from view, hath not the wind driven
them far away? are not the heavens clear again--and shall not the fresh
sea-breeze likewise drive away the sorrow that hath dimmed the gladness
of thy spirit for so long! Look out upon the bay into which Naples pours
her refuse, yet see how glitteringly blue it is--shall not its sparkling
waters purify thee also from the dust-stains of the shore!

Oh, how doth now thy breast expand, dost thou not feel the winds of
heaven blowing into the innermost depths of thy soul, spreading the
sails for many a youthful thought that hath lain at anchor for so long!
Thou hearest how thy heart is throbbing in even, steady beats, even as a
pendulum, it is the mid-day of thy life, full well thou knowest that the
works within are strong and good--and now they'll go again for many a
day to come, 'twas but the mainspring that was out of order!

The wind is rising, and the boat dances merrily over the rolling waves.
Let the salt sea spray dash over thy face, it is better than the
richest wine, it is the frothy, sparkling mother's milk that, flowing
from the undulating bosom of Nature, shall win thee back to health and
strength!

Thou who hast dared to doubt that miracles exist, now do the scales fall
from thine eyes, and thou seest that the world is beautiful still,
beautiful as on Creation's day. Oh, how great a light has risen up
within thee! The spectre of thy sickly hypochondria vanishes into space,
and broken-winged and dazzled by the light, Minerva's owl flies round
the barren walls of thy philosophy's pessimistic pagan temple. And
presently the ruins of thy proud seat of learning sink to the bottom of
the sea, and the glad waves dance joyously over the bitter human
thoughts, and deep down below, the pearls and corals grow over thy
barren philosophies and cynical theories. Thy sages go to the bottom
with the philosophers' stone round their neck, and down in his ocean
halls below, sits Neptune, stroking his white beard, and laughing so
heartily at the forlorn appearance of the new arrivals, that the very
waves on the surface grow frothier, and the mermaids snatch at the poor
professors' wigs, whilst the fish dart merrily in and out the holes of
their philosophers' mantles.

But thou who sittest in thy boat above, thou dost not dare to breathe
another word of rebellious suffering, mutely thou gazest into the blue
immensity above, from whence the sun, as from a temple's arched vault,
doth proclaim his radiant philosophy, and grateful and humble thou
stretchest forth thine arms to life again!

The coast along which we sail is so beautiful that one almost wishes the
wind would drop, to enable one to enjoy the beauty of the scene a little
longer.

There you can see Capo di Sorrento, and the walls upon the rock over
there date from the time of the Romans; the people call them "Bagno
della Regina Giovanna," but they are really the ruins of an antique
bath. The columns beside it are the remains of a temple dedicated--some
say to Hercules, others to Neptune. I myself believe that it was the
sea-god who used to dwell here, and can you not tell by the rapidity of
our course "how Father Neptune himself, with his mighty hand, doth push
the boat on as she moves"?[62] Old Virgil is the right man to quote here,
for he has so often sailed across this very bay, and spread the same
latin sail against the wind as we ourselves. And it is along these very
coasts that neas wandered, and on the promontory yonder did Ulysses
raise a temple to Minerva. The place now goes by the name of Punta di
Campanella; everything about here is so old that to you there is a
modern ring about the name--it only dates from the time of Charles the
Fifth, and from here it is that they used to sound the tocsin to warn
the bay of the approaching pirates.

[Footnote 62:   "Dixit, eumque imis sub fluctibus audiit omnis
              Nereidum Phorcique chorus, Panopeaque Virgo.
                Et pater ipse manu magna Portunus euntem
                           Imputet."--_Aeneid._]

Up there on yonder hill glisten the white houses of Massa Lubrense,
crowned by orange and lemon-trees, and at the top of the mountain lies
Deserto's gray old cloister.

Ah yes, the coast is beautiful indeed, but the bay is lovelier still,
and blissfully we steer our course over the foaming billows!

You are sailing in Sorrento's bravest boat, not in such a one as the
passing stranger hires at his hotel, 'tis only a simple fishing-boat,
but if you are a connoisseur, you need only look at the graceful outline
to assure yourself that it comes of good old stock. On board this boat
you can go out fishing on the high seas, right out to Gaeta and the Bay
of Terracina, the autumn hurricanes may even drive you over to
Sicily--but that is of no consequence, this boat can weather any storm,
for it was launched upon the Blessed Virgin's birthday, and it can
breast any wave, whilst the picture of its patron saint, San Antonio,
hangs at the helm. See how the sharp keel cuts through the waves, just
feel how quickly it responds to the lightest touch of your hand upon the
rudder! It might almost be alive, you might almost be flying along upon
some fiery war-horse with spark-emitting hoofs and foam-covered bridle.

