From the Oak to the Olive Part 5

THE CAPUCHIN.

While we waited for our dinner, a Capuchin at another table enjoyed a moderate repast. Bologna sausage, cheese, fruit, and wine of two sorts contented him. His robust countenance beamed with health, his eyes were intelligent. This was one of the personalities of which the little shown makes one desirous to know more. His refreshment consumed and paid for, he began a rambling conversation with the _garcon_ who attended us, as well as with the proprietor of the _locanda_ in which we were. Capuchin and Garcon mutually deplored the poverty of the poor in Naples. Capuchin showed two blue silk handkerchiefs which he had been forced to purchase, for compa.s.sion, of a poor woman. Both obviously considered the new state of things as partly accountable for this poverty, which is, on the contrary, as old as the monastic orders. The Capuchin had been preaching Lenten sermons in Greece, and had been well received. Garcon rejoined that there were good Catholics in Greece, agreeing harmoniously with the man in brown. But at this juncture another face looks in at the door.

"That is the man who plagues me to give him lucky numbers for play,"

says the _frate_. Here I can keep out of the company no longer. "What does he play at--cards or dice?" I ask. "Neither, madam; that man ruins himself with playing at the lottery." Capuchin continues: "If I had the gift of fortunate numbers, I would not withhold them. I should wish to benefit my fellow-creatures in this way, if I were able to do so. But I have it not, this gift of prophecy." And if you had it, thought I, I am not so sure of the ultimate benefit of gambling to your fellow-creatures, even were they to win, instead of losing.

The Capuchin and I, however, talk of other things--of monasteries, and rich libraries, closed to women. "So, father, you consider us the allies of the devil." "No, signora; the inhibition is mutual: we may not enter any nunnery." The _padrone_ of the inn here breaks in with the robust suggestion that these restrictions ought to be removed, and that monks and nuns should have liberty to visit each the establishments of the other. While this talk proceeds, I occasionally glance into the smoky depths of the kitchen opposite, where a mysterious figure, in whose cleanliness I desire to believe, wafts a frying-pan across a dull fire, which he stimulates by fanning with a turkey's wing. After each of his gymnastics, a dish is brought out, and set upon our table--first fish, then omelet, then cutlet; and we discover that the Capuchin and ourselves have a mutual friend at Fuligno, the good, intelligent, accomplished Count ----, in whose praises each of us is eloquent. We part, exchanging names and addresses. Our Pompeian guide urges us to return and make the ascent of Vesuvius under his care. But we depart untrammelled. Every one was satisfied with us except the cripple who rolled himself in the dust, and the weird, white-haired women with spindles, who followed us shrieking for a largess. We gave nothing, and they commented upon us with a gravity of moral reprobation quite fit to make one's hair stand on end, even with New England versus beggar behind one. But the train came, and mercifully took us away; and whether in not giving we did well or ill, is a point upon which theorists will not agree; so we may be pardoned for giving ourselves the benefit of a doubt.

After Pompeii a little good fortune awaited us. As before said, we had encountered an American of the right sort,--kindly, sincere, and of adequate education. Joining forces with him, we no longer s.h.i.+vered before the hackman, nor shrank from the _valet de place_. We at once engaged the latter functionary, ordered the _remise_ of the hotel to wait for us, and started upon two days of eager but weary sight-seeing.

Our first joint act was to scale again the height of San Martino, this time to enter the church and convent, and view their boasted riches. A pleasant court, with a well in the centre of it; a church whose chapels and altars were gorgeous with lapis lazuli, jasper, agate, and all precious marbles; a row of seats in wooden mosaic, executed by a monk of the Cistercian order, vowed to silence; cloisters as s.p.a.cious and luxurious as can well be imagined; a great array of relics in golden boxes, s.h.i.+elded from dust and common sight by rich curtains of heavy silk and gold--this is all of the establishment that remains in our recollection. The present government has dismissed the saintly idlers of the monasteries, saying, perhaps, in the style of Henry VIII., "Go plough, you drones, go plough." But in what field and for what wages they henceforth labor is not known to me.

