Blessed with a fine climate, a comparatively fertile soil, and a
contented population, it is one of the best places accessible to the
ordinary traveller in which to spend a quiet season. In this refuge life
does not sparkle, but stagnates. Tired nerves recover their tone in the
eventless succession of lazy days. Overtaxed digestion regains its
normal strength through the simple diet, the pure air, and the repose of
mind and body which are found in this paradise. Of late years the island
has become a great resort for artists of all nationalities. Many good
studios are to be had there; plenty of trained models of both sexes and
all ages are eager to work for trifling wages; living is cheap, rents
are by no means exorbitant, and subjects for pictures abound at every
step.
A few modern buildings of some pretensions to size and architectural
style have been erected within the last twenty or thirty years, but the
greater part of the houses on the island, both in the town of Capri and
in the village of Anacapri, are very old and exceedingly simple in
construction. The streets of the town are narrow and crooked, and twist
about in a perfect maze of tufa walls and whitewashed façades,
straggling away in all directions from the piazza. The dwellings of the
poorer classes are jumbled together along these narrow streets as if
space were very valuable. They overhang and even span the roadway at
intervals, and frequently the flat roof of one house serves as a
_loggia_, or broad balcony, for the one above it. Small gardens are
sometimes cultivated on these housetops, and the bleating of goats and
cackling of hens are often heard in the shrubbery there. Not the least
among the many attractions of Capri are its historical relics. Ruined
Roman villas and palaces abound all over the hills; traces of ancient
baths and grottos of the nymphs may be seen along the water’s edge; and
fragments of Roman architecture are built into every wall, and into
almost every house. The peculiar geological formation of the island
furnishes the excuse for a variety of short and pleasant excursions; for
there are numbers of interesting caves, strange rock forms, and grandly
picturesque cliffs and cañons within easy reach by sea or by land.
When I was in Capri, there was one remarkably pretty girl among the
models, called Lisa. She was only fifteen years old, but, like the usual
type of Southern maiden, was as fully developed as if she were three or
four years older. Her father and mother were dead, and she lived with
her great-grandmother in a small house of a single room in a narrow
street which ran directly under my bedroom. None of the houses of the
quarter where my studio and apartment were situated had glass in the
windows, but the interiors were lighted, like those of the ancient
Romans, by square holes provided with wooden shutters. From the rude
window in my bedroom, and also from the _loggia_ in front of the studio,
I could look directly down into the small dwelling below, and at all
times of the day could see the old woman knitting in the shadow just
inside the open door, and Lisa flitting about, busy with the primitive
housekeeping. Whenever I wanted the girl to sit for me, I had only to
call down and she would come up to the studio. It takes but a few days
to become intimately acquainted with the simple-hearted islanders, and
in a short time the old woman grew very friendly and communicative. At
my invitation she frequently came to sit on the _loggia_, whence she
could look over the sea, towards the south, to watch for returning coral
fishermen, or on the other side, to the north and east, where Naples
shimmered in the sun, and Vesuvius reared its sombre cone. She was not
comely to look upon, for she was wrinkled beyond belief, and her
parchment skin was the color of oak-tanned leather. She often said that
Lisa was the image of her own family, but I could trace no resemblance
between the blooming maid and the withered dame. The chief beauty of the
young girl’s face, or at least the most remarkable feature of it, was
the eyes, which were of a deep-blue gray, almost as brilliant as the
rich, dark ones common to the Italian type, but more unique and more
charming in contrast with the olive-tinted skin and black hair. The old
woman’s eyes were as dark as those of the generality of her race, and
apparently but little dimmed by her great age. All over the island she
had the reputation of being the oldest inhabitant; but as she could not
remember the date of her birth--if, indeed, she ever knew it--and as
there had been no records kept at the time she was born, there was no
means of proving the truth or the falsity of the tales about her
wonderful age. She bore everywhere the peculiar name of La Rubina di
Tedesco--Tedesco’s Rubina--the significance of which, although it was
variously explained by common tradition, had really been forgotten more
than a generation before, and was now known only to herself. The
islanders are fond of giving nicknames, and I should not have remarked
this one among so many others if it had not been for the word Tedesco,
which in Italian means German. My curiosity was excited on this account,
to discover what the name really meant and why it had been given to her.