That fellow sitting by the rudder is said to be a pessimist--well, well,
if they all have that expression on their faces, the malady cannot be
incurable. It is he who is convinced that in this world sorrow is
positive and pleasure negative,--have you any idea what that means? Nay,
no more have I. It is he who maintains that when man has resigned
himself to his fate, he has attained the greatest heights to which he is
capable of rising--no doubt it is resignation alone that shines in his
eyes and plays about his lips. It is he who, unknown to any one, has
written a long essay on the characteristics of melancholy, which he
declares are to be found existent in the features of all animals--look
out upon the dolphins as they sport in front of our boat, have you ever
seen anything so melancholy as their turbulent play upon the foaming
waves! What would Schopenhauer say if he could see you both, if he could
see thee, thou pessimistic steersman, and you, ye sporting dolphins!
Although there is something uncanny about these black and brilliant
dolphins--for just about here where they are sporting at their best,
there stood, in bygone times, a temple dedicated to Circe. Once upon a
time, long ago, I lay asleep upon the yellow sands that surround the
mermaids' castle, and woke to the sound of the waves as they began to
sing the magic legends of the old-time days, and as I opened my eyes, I
saw the graceful siren bathing in the moonlight below, and far away out
in the bay, I heard the tritons blowing in their glittering
conch-shells.

Now we pass the promontory of Campanella, and the wind blows high across
Salerno's gulf.

Vincenzo was right--the sea is rough down there, and you had better come
and sit by me and hold fast on to the tiller, whilst we have a chat
together. Vincenzo is always right, he knows the sea by heart as surely
as he knows his _Pater Noster_, and it is he who taught me how to steer
a boat. He is satisfied with his pupil, and now is sitting forward, the
weather-beaten old salt, with his clay pipe in his mouth, and the yellow
cap of a Capriot fisherman well pulled down over his forehead, whilst
his blinking eyes look critically across Salerno's bay, from whence the
wind comes dancing over the breakers.

The youthful sailor sitting beside him is my friend Andrea. Do you know
who Andrea is? Well, he is _il fratello della Marguerita_, the beauty
of Anacapri, whom all visitors to the island are as anxious to see as
the villa of Tiberias or the Blue Grotto itself. She is now married to a
_forestiero_, and I stood godfather to her first-born child last time I
was here. Brother Andrea has been away as long as myself, four whole
years, he has been round the world as sailor on board a French ship, and
now he is on his way home to greet _la madre e la sorella_.

Our crew consists of forty men, and it would take up too much time to
give you an account of each one of us, besides which, our story is more
or less the same in every case. We are humble individuals every one of
us, fishermen all, if you will, some of us have had good luck and others
bad, there are shipwrecked souls amongst us too, there are those amongst
us who have come to grief both over coral-fishing and medicine; but the
same joy is lighting up our eyes to-day, the joy of finding ourselves so
near our lovely home once more.

We have been far away in foreign lands; we have seen other shores where
we might have lain us down to rest in peace, but we have been faithful
to our love, and hither our longing thoughts have always flown. And now
we have realised our dreams, one hour more and we shall haul in our
sails upon our well-beloved shores!

Hast thou seen the loveliest pearl in Naples's crown, hast thou seen
Isola di Capri, floating upon the waters of the bay? Its waves bathe
richer shores than thine, oh island fair, softer are the winds that blow
across Sorrento's groves, and more bountifully o'er Ischia's hills than
o'er thy summer-laden rock has Nature strewn her glory of green, but
never doth the sun shine with such dazzling splendour as over Capri,
never do the blue waters of the bay sparkle so brilliantly as on thy
sun-girt shores!

The frivolous luxury of Naples's Queen has not reached Capri. The other
vassals round the bay have bowed the knee to the fair sinner, who,
according to the legend, owes her name to some bewitching siren of old,
and who, as time went on, raised temples to that Venus of whom Anacreon
and Ovid sang, whom marble has shaped unto the likeness of the Venus
Callipoge, and who lives in the voluptuous beauty of the Venus of the
Capitol, and the Venus of Medici. But thou, severe and chaste, untouched
by degradation, thou standest on thy sea-girt pedestal, even as the
Aphrodite of Melos, living the life of the immortals, surrounded by the
radiance of the youth of Greece, and pure as the ideal of Beauty itself!