Hence to the Grotto of Siana, half a mile long, and some eight feet wide. The chill of this long, damp pa.s.sage, in contrast with the high temperature from which we entered it, so alarmed us that we turned back at half the distance, and gave up seeing the den or cave that lay beyond. At Pozzuoli we view Caligula's Bridge, of which but a few large stones remain: the guide points out the place at which Paul and Peter landed. Here are the ruins of a fine amphitheatre. The underground arrangements still show us the pits in which the wild beasts and the gladiators were kept. Square openings at the top ventilated each of these, and a long, open s.p.a.ce in the middle separated the cells of the beasts from those of the gladiators. On public occasions all of these openings were closed by heavy plates of metal, so as to present the solid surface desired for the combats.

"Arise, ye Goths, and glut your ire!"

In this neighborhood we visited what is left of the temple of Jupiter Serapis. The salt water formerly covered its columns to such a height as to corrode them badly. The smell caused by the evaporation of the sea-water in the hot sun was so offensive that the government found it necessary to apply a thorough drain. These time and tide worn marbles were of the choicest kinds--African marble, _rosso antico_, and so on.

Their former beauty little avails them now. We drive further to the cavern with the stratum of carbonic acid gas, and see the dog victimized, which cruel folly costs us two francs. And then we visit the sulphur vapor baths, whose fiery, volcanic breath frightens us.

These are near the Lake of Agnano, an ancient volcanic crater. In its neighborhood are the royal game preserves, in which fratricidal V. E.

hunts and slays the wild boar. Returning, we climb to Virgil's tomb, a small, empty enclosure, with a stone and inscription dating from 1840.

"Cecini pascua, rura, duces,"

says the poet, through his commemorator. Item, this steep journey under a scorching sun did not pay very well. Yet, having ascended the fiery stair, and stood in the small, dark enclosure, and read the tolerable inscription, I felt that I had done what I could to honor the great Mantuan: so, with a good conscience, I returned through cool, ill-smelling Posilippo, to the hotel, dinner, and the afternoon meditation.

BAJA.

The excursion to Baja called us up early in the morning. With a tender hush, a mysterious remembrance of our weaker and still sleeping brethren, we stole through the hotel, swallowed coffee, and issued forth with carriage and _valet de place_ for a day's campaigning. As the functionary just mentioned had invented a hitherto unpatented language, supposed by him to present some points of advantage over the Queen's English, I will here, _en pa.s.sant_, serve up a brief sample, for the study of those inclined to the practical pursuit of linguistics.

"Zat is ze leg Agnano [lake of.] In vinter he is full of vile dog [wild duck]." Of Lake Avernus: "Zis was de helty [h.e.l.l]." Of the ruins of the amphitheatre at Pozzuoli: "Ruin by de barbions [barbarians]. Zey brok him in piece and pushed him down. Zar is Caligole's [Caligula's] Bridge.

Tis de Sibyl's Cave, where she gib de ragle [oracle]. Temple Diana, temple Neptune, ze G.o.d of ze sea and ze G.o.d of ze land." Here was a mythological _apercu_ thrown in. This individual rarely condescended to speak his native language--Italian. In ours, it required no little adjustment of the perceptive faculties to meet his views.

Pa.s.sing through Posilippo, we come first to a piece of ground which bears the form of an amphitheatre, although the whole structure, if it exist at all, is thickly overgrown with trees and shrubs. A rustic proprietor cultivates the vine here, but cannot pa.s.s the nights during July, August, and September, on account of the bad air. The wines, white and red, are nevertheless excellent. The right of excavation here vests in a Frenchman, who has purchased the same.

Our next point of exploration is the Temple of Mercury, at Baja--a circular building, with fine columns partly overthrown. Here exists a perfect whispering gallery, for at a certain spot in the wall the slightest utterance is instantly heard at the point directly opposite.