In the long summer twilights I used to talk with the old woman by the
hour, or rather I used to listen to her by the hour, for without a word
of encouragement from me she would drone on in her queer patois in the
garrulous way very old people have, elaborating the details of the most
trivial incidents, and rehearsing the intimate family history of all her
numerous acquaintances. She looked upon me with the more favor because
it happened that I was the only artist who employed Lisa, and
consequently furnished all the money for the support of the small
household. Relying on the position I held in her esteem as patron, and
cannily increasing her obligation to me by various small presents, I
schemed for a long time to make her tell the history of her own life.
She had an aggravating way of either utterly ignoring all questions on
this subject, or else of taking refuge in a series of wails on the
change in the times and on the degeneracy of the islanders. By degrees
and at long intervals I did, however, succeed in getting a full account
of her early life and of the origin of her popular name.
Long ago, even long before any steamers were seen on the Bay of Naples,
two young Germans--a sculptor and an architect--wandered down to Capri,
to study the antiquities of the island. They were both captivated by the
beauties of the spot, by the delights of the pastoral life they led
there, and possibly also by the charms of the island maidens, who even
then had a wide reputation for beauty, and they consequently stayed on
indefinitely. Rubina was then a girl of fourteen, and held the enviable
position of belle of Anacapri. The sculptor, whose name was Carl
Deutsch, somehow made the acquaintance of the beauty, and after a time
persuaded her to sit to him. He first made a bust in wax, and then began
to work it out in marble, using for his material an antique block found
in one of the ruined palaces of Tiberius. Days and weeks he toiled over
this bust, and as he worked he grew hopelessly in love with his model.
As time passed, the islanders, with their usual freedom with foreigners’
names, translated Carl Deutsch into its Italian equivalent, Carlo
Tedesco, and Rubina, who was constantly employed by the sculptor as a
model, was naturally called Tedesco’s Rubina.
Then on the peaceful island was enacted the same old tragedy that has
been played all over the world myriads of times before and since.
Tedesco’s friend, the architect, also fell in love with the model, and
took advantage of the sculptor’s preoccupation with his work to gain the
girl’s affection. Early in the morning, while his friend was engaged in
preparing his clay and arranging his studio for the day, he would toil
up the six hundred stone steps which led to the village of Anacapri, on
the plateau above, meet Rubina, and accompany her down as far as the
outskirts of the town. Then often, at the close of the day, when the
sculptor, oppressed with the hopeless feeling of discouragement and
despair which at times comes over every true artist, would give up his
favorite stroll with Rubina and remain to gaze at his work and ponder
over it, the architect would be sure to take his place. So it went on to
the usual climax. Rubina, flattered by the assiduous attentions of the
one, and somewhat piqued by the frequent fits of absent-mindedness and
preoccupation of the other, at last reluctantly gave her consent to
marry the architect, who planned an elopement without exciting a
suspicion on the part of the sculptor that his idol was stolen from him.
The faithless friend, pretending to the innocent girl that, being of
different religions, it was necessary for them to go to the mainland to
be married, sailed away with her one morning at daybreak without the
knowledge of any one save the two men who were hired to row them to
Naples. Where they went, and how long they lived together, I could not
find out, for she would not open her lips about that portion of her
history. Only after a great deal of persuasive interrogation did I learn
that when she came back she brought with her a girl baby a few months
old. It was always believed in the village that her husband had died. I
drew my own inference about the circumstances of her return.