Once did Rome violate thy virgin purity with the shadow of her sun's
departing glory, but thou didst hurl the temple of Tiberias into the
sea, and there the coral-incrusted columns lie unto this day, and vines
and honeysuckle grow over the crumbling ruins that witnessed thy
humiliation.

The poets have written verses in thine honour, and have compared thee to
a dreaming sphinx or to an antique sarchophagus--I have no words for
thee, thou soul-enchanting island, I am dumb before the charm of thy
divine beauty! Ah! thoughts may clothe themselves in words, but believe
me, the heart is silent, so silent that thou canst hear the wing-beating
of thy soul. And here is my heart's own peaceful home; the noise of the
outside world dies upon its threshold; and here in solitude would I
reverently muse upon the faded memories of the past!

       *       *       *       *       *

There are the white houses on the Marina shining brightly down upon us;
and Francesco, standing at the prow, sings out that the beach is
swarming with people.

And now Vincenzo produces from a carefully wrapped-up parcel the
present he has brought from afar, and which we are all called upon to
look at and admire yet once again. The old fellow has had a hard time of
it lately, so hard that he has been obliged to sell his Sunday clothes
to buy his daily bread, and to-day is the first time he has had a smoke
for ever so long--but the silk handkerchief that is to deck his wife
when she shall go to Mass, that has never been touched. The old woman is
to be depended upon, she has let many a big sea wash over her, as she
has sat holding on to the tiller during the stormy autumn fishing
nights; and now she is sitting up at Anacapri, looking out over the bay,
and mending the nets whilst she waits for the old man's return.

Nearly all the young fellows are coral fishermen, very likely they have
each their "Nenella" waiting for them up yonder sighing for their
return. And she shall have a coral necklace or a pretty pearl which he
has put on one side on purpose for her. She has had many another offer
of marriage in the meantime, the graceful maiden, and many an
insinuating word has been whispered into her ear by various _Signori_,
but her thoughts are with the absent one, and her word once given she
will never swerve from it. No letters have passed between them during
the long absence, for neither of them knows how to write, but every
morning she has, for his sake, decked the Madonna's altar with fresh
flowers, and as the storm rose high, and he was watching alone on deck,
you may be sure he had a look at the blessed medal which she had hung
around his neck the day they parted. She has an idea that he is close at
hand, every day she has looked across the bay to see if he is coming,
depend upon it she will be at the Marina when we lie-to. Has he been
fortunate he will have saved up money enough to buy a boat, and that is
quite enough to start upon if you love one another. And if he should
never return--coral-fishing is dangerous, and every year the ocean
craves its victims--well, then she will hang the ring he has given her
up in the choir, beside the altar. Go up to yonder chapel and there you
will find many and many a witness to this touching fidelity.

The beach really is swarming with people, and we can see many more
running up the road that winds along the vineyards which grow in the
neighbourhood of the Marina. Close to the landing-stage stand the
coastguards, the carabineers' guns are glittering in the sunshine. They
hang out the red flag, the first signal that bids us stop, and then they
shout out something which we fail to catch, but which, alas, we are able
to understand only too well--we haul in the sails and drop the anchor.
The guards are right, there is no doubt about it, I have read the
quarantine rules myself, we have no right to come within twenty-five
metres of the shore.

We anchored opposite the Marina during the whole of a
never-to-be-forgotten day. I could write you many a long letter about
that day and all we went through. But I keep my recollections of Capri
to myself.

We never landed.

Silently I sat in the boat listening to my poor friends as they greeted
their dear ones. More than one of our crew had been away for years and
years, and it had been the thought of going home that had cheered them
up through many a heavy hour, their own people stood now upon the beach,
and they might not even take them to their arms! There were the old
women shading their eyes with their hands, the better to distinguish the
features of the returning son, there were the wives holding up the
last-born _bambino_ for his father to see how _carino_ he had become,
there were the young girls, decked in all their finery, to welcome home
their sunburnt _amorosi_, all of them pressing up to the very edge of
the harbour so as to approach as close as possible, eager little urchins
threw themselves into the sea (do not be alarmed, they swim like fish,
the little sunburnt devils), some of them laughing, some of them
sobbing, all shouting together in the endeavour to be heard above the
waves. And they managed to catch their word of welcome, each one of
them. The lovely shore was the frame that surrounded the picture, and
the sun of Italy shone full upon it.