Here two forlorn women, with a tambourine and without costume, dance a joyless _tarantella_, which costs us a franc. They urge us, also, to buy sea-sh.e.l.ls, and small fragments of mosaic, together with skeletons of the sea-horse, a queer little fish, some two inches long. After this, we are shown some _columbaria_, and a bath with stucco reliefs. Adjacent is the well preserved ruin of a large bathing establishment. Besides the baths, we here find places for reclining, where vapor baths were probably enjoyed.

Now come Nero's prisons, gloomy, under-ground galleries, in which he kept his slaves. Torches here became necessary. These galleries, dest.i.tute of daylight, were quite extensive, frequently crossing each other at right angles. And then we visited the Piscina Mirabilis, an immense reservoir which formerly supplied the Roman fleet at Marina with fresh water. Its tall columns, still entire, are deeply corroded by water. This was a work of surprising extent and finish. Thereafter, mindful of Murder considered as a Fine Art, we gave some heed to the whereabouts of Agrippina's villa, and inquired concerning those matricidal attempts of her son, which were finally crowned with so entire a success. The villa of Hortensius, in this neighborhood, lies chiefly under water, the level of the ground having changed. Perhaps this villa was anciently built on ground reclaimed from the sea, as Horace says,--

"Marisque Baiis obstrepentis urges Summovere litora. Parum locuples continente ripa."

We next visited the Lake of Avernus, and Lake Fusano, the River Styx of Virgil and the Romans. Bordering upon this we found a whole hill-side honeycombed with _columbaria_. Then came the long sulphurous gallery leading to the hot spring in which eggs are boiled for your instruction.

Each of these visitations has its fee, so that the pilgrimage, even if made on foot, would be a costly one. c.u.ma next claimed us. A long, dark gallery leads to the cave of the c.u.maean Sibyl, described by Virgil. But the presence of water here makes it necessary for visitors to sit upon the shoulders of two or three s.h.a.ggy and uncleanly-looking sprites. We stoutly decline this adventure, and are afterwards sorry. From this neighborhood was taken the c.u.maean collection, which figures at the _Museo n.a.z.ionale_, presented by the Prince of Carignano. Somewhere in the course of this crowded and heated day, a dinner was slidden in, which gave our labor a brief interval of rest and refreshment. It consisted mostly of dirt, in various forms, flavored with cheese, garlic, and a variety of savors equally choice. To facilitate its consumption, we drank a sour-sweet fluid, called white Capri. I found none of the Italian wines joyous. Despite their want of body, they give one's nerves a decided shake.

Well, I have narrated all that took place on the day set apart for Baja.

Its results may be prosaically summed up as heat, haste, and headache, with a confused vision of the past and a most fragmentary sense of the present.

CAPRI.

I have a fresh chapter of torment for a new Dante, if such an one could be induced to apply to me. I will not expatiate, nor exhale any Francesca episodes, any "_Lasciate ogni spiranza!_" I will be succinct and business-like, furnis.h.i.+ng the outlines from which some more leisurely artist, better paid and employed, shall do his h.e.l.l-painting.

We leave enchanting Naples,--tear ourselves from our hotel, whose very impositions grow dear to us; the precious window, too, which shows the bay and Capri, and close at hand the boats, the fish-market, and the chairs on which the populace sit at eventide to eat oysters and drink mineral water. A small boat takes us to a very small steamer, on whose deck we pay ten francs each to a stout young man, in appearance much like a southern poor Buckra, who departs in another small boat as soon as he has plundered us. The voyage to Capri is cool and reasonably smooth. A pleasant chance companion, bound to the same port, beguiles the time for us. We exchange our intellectual small wares with a certain good will, which remains the best part of the bargain. When quite near the island, the small steamer pauses, and lowers a boat in which we descend to view the famous Blue Grotto. At the entrance, we are warned to stoop as low as possible. We do so, and still the entrance seems dangerous. With some scratching and pus.h.i.+ng, however, the boat goes through, and the lovers of blue feast their eyes with the tender color.

The water is ultramarine, and the roof sapphire. The place seems a toy of nature--a forced detention of a single ray of the spectrum. Dyes change with the fas.h.i.+on; the blue of our youth does not color our daughter's silks and ribbons. The purples of ten years ago cannot be met with to-day. But this blue is constant, and therefore perfect.