When she reached the island, Tedesco had long since disappeared, and,
although there were no absolute proofs, he was thought to be dead. For
months after he had learned of the faithlessness of both sweetheart and
friend he had been seen very little outside his studio. What he did
there was not known, for he invited nobody to enter. Even the neighbor’s
wife who had done the housekeeping for the two young men did not see the
interior of the studio after Rubina ran away. She gossiped of the
sculptor to the women down the street, and they all shook their heads,
touched their foreheads significantly with index-fingers, and sadly
repeated, “_Un po’ matto, un po’ matto_”--“A little mad.” Several weeks
passed after the flight of the young couple, and then the sculptor was
observed nearly every morning to walk over one of the hills in the
direction of a high cliff. Sometimes he was absent but a few hours, but
on other days he did not return until night. At length, towards the end
of winter, he gave up his studio and apartment without a word of his
plans to any one. When he had departed, carrying the few articles of
clothing which were kept in the outer room, the housekeeper entered the
studio and found, to her astonishment, that, with the sculptor, all
traces of his work had disappeared.
After a while it was discovered that he had taken up his abode in a
certain cave near the water’s edge, at the foot of the cliff, along the
top of which he had been frequently seen walking. This cave had always
been considered approachable only from the water side; but some men who
were fishing for cuttlefish near the shore had seen the mad sculptor
clamber down the precipice and enter the mouth of the cave, which was
half closed by accumulated rubble and sand. The fishermen, of course,
exaggerated their story, and the simple islanders, who always regard a
demented person with awe, came to believe that the sculptor possessed
superhuman strength and agility; and, although their curiosity
concerning his mode of life and occupation was much excited, their
superstitious fears prevented them from interfering with him or
attempting to investigate his actions. At long intervals the hermit
would appear in the piazza, receive his letters, buy a few articles of
food, and disappear again, not to be seen for weeks.
Summer passed and a second winter came on, and with it a succession of
unusually severe storms. During one of these long gales the sea rose
several feet, and the breakers beat against the rocks with terrific
force. On the weather side of the island all the boats which had not
been hauled up much higher than usual were dashed to pieces. No one
dared to leave the island, and there was no communication with the
mainland for nearly two weeks. After that storm the sculptor was never
seen again. Some fishermen ventured into the mouth of the cave, now
washed clear of rubbish, but discovered nothing. It was therefore
believed that the hermit, with all his belongings, was swept out to sea
by the waves. Of late years no one had visited the cave, because the
military guard stationed near by to prevent the people from gathering
salt on the rocks, and thus evading the payment of the national tax on
this article, had prohibited boats from landing there. This prohibition
was strengthened by the orders which forbade the exploration of any of
the Roman ruins or grottos on the island by persons not employed for
that purpose by the government. Several years before, the authorities
had examined all the ruins. They had carried to Naples all the
antiquities they could find, and then had put a penalty on the
explorations of the islanders, to whom the antiquities are popularly
supposed to belong by right of inheritance. This regulation had created
a great deal of bad feeling, particularly since several peasants had
been fined and imprisoned for simply digging up a few relics to sell to
travellers.
I asked the old woman what became of her child, for she did not readily
volunteer any information concerning her.
“_Ah, signor padrone_,” she said, “she was a perfect little German, with
hair as blond as the fleece of the yellow goats. She was a good child,
but was never very strong. She married a coral fisherman when she was
seventeen, and died giving birth to Lisa’s mother. Poor thing! May the
blessed Maria, mother of God, rest her soul! Lisa’s mother was blond
also, but with hair like the flame of sunset. She was a fine, strong
creature, and could carry a sack of salt up the steps to Anacapri as
well as any girl in the village--yes, even better than any other. She
married a custom-house officer and moved to Naples, where she had meat
on her table once every blessed week. But even in her prosperity the
misfortunes of the family followed her, and the cholera carried off her
husband, herself, and a boy baby--may their souls rest in
Paradise!--leaving Lisa alone in the world but for me, who have lived to
see all this misery and all these changes. Father, Son, and Holy Ghost!
Lisa resembles her mother only in her eyes. All the rest of her is
Caprian. Ah me! ah me! She’s the image of what I was, except her eyes.
By the grace of God I am able to see it! May the Virgin spare her to
suffer--” and so on to the end of the chapter of mingled family history
and invocations.