And last of all, "_il Signore con lo cane_" ran up to the bow to greet
all these good friends of his. He has lived so long amongst this people,
and they all know him so well. See, there comes Serafina, hurrying up,
"_buon giorno, cara Serafina!_" She had been his _serva_ during the
whole of one year, she had been so kind to him when he lay sick here,
and he is so fond of her. For four years every morning has she dusted
his old rooms, she believes so firmly that he will return again, and so
does he in his happy moments.

We lay anchored there all day long, and all day long did Capri's kindly
inhabitants stand on the shore waving us their welcome and farewell. And
the evening crept on, the sun went down behind Monte Epomeo, and the
shadows fell across the bay. Naples had lit up her darkling festal
halls, and over there sat old Vesuvius calmly smoking his evening pipe.
The breeze grew softer and ever more caressing, and the waves fell
asleep. Silently, as though in mourning, our boat sped over the bay,
leaving the well-loved shore behind us. Speechless we sat there,
watching the gradual disappearance of Capri into the darkness beyond;
wafted by the wind the echo of the dear voices on shore fell upon our
ears, and many of us saw the lights twinkling in our own homes. A moment
more and all was still, and night fell over the isle we loved so well,
and spread her sable pall around her.

Ah yes! perhaps the poets are right, thou'rt like unto a sarcophagus!
but leave the dead in peace, let silence shed its calm o'er thy departed
joy! Here, beneath the roses and the evergreens, a youthful dream lies
slumbering.

The wind has dropped, and the boat lies almost motionless upon the
silent bay. But none of us are in a hurry to reach Sorrento; it will be
time enough if we get there by to-morrow morning.

There sits Vincenzo holding his old wife's silken handkerchief in his
hand, and if a spot should fall upon it, it shall become her all the
more on that account, when at some future time she shall wear it in the
church, for the weather-beaten old sailor is crying over it. And slowly
Francesco stows away the corals which, this very evening, he had hoped
to clasp round his Nenella's neck. But beside him sits Giovanni singing
"Il Pescatore di Coralli"--

    "Addio, Lucia, m'appellano,
     Il vento gi compare,
     Abbiam salpata l'ancora,
     La luna  in mezzo al mare,
     Mi sento il cor dividere,
     Partendomi da te!
     Speranza mia, non piangere
     Ch' il marinar fedele
     Vedrai tornar dall' Africa
     Fra un anno queste vele.
     Ed all' ara della Vergine
     Allor sarai con me.
                     Addio, Addio,
                     Addio, Addio!"

It is night upon the bay. And legend upon legend wakes the silent shores
from their thousand-year-old dreams. The fair siren, to whom these
regions were once dedicated, is casting her spell around thee.

Here lay the old Elysian fields, here lay Homer's kingdom of the dead;
'twas here that Virgil's sybil led neas by the hand in search of his
dead father, and 'twas past here that rolled the dark waves of the
Cocytus.

Here did Augustus seek repose from his kingship over the world, here in
Julius Csar's antique villa did Marcellus die, hither did Tiberias flee
in search of the narcotic that was to numb the profoundest of all human
sadness, here did Nero hatch his darkest plots, here is Agrippa's tomb.
Here lay the country homes of Cicero and Lucullus, here did Ovid and
Horace sing the beauties of the surrounding landscape, and here upon the
shore he loved so well did Virgil cause his tomb to be hewn.[63]

[Footnote 63: "Mantuae me genuit, Calabri rapuere, tenet nunc Parthenope;
cecini pascua, rura, duces,"--epitaph written by the poet for his own
tomb.]

The shadows of the night fall gradually away, and a faint light flutters
over the gulf. But the shores lie slumbering still beneath the web the
lingering stars and glittering moon have spun. Seest thou that little
brilliant cloud rising over yonder mountain peak,--he is the herald of
the day, and he it is who shall strew the roses on the path by which
the monarch of the day shall drive.