Our enjoyment of it, however, is marred by an old beast in human form who rushes at us, and insists upon being paid two francs for diving. He promises us that he will show us wondrous things--that he will fill the azure cave with silver sparkles. Wearied with his screeching, and a little deluded by his promises, we weakly offer him a franc and a half; whereupon he throws off some superfluous clothing, and softly glides into the deep, without so much as a single sparkle. He certainly presents an odd appearance; his weird legs look as if twisted out of silver; his back is dark upon the water. But the refres.h.i.+ng bath he takes is so little worth thirty sous to us that we feel tempted to harpoon him as he dodges about, sure that, if pierced, he can shed nothing more solid than humbug. On our return to the steamer we pay two francs each for this melancholy expedition, and presently make the little harbor of Capri.

And here the promised h.e.l.l begins. The way to it, remember, is always pleasant. No sooner does our boat touch the land than a nest of human rattlesnakes begins to coil and hiss about us, each trying to carry us off, each pouring into our ears discordant, rapid jargon. "My donkey, siora." "And mine." "And mine." "How much will you give?" "Will you go up to Tiberio?" But all this with more repet.i.tion and less music than a chorus of Handel's or an aria of Sebastian Bach. "My donkey," flourish; "My do-n-onkey," high soprano variation; "My donkey," good grumbling contralto. "How much?" "How much?" "How much?" "How much?" shriek all in chorus. And you, the unhappy star in this h.e.l.l opera, begin with uncertain utterance--"Let me see, good people. One at a time. What is just I will pay"--the _motivo_ also repeated; chorus renewed--"Money;"

"Three francs;" "Four francs;" "Five francs;" "A _bottiglia_;" "A _buona mano_." A _buona mano_? Good hand--would one could administer it in the right way, in the right place! By this time each of you occupies the warm saddle of a donkey, and at one P. M., less twenty, the thermometer at 90 Fahrenheit or more, and being warned to reach the steamer by three P. M., at latest, the punishment of all your past, and most of your future sins begins.

_Facile descensus Averni._ Yes; but the _ascensus_? To climb so high after Tiberio, who went so low! For this is the ruined palace of Tiberius Caesar himself, which you go to seek and see, if possible. He still plagues the world, as he would have wished to do. Your expedition in search of his stony vestiges is a long network of torment, spun by you, the donkey, and the donkey-driver, undisguised Apollo standing by to weld the golden chains by which you suffer. As often as you seem to approach the object, a new _detour_ leads you at a zigzag from the straight direction. But this is little. At every turn in the road a beggar, in some variety, addresses you. Now a deformed wretch shows you his twisted limbs, and shrieks, "_co cosa, siora_." Now, a wholesome-looking mother, with a small child, asks a contribution to the wants of "_questa creatura_" Now, a grandam, with blackened face and bleached hair, hobbles after you. Children oppress you with flowers, women with oranges,--all in view of the largest _quid_ for the smallest _quo_. You grow afraid to look in a pretty face or return a civil nod, lest the eternal signal of beggary should make itself manifest. And such women and children!--every one a picture. Such intense eyes, such sun-ripened complexions! I take note of them, handsome devils that they are, all foreordained as a part of my fiery probation. For all this time I am making a steep ascent. Sometimes the donkey takes me up a flight of stone steps, clutching at each with an uncertain quiver, but stimulated by the nasal "n--a--a--a," which follows him from the woman who by turns coaxes and threatens him. Now we clamber along a narrow ledge, whose height causes my dizzy head to swim; there is nothing but special providence between me and perdition. A little girl, six years of age, pulls my donkey by the head; a dignified matron behind me holds the whip. The little girl leads carelessly, and I quake and grow hot and cold with terror; but it is of no use. The matron will not take the rein; her office is to flog, and she will do nought else. And the sun?--the sun works his miracles upon us until we wish ourselves as well off as the Niobides, who, at least, look cool. Finally, after an hour of jolting, roasting, quivering, and general exasperation, we reach the top. Here we are pa.s.sively lifted from our donkeys; we mechanically follow our guide through a white-washed wine-shop into a small outer s.p.a.ce, with a low wall around it, over which we are invited to look down some hundreds of feet into the sea. This is called the Leap of Tiberio: from this height, says the barefooted old vagabond who guides us, he pitched his victims into the deep. The descent here is as straight as the wall of a house. Farther on, we find some very fragmentary ruins, in the usual Roman style. Among them is a good mosaic pavement, with some vaults and broken columns. A sloping way is shown us, carefully paved, and with a groove on either side. Into this, say they, fitted the wheels of a certain chariot, in which guests were invited to seat themselves.