Lisa resemble her? I thought. Impossible. What! that wrinkled skin ever
know the bloom of youth like that on Lisa’s cheek; that sharp chin ever
have a rounded contour; that angular face ever show as perfect an oval
as the one fringed by the wavy hair straggling out from Lisa’s kerchief?
Did that mask, seared with the marks of years of suffering, privation,
and toil, ever bear the sweet, bewitching expression which in Lisa’s
face haunts me with a vague, half-remembered fascination? Never! It
cannot be!
This history of a love-tragedy, enacted when Goethe was still walking
among the artificial antiquities in the groves of Weimar had a curious
charm for me. I patiently listened to hours of irrelevant gossip and
uninteresting description of family matters before I succeeded in
getting together even as meagre a thread of the story as the one I have
just repeated. The old woman had a feeble memory for recent events and
dates, but she seemed to be able to recollect as well as ever incidents
which took place at the beginning of the century. She retailed the
scandals of fifty years ago with as much delight as if the interested
parties had not all of them long since been followed to the hillside
graveyard or been buried in the waste of waters in that mysterious
region known as the coral fisheries.
Partly in order to test the accuracy of her memory, and partly to
satisfy my curiosity, I persuaded her to show me the place where the
sculptor used to walk along the edge of the cliff. I had previously
taken a look at the cave from the water, and knew its position in
relation to the cliff, but had never been able to discover how the
German had succeeded in clambering up and down. Accordingly, one Sunday
afternoon, when most of the islanders were in church, she hobbled along
with me a short distance up the hillside and pointed out the spot where
the children had seen the mad sculptor vanish in the air. This place was
marked by a projecting piece of rock, which cropped out of the turf on
the very edge of the cliff, not at its highest point, but at some
distance down the shoulder of the hill, where it had been broken sheer
off in the great convulsion of nature which raised the isolated, lofty
island above the sea. I could not induce her to go within a dozen rods
or more of the edge of the cliff, and, having shown me the spot I wished
to find, she hobbled homeward again.
There was no path across the hill in any direction, and the scant grass
was rarely trodden except by the goats and their keepers. On that Sunday
forenoon there was no one in sight except, a long distance off, a
shepherd watching a few goats. Thinking it a favorable opportunity to
investigate the truth of the story about the sculptor, I walked up to
the very brink of the precipice and lay down flat on the top of the
piece of rock pointed out by the old woman, and cautiously looked over
the abyss. The cliff below me was by no means sheer, for it was broken
by a number of irregular shelf-like projections, a few inches wide, upon
which loose bits of falling stone had caught from time to time.
Cautiously looking over the cliff, I saw at once that it would be
possible for me to let myself down to the first irregular projection, or
bench, provided I could get some firm hold for my hands. The turf
afforded no such hold, and at the very edge, where it was crumbled by
the weather, it was so broken as to be dangerous to stand on. I looked
along the smooth, perpendicular ledge, but found no ring to fasten a
rope to and no marks of any such contrivance. A careful search in the
immediate neighborhood disclosed no signs of a wooden post or stake, or,
indeed, anything which would serve as an anchor for a hand rope. I lay
down and hung over the cliff, to see if I could discover any traces of a
ladder, marks of spikes, tell-tale streaks of iron-rust, or anything to
show how the descent had been made. Nothing of the kind was visible.
Far below, the great expanse of turquoise sea, stained with the shadows
of summer clouds, seemed to rise with a convex surface to meet the sky
at the distant horizon line. Away off to the south, towards Stromboli
and Sicily, a few sails, minute white dots relieved against the delicate
blue water, hung motionless, as if suspended in an opalescent ether. To
the left the green shores of the mainland stretched away to hazy Pæstum.
To the right the headland of Anacapri rose majestically against the
tender summer sky, and a bank of cumulus clouds was reflected in the
smooth sea. Beneath screamed a flock of sea-gulls, sailing hither and
thither in graceful flight.