And now the wind awakes, and scattering the poppies from out Sorrento's
curls, flies upon the morning's roseate wings to Capri, gently lifts the
mist that shrouds the lovely island, smooths away with fairy hand the
sleep that lays on Naples's eyes, and with gentle breeze caresses
Posilipo's blushing cheek. Thus falls the veil of Night, which hid the
scenery around, even as the draperies conceal the beauteous limbs of an
antique marble statue, and decked in all the splendour of her divine
apparel, Naples salutes the rising sun. The bay is clear as Diana's
mirror, and the space above so high that thou feelest as though thou
wert gazing into heaven itself.

And thou, thou poor, prosaic, everyday individual, how humiliated dost
thou not feel at the spectacle of Nature's sublime devotions, thou
feelest that thou standest upon the threshold of a temple and criest,
"_Here of a surety do the gods abide!_" Yea, here do the gods abide
indeed, and living still across the ages they pass before thee draped in
Pentelic marble, the broken columns of the temples raise themselves on
high soaring up to the heaven of eternal idealism, and it is not the
dawn of a new day, ah no, it is the lingering glow of Antiquity's
departed sun that sheds its lustre over the Golfo di Napoli.




XV

SOEUR PHILOMNE


They had both entered the service of the big Paris Hospital at the same
time. She was a sister of charity, and he was working for his
examination, doing hospital duty in the meantime for an absent
colleague. She wore the white habit of _Les Soeurs de St. Augustin_, but
the novices' veil still fell over the delicate, sorrowful face, so young
for all the misery by which it was surrounded. No one knew whence she
came, she was Soeur Philomne, that was all. Several of the young
physicians in the _Salle de Garde_ had done their best to find out who
she was, but the only person capable perhaps of throwing any light upon
the subject was _La Suprieure_, and she observed a mysterious silence
whenever the conversation turned upon the youthful sister of charity. It
was always Soeur Philomne who, during the morning round was able to give
on the patient's behalf the most trustworthy account of the previous
night, it was always she who seemed to know better than any one else how
to place the pillows most comfortably beneath the weary head of the poor
sufferer, grown restless and fretful under the burden of his pain, it
was always she who spoke the word of hope when the operation was at
hand, and the courage on the wane. And when the night-bell rang into the
Salle de Garde below, and he who was on duty came up, tired and
irritable, to see what was wanted of him, it was she again who always
led the way, bending gently over the patient's bed, laying the bandages
straight with her own soft hands and soothing the agony of the night
with words of comfort and good cheer.

One night a boy who had been found lying senseless in the street was
brought in from a neighbouring police station. He was bleeding from a
wound in the head, and was perfectly stiff with cold. After the first
bandages had been adjusted, Soeur Philomne undressed him quickly, and
laid him in a warmed bed. He was a poor man's child, and a suit of
tattered old clothes was all that sheltered his frail little body from
the severity of the winter's night. For some time he lay there quite
unconscious, but then he began to moan softly, raising his hand to his
head. After a while he opened his eyes, the large wistful eyes of early
childhood, gazing at the white curtains about his bed, and then across
the dimly-lighted sickroom. Presently, the little half-thawed fingers
began to wander over the counterpane, both hands groping restlessly
about the bed as though in search of something; he looked quieter after
he had managed to possess himself of the tiny old fiddle which he always
carried about with him under his jacket, and which constituted the
whole of his luggage.

Grasping it tightly he suddenly raised himself up as though to escape.
The poor homeless little lad, accustomed as he was to being turned away
from every man's door, was under the impression that danger was ahead,
and having recovered his fiddle, the returning dawn of consciousness
warned him that he had better be off. But his head was too heavy, and he
soon fell back again amongst the pillows. Just then he became aware of
the fact that a man was standing at the head of his bed, and with wide
open, suspicious eyes he stared at his blood-stained apron. The doctor
saw that he was frightened and moved away. But as Soeur Philomne bent
over the little fellow at the same moment he grew calmer, looking her
straight in the face somewhat curiously, but with an expression of
unbounded confidence in his eyes.

And the doctor went and laid himself down in the watch-room. He was
just at that period of a young physician's life, when it is considered
rather a fine thing to show no compassion for the sick, to affect an
imperturbable self-possession on all occasions, when down in the Salle
de Garde each one tries to outdo the other in cold-blooded assurances of
his own complete indifference to all suffering, when the patient is
merely a number attached to the living and breathing designs which the
hospital draws into their pathological book of references, and the
corpse is nothing better than a _cadaver_ to be examined critically from
an anatomical point of view alone. . . .