The chariot, guided by two cords, then started to go down to the sea.

But at a certain moment the vehicle was arrested by a sudden shock.

Those within it were precipitated into the water, after which the cords comfortably drew the chariot back.

I have never heard any of the evidence upon which is based the modern rehabilitation of Tiberius and Nero. I have, however, found in the stately Tacitus, and even in gossipy Suetonius, a shudder of horror accompanying the narration of their deeds. The world has seen cruelty in all ages, and sees it still; but I cannot believe that the average standard of humanity can justly be lowered so far as to make the acts of Tiberius simply rigorous, those of Nero a little arbitrary. Mr. Carlyle, in dealing with the French revolution, reprobates the hysterical style of reviewing painful events; but in the history of Rome under the Caesars we hear too plainly the sobs and shrieks of the victims to be satisfied with the modern philosophizing which would deprive them of our compa.s.sion. Man is naturally cruel; superst.i.tion makes him more so. A genuine religion alone softens his ferocious instincts, and places the centre of action and obligation elsewhere than in his own pleasure or personal advantage. Man is also compa.s.sionate; but without the systematic formation of morals, his weak compa.s.sion will not compensate the ardor of his self-a.s.sertion, which may involve all crimes. Luxury exaggerates cruelty, because it intensifies the action of the selfish interests, and loosens the rein of restraint--its objects and the objects of morals being incompatible. The most cruel characters have been those presenting this admixture of luxury and ferocity. The silken noose gives finer and more atrocious death than the iron sword.

I think that the (unless vilified) wretch Tiberius built this palace in fear, and dwelt in it in torment. In its fastnesses he felt himself safe from the knife of the a.s.sa.s.sin. In the leisure of its isolation he could meditate murders with aesthetic deliberation, and hurl his bolts of death upon the world below, remorseless and unattainable as Jove himself.

Here is an episode of philosophizing in the h.e.l.l I promised you. But h.e.l.l itself would not be complete without the b.u.t.ton-bore--the man or woman who holds you by a theory, and detains you amid life's intensity to attend the slow circlings of an elaborative brain.

I have now finished Tiberio. The donkeys brought us down with more danger, more heat, more fear and clatter. Only beggary diminishes, a little discouraged, in our rear. It seems to have been given out that we have no small change, as is indeed the fact; so the young and old only grumble after us enough to keep their hand in. In compensation for this, however, a new trouble is added, viz., the danger of losing the small steamboat, which threatens to leave at three P. M., a period by this time scarce half an hour distant. Yet a bit of bread we must have at the hotel. It is the former palace of Queen Joanna; but we do not know it at the moment, and nothing leads us to suspect it. Here two good-natured English faces make us for the moment at home. A cup of tea,--the English and American restorative for all fatigues,--a wholesome slice of bread and b.u.t.ter, a moderate charge, and ten minutes of cool seclusion, make the Hotel di Tiberio pleasant in our recollection. And then we remount, and, the little steamer beginning to manoeuvre, our haste and anxiety become extreme; so we take no more heed of steep or narrow, but the donkeys and we make one headlong business of it down to the beach, where we have still to make a secondary embarkation before reaching the steamer. Here, as we had foreseen, the final crush attends us. The guide and each of the donkey girls and women insist upon separate payment. With grim satisfaction I fling a five-franc note for the whole.