While dreaming over the beauty of the scene before me, I suddenly caught
sight out of the very corner of my eye, as it were, of a crevice in the
ledge beside me, almost hidden by the grass which grew tall against the
rock. Hastily tearing the grass away with my right hand, I found that
this cleft, which was only a couple of inches wide at the most,
continued downward along the face of the cliff in a slanting direction,
rapidly diminishing in width until it lost itself or became a simple
crack in the rock. With my knife and fingers I dug the cleft out clean,
as far in as I could reach, expecting to find an iron rod or a spike or
something to which a rope could be fastened. But I was again
disappointed, for there were no signs of iron and no visible marks of
man’s handiwork. Whether this was an artificial excavation in the rock,
or merely an accidental irregularity, I could not determine, but it made
a perfect hold for the hand, like an inverted draw-pull. The moment I
discovered this I saw how the descent could easily be accomplished, and
without stopping to reflect I clutched my right hand firmly in the cleft
and swung off the cliff. My feet struck a pile of loose stones, but I
soon kicked them off, made a solid foothold for myself, and then
cautiously turned around. The wall of rock pitched backward sufficiently
for me to lean up against it, with my face to the sea, and stand there
perfectly secure. When I turned again and stood facing the rock, my head
was above the edge of the cliff so that I could overlook quite an area
of the hilltop. Before attempting to descend the cliff I thought it
prudent to test my ability to reach the turf again. Seizing the cleft
with the fingers of my right hand, and clutching the irregularities of
the edge of the rock with my left, I easily swung myself upon my chest,
and then upon my knees, and stood on the turf. Elated now by my success,
I let myself over the edge again, and began the difficult task of
picking my way down the face of the cliff. By diligently kicking and
pushing the rubble from the bench I was on, I slowly made my way along,
steadying myself as well as I could by putting my fingers in the
crevices of the rock. In two places I found three or four holes, which
had the appearance of having been artificially made, and by the aid of
these I let myself down to the second and third projecting benches. From
this point the descent was made without much difficulty, although I
carefully refrained from casting my eyes seaward during the whole climb.
Fortunately I was on the face of the cliff, which was at a receding
angle, and consequently was not swept by the telescope of the guard on
the beach to the right, and I finished the descent and reached a point
to the left of the mouth of the cave, and on a level with it, without
any interruption. I was too much fatigued to care to risk discovery by
the guard in entering the cave, which was in full sight of his station;
so, after resting awhile on the rocks, I clambered up the path I had
come, and found that the ascent, though toilsome, was not particularly
difficult.
I told no one of my adventure, not even the old woman; but early the
next Sunday morning I went down the cliff again, unobserved as before,
and, watching my chance when the guard was sweeping the shore to the
right with his glass, I stole into the cave. It was an irregular hole,
perhaps thirty feet deep at its greatest length, and not over ten feet
high in any part. Three shallow, alcove-like chambers led off the main
room. These were all three nearly full of gravel, sand, and
disintegrated rock, and the floor of the whole cavern was covered with
this same accumulation. There were plentiful marks of the labors of the
Italian antiquarians, for the ground had all been dug up, and the last
shallow pits which had been excavated to the bed-rock had not been
refilled.
With no settled purpose I took up a piece of an old spade I found there,
and began to dig on one side of the cave near the largest alcove. The
accumulation was not packed hard, and I easily threw it aside. I had
removed a few feet of earth without finding anything to reward my
labors, and then began to dig in the heap of rubbish which was piled in
the alcove, nearly touching its low ceiling. Almost the first shovelful
of earth I threw out had a number of small gray tesseræ in it. Gathering
these up and taking them to the light, I found that part of them were of
marble, or other light-colored stone; but that a few were of glass with
a corroded surface, which could be clipped off with great ease,
disclosing beautiful iridescent cubes underneath. The whole day was
passed in this work, for I was much interested in my discovery. The
tesseræ were of no great value, to be sure, but they proved that the
cave had been used by the Romans, probably as a grotto of the nymphs,
and they were certainly worth keeping in a private collection. Possibly
not a little of the charm of the operation of excavating was due to the
element of danger in it. The guard was stationed less than a rifle-shot
away, and if I had been discovered, fine and possibly imprisonment would
have been my lot.