And as he lay there in the watch-room, he thought that he was quite
indifferent to the poor little waif up in the Salle St. Paul.

But he could not go to sleep, and after tossing about for while, he
persuaded himself that perhaps it would be as well to go and see whether
the bandages round the boy's head were still in order, and whether the
hemorrhage had definitively ceased. On the stairs he stopped short,
saying to himself that there was really nothing more for him to do
upstairs that night, and that the boy had much better be left in peace.
But somehow or other he went up. They had been round for the last time
that night, and the room was quite quiet. He crept stealthily up to the
newcomer's bed. Soeur Philomne was sitting there still, the homeless
little musician had fallen asleep with one arm round the sister of
charity's neck, and his fiddle in the other hand.

And during the next morning's round he was to be enlightened as to the
reason why he, the callous young medical student, had been unable to
resist the impulse that had led him to go and look after the boy the
previous night. No one knew where the lad came from, to all the
questions put to him he was silent, for all answer staring at the little
group of students and professors that had gathered round his bed. But
just as a speculative assistant began to write the following words upon
the slate hanging over his bed, "_Commotion crbrale, perte de la
parole_," the boy put his little thumb into his mouth, blinked his eyes
and smacked his lips, to the utter astonishment of every one present.
And there was one standing by his bedside who understood
him,--Mergellina and Santa Lucia had familiarised him long ago with that
same sign. "_Tu sei Italiano?_" he asked him.

"_Si Signore, vengo da Napoli_," answered the little lazzarone. He was
not in the least dumb, only frightened of all the strange people and
their foreign language.

But the little lad had secured a good friend for himself, and one who
was only too glad to look after him.

The boy's story was the usual one. He came from one of the poor mountain
villages round Salerno, and had been accustomed to wander through the
streets of Naples with his fiddle under his arm to earn his bread.
Thence he had been brought to Paris as a speculation. Every year these
white slave-traders come over to Naples, selecting their victims amongst
its swarms of ragged street-children, taking them back to London or
Paris, where they are then expected to earn a little money as
street-singers or models.

The child is presented with new clothes, and the parents (if there be
any) are easily pacified by means of a small sum of money, and the
promise that the boy shall return in a year's time with a 100 lire in
his pocket. Such is the history of most of the Italian children who
wander about the streets of Paris. The money they earn they are not
allowed to keep; every night their _impresario_ takes away from them
whatever they have scraped together during the day.

The boy had not been in Paris for more than a few days, but he had lost
his way, and had wandered aimlessly about till, exhausted with cold and
hunger, he had fainted in the street.

But the winter's night had been more than the destitute little
Southerner had been able to bear. As the day wore on he began to cough,
towards night-time he was in a high fever. Next morning the slate over
his bed bore the following inscription "_Pneumonie double_"--and this
time, alas, the diagnosis was correct enough.

For three nights Soeur Philomne watched over the poor little musician,
and on the fourth day he died.

No one had taken the least notice of him before, he had belonged to no
one during his lifetime, but after his death he belonged by right to the
dissecting-room. He was hardly cold before one of the hospital servants
came to fetch away the frail little body, to take it down to be cut to
pieces by the dissecting-knives of the students. Soeur Philomne and the
doctor were still standing beside the bed, and involuntarily they
glanced at each other. And he who had been so powerless to save the
life of his little friend now drew the sheet over his face, and beckoned
silently to the man to delay his errand; and then he went down to
_Monsieur le directeur_. He was in the good graces of the hospital
authorities just then, and they granted his request.

And towards the close of day a tiny coffin was borne from out the
hospital walls; there was no long funeral procession; a sister of
charity and a student alone walked behind the hearse, wherein the poor
little vagabond artist lay at rest with his broken fiddle in his hands.
And of all those flowers, which in midwinter the luxury of the world's
great capital imports every morning from the summer of the south, a
handful of violets had found its way into the curly-headed little
musician's coffin, bearing a fragrant greeting from the land of his
birth, where, perhaps, that very night, up in the little
mountain-chapel, his poor mother was praying her heart out to the
Blessed Virgin, beseeching her to watch over her darling cast adrift on
the world.

       *       *       *       *       *

Soeur Philomne was just as silent now as she had always been, she never
spoke to any one, unless it were to ask some short question imposed upon
her by the exigencies of hospital duty. But they seemed to have
something in common, these two friends of the little dead child. Had she
some special _protg_ in her ward, he always managed to look after him
himself, and did he happen to be particularly interested in some patient
or other, it seemed to him as though the gentle sister always contrived
to show them some special attention.