It is too much, but the whole island cannot or will not give change for it. And then ensues much shrieking, expostulation, and gesticulation, in the midst of which I plunge into the boat, make my bargain with Charon, and am for the time out of h.e.l.l. As I looked back, methought I saw Stefano the guide and the women having it out pretty well with reference to the undivided fee. Stefano leaped wildly into the sea after me, and extorted five more _soldi_ from my confusion. Finally, I exhort all good Christians to beware of Capri, and on no account to throw away a trip thither, but to undertake the same as a penance, for the mortification of the flesh and the good of the immortal soul. The island is to-day in as heathen a condition as Tiberius himself could wish; only from a golden, it has descended to the perpetual invoking of a copper rain.

That the Beggar's Opera should have been written out of the kingdom of Naples is a matter of reasonable astonishment to the logically inferring mind. I could improvise it myself on the spur of the moment, making a heroine out of the black-eyed woman who drove my animal--black-haired also, and with a scarlet cotton handkerchief bound around her head in careless picturesqueness. Gold ear-rings and necklace had she who screamed and begged so for a penny more than her due. And when I cried aloud in fear, she replied, "_Non abbia timor--donkey molt' avezzo_;"

which diverted my mind, and caused me to laugh. As we went up and as we went down, she encountered all her friends and gossips in holiday attire; for yesterday was _Festa_, and to-day, consequently, is _festa_ also--a saint's day leaving many small arrearages to settle, in the shape of headache, fight, and so on, so that one does not comfortably get to work again until the third day. This fact of the antecedent _festa_ accounted for the unusual amount of good clothes displayed throughout the island. Our eyes certainly profited by it, and possibly our purses; for we just remember that one or two groups in velvet jackets and gold necklaces did not beg.

But all of this is a superfluous after-digression, as I am really, in my narrative, already on board of the little steamer, with the charitable waves between me and the brigand Caprians. A pleasant sail--not so smooth but that it made the Italian pa.s.sengers ill--brought us to Sorrento. Here our trunk was hoisted on the head of a stout fellow, all the small fry of the harbor squabbling for our minor luggage. We climbed a long, steep flight of stone steps, walked through a shady orange garden, and came out upon a cool terrace fronting the sea, with the Rispoli Hotel behind it. Here we were to stay; our bargain was soon made, with the divine prospect thrown in. Our room was on the ground floor, behind a shallow arcade paved with majolica. Shaking off the dust of travel, and ranging our few effects in the rather narrow quarters, we at once took possession of the prospect, and regulated ourselves accordingly.

SORRENTO.

Ugh! after the roasting, hurried day at Capri, how delicious was the first morning's rest at Sorrento! The coral merchant came and went. We did not allow him to trouble us. They offered us the hotel a.s.ses; we did not engage them. The blue sea, the purple mountains, the green, rustling orange groves,--these were enough for us, pieced with the writing of these ragged notes, and a little dipping into our Horace, who, it must be confessed, goes lamely without a dictionary. A day of lights and shadows, of suns.h.i.+ne and silence, of pains caressed, and fatigues whose healing was sweeter than fresh repose. And we dreamed of novels that we could write beneath this romance-forging sun, and how the commonplace men and women about us should take grandiose shapes of good and ill, and figure as ideals, no longer as atoms. We would forsake our scholastic anatomy, and make studies of real life, with color and action. For this, as we know, we should need at least six months of freedom, which perhaps the remnant of our mortal lives does not offer. Meantime we sit and dream. Each sees the content of the landscape reflected in the other's eyes. We sit just within our room, the little writing-table half within, half without the window, that reaches to the ground. The soft breeze flutters our pages to and fro. We scold it caressingly, as one reproves the overplay of a gracious child. With the exception of an occasional straggling visitor, the whole terrace is ours. Now and then we forsake the writing-table, rush to the railing that borders the terrace, and take a good look up and down, to a.s.sure ourselves that what we see is real, and founded on terra firma. Here our wearied nerves shall bathe in seas of heavenly rest. As to our suffering finances, too,--if one word is not too often profaned for us to profane it, we will quote Horace's

"mox reficit rates qua.s.sas,"

not

"indociles pauperiem pati"