There were twelve sisters of charity up at the big hospital. _La
Suprieure_, "_ma mre_," as they all called her, had done her little
best to convert the foreign assistant, for she knew that he was not of
the same faith as themselves, the faith that had bid her sacrifice her
life beneath the veil of a sister of charity; one day she asked him if
they never went to confession in his church, if they never lit candles
upon the Blessed Virgin's altar, and as he answered in the negative, the
old nun had shaken her head compassionately but resignedly.

But they were none the less friendly on that account; he had even been
allowed to play during "_La Grande Messe_" on the tiny organ in the
little chapel, one day that the old brother, who usually officiated as
organist, was ill.

And by way of thanks he tried, as far as lay in his power, to plead the
cause of the sisters of charity in the daily discussions that took place
down in the Salle de Garde. The unjust and shameful persecution directed
against them, _la lacisation des hopitaux_, was the burning question of
the day, and all their unselfishness, all their self-sacrificing
charity had not availed to silence the voices of those whose sole object
was to exclude religious influence of every sort from the hospitals.

Every evening prayers were read down in the little chapel for the
benefit of those who were able to attend, after which each sister read
the prayers for the night in her own special ward. Often and often after
supper the young doctor would linger for a few moments up in the Salle
St. Paul. As Soeur Philomne lit the candles on the little altar, the
moaning and groaning would gradually cease, and a hush would fall over
the whole room; kneeling in the midst of them the sister's pure voice
would be heard praying that rest might be vouchsafed during the coming
night, concluding with the _Ave Maria_, which all the sick repeated
after her. Some of them were not always able to follow her, and every
now and again some tired voice would lag behind the others with the
finishing words: "_Priez pour nous, pauvres pcheurs, maintenant et 
l'heure de notre mort!_" And from some of the beds nothing would be
heard but a faint inarticulate murmur--but it found its way along with
the rest for all that.

Soeur Philomne was looking very pale. One day she was missing from the
usual morning round, and it was reported that she had spat blood during
the night. But she was soon at her post again, as devoted as ever; night
and day she was to be found in the wards, succouring and comforting the
sick, and never pausing to give herself a moment's rest.

And so the winter sped away. The windows stood open all day long, and
the soft spring breezes penetrated at last into the dreary wards,
floating from bed to bed, lifting up the curtains behind which the
pallid sufferers lay, waiting upon their last resource--the summer.

The trees were beginning to put forth their leaves in the garden
beneath, and out on the terrace the convalescents would sit for hours
together, warming themselves in the sun.

They were making merry down in the Salle de Garde, and every one was
toasting the newly-made doctor for the last time. There on the wall hung
his old hospital uniform, covered with stains and saturated with
carbolic acid, and there, amidst books and commentaries, lay the old
pipe that had kept him company during many a hard night's work. There he
sat in travelling dress, the long-desired diploma in his pocket, and up
in his old room lay his knapsack all ready packed for the morrow's
journey. Every one was talking, and no one was listening. At last the
doctor manages to escape, wending his way once more up to the well-known
passage leading to the Salle St. Paul. He stood in the doorway and heard
the whisper pass from bed to bed, "_la ronde de la mre!_" And there,
holding the night-lamp in her hand, came Soeur Philomne from the other
end of the half-dark dormitory. He looked at the sorrowful pallid face,
and realised how much he had learnt to care for the meek and gentle
sister, although he had hardly ever spoken a word to her. After she had
finished her round, he went up to bid her farewell. He was going far
away, and perhaps he might never see her again, but before leaving, he
felt that he must say how much it grieved him to see _la bonne Soeur_
looking so pale, so ill, and then he told her to think a little of
herself, that she was killing herself with her incessant devotion to the
sick. "I am happy," was all she answered. He forgot the severe convent
rules to which her vows had bound her, and stretched out his hand to bid
her farewell,--but she did not take it.

He was gone for a long, long time. One evening he stood again in front
of the old hospital. It looked just the same as ever, the dingy walls
were harbouring the same amount of suffering and woe as in the days of
old. It was just about the time when Soeur Philomne used to read the
evening prayers up in the Salle St. Paul, and he thought he would go up
there. But the little altar had been knocked down, the crucifix was
nowhere to be seen, la Soeur Philomne was gone, all the friendly sisters
had disappeared. A student clad in the well-known hospital uniform was
coming towards him,--perhaps he would be able to tell him all he wanted
to know.

"_Ah, oui, les Soeurs! il y'a longtemps qu'on les a mises  la porte!_"

"Just so, my young friend, _il y'a longtemps qu'on les a mises  la
porte_."

"And the white-haired old chaplain of the hospital, is he here still?"

"_Il n'y a plus de prtres ici, il n'y a plus d'glise,  quoi bon!_"

"But you must have been here before," asked the student, eyeing the
foreign visitor with some curiosity. "It must have been before my time?"


"Yes, it must have been before your time."

It must have been long, long ago, thought he to himself as he turned to
go, for he felt so out of date and out of place in the tide of all these
modern improvements. He lingered about the garden for a while, watching
the light shine through the window of his former room. Very likely a new
student was sitting there, reading for his examination--may he go
further into the history of suffering humanity than his predecessor
standing in the garden below, for he never got further than the chapter
on man's utter helplessness, and there he marked the book with a cross.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was several years later. The doctor had taken leave of his Paris
duties for a while, and was again on his way to greet the land he loved
so well. He was not altogether idle, for idleness begets hypochondria.
However, he didn't study much either--after all he was taking his
holiday. Every one else was writing long treatises on the cholera--but
he didn't write a line on the subject, for the simple reason that he had
nothing to say. And the microbes, the celebrated microbes, which, small
as they are, have nevertheless been the means of making many a doctor
great--he did not trouble himself about them either. He felt about as
much inclination to gaze at one of them through a microscope, as to
examine the far away glittering stars of Heaven by means of a
telescope--what he saw with his own eyes was enough for him. And he saw
with sorrow how much the poor people were suffering.

The cholera decreased, but the famine in the land grew worse and worse.
He did not often go up to the hospital; those who were lying there stood
in no need of his assistance; better doctors than himself were giving
their services, and charity was being freely bestowed upon the families
of the sick. One evening, however, he went up to the cholera hospital,
for he had been told that a French sister of charity was lying there on
the point of death.

In the corridor he met an assistant with whom he was slightly
acquainted. In answer to his question he pointed to the door of one of
the reserved rooms, "_stadium algidum_,"[64] said he, and went on his
way.

[Footnote 64: A characteristic of the cholera when the body is cold.]

The room was half dark, two sisters of charity were kneeling within, and
on the bed lay Soeur Philomne, as pale as death. Slowly she opened her
eyes, and her glance fell straight on him who stood sorrowing at her
bedside.

"I knew you were here," she said. And then she reached him her hand--but
it was hers no more, it no longer belonged to life, it was already quite
cold. Presently she fell asleep again, lying there quite motionless,
opening her eyes every now and again to gaze fixedly and at length at
those who stood about her bed. Towards morning she began to shiver, and
they drew the folds of her nun's white garb still closer round her. She
was already quite cold, but one could see by her eyes that she was in
full possession of her senses. Her lips moved as though she wished to
say something, but all power of speech had fled. The painful shadow over
the forehead, which he recognised so well, vanished little by little as
her eyes began to glow with a joy of which this world knows nothing. And
then her soul took wing, and the peace of death fell over her face.

And those who stood around--they knew that she was happy.


_Printed by_ R. & R. Clark, _Edinburgh_.




Transcriber's Note


The following changes were made to the original text:

 Page 28: E morto il cholera -->  morto il cholera

 Page 35: E morto il cholera -->  morto il cholera

 Page 31: with the the other Physician --> with the other Physician

 Page 44: Fuorigrotto --> Fuorigrotta

 Page 65: unconcious --> unconscious

 Page 85: to guide as further --> to guide us further

 Page 89: "_ antica_," --> "_ antica_,"

 Page 99: we will do down to Mergellina --> we will go down to Mergellina

Page 115: Non e vero --> Non  vero

Page 230: sara  domani sera! --> sara cc domani sera!

Page 241: "_E il Signor con lo cane._" --> "_ il Signor con lo cane._"

Italian and Neapolitan sentences have been preserved as in the original
(other than as listed above).

Other than adding 2 missing quotation marks, minor variations in
spelling and punctuation have been preserved.




[End of Letters from a Mourning City, by Axel Munthe]
