THE BEAUTIFUL BAY OF NAPLES
"See Naples and die" is all very well for a sentiment, but when we first
saw it, many years ago, it was under a grim, grey sky, and its shore
front was washed by a milky-green fury of a sea.
Fortunately it is not always thus; indeed it is seldom so. On that
occasion Vesuvius was invisible, and Posilippo in dim relief. What a
contrast to things as they usually are! Still, Naples and its Bay are no
phenomenal wonders. Suppress the point of view, the focus of Virgil, of
Horace, of Tiberius and of Nero, and the view of "Alger la Blanche," or
of Marseilles and its headlands, is quite as beautiful. And the Bay of
Naples is not so beautifully blue either; the Bai de la Ciotat in
Maritime Province is often the same colour, and has a nearby range of
jutting, jagged, foam-lashed promontories that are all that Capri
is--all but the grotto.
[Illustration: THE BAY OF NAPLES]
The Bay of Naples has its moods, and there are times when its blueness
is more apparent than at others; in short there are times when it looks
more beautiful than at others, and then one is apt to think its charms
superlative.
The praises of the ravishing beauty of the Bay of Naples have been sung
by the poets and told in prose ever since the art of writing travel
impressions has been known, but though the half may not have been told
it were futile to reiterate what one may see for himself if he will only
come and look. "A piece of heaven fallen to earth," Sannazar has said,
and certainly no one can hope to describe it with more glowing praise.
For the artist the whole Neapolitan coastline, and background as well,
is a riot of rainbow colouring such as can hardly be found elsewhere
except in the Orient. It is not only that the Bay of Naples is blue, but
the greys and drabs of the ash and cinders of Vesuvius seem to
accentuate all the brilliant reds and yellows and greens of the foliage
and housetops, not forgetting the shipping of the little ports and the
costuming of land-lubbers and sailor-men, and of course the women. The
Italian women, young or old, are possessed of about the loveliest
colouring of any of the fair women of the twentieth century portrait
gallery.
The environs of Naples have two plagues which, when they rise in their
wrath, can scarcely be avoided. One is the sirocco, that dry, stiff wind
which blows along the Mediterranean coast in summer, coming from the
African shore and the desert beyond, and the much worse, or at least
more dreaded, _aria cattiva_, which is supposed to blow the sulphurous
gases and cinders of Vesuvius down the population's throats, and does to
a certain extent.
Out beyond Posilippo, which itself is properly enough bound up with the
life of Naples, lies Pouzzoles. The excursion is usually made in half a
day by carriage, and automobilists have been known to do it in half an
hour. The former method is preferable, though the automobilist is free
from the rapacious Neapolitan cab driver and that's a good deal in
favour of the new locomotion. If only automobilists as a class wouldn't
be in such a hurry!
Pouzzoles has no splendid palaces but it has the remains of a former
temple of Augustus in the shape of twelve magnificent Corinthian
columns, built into the Cathedral of Saint Procule, and some remains of
another shrine dedicated to Serapis. There are also the ruins of
Cicero's villa at Baies, a little further on. Mont Gauro, where the
"rough Falernian" wine, whose praises were sung by Walter de Mapes,
comes from, shelters the little village on one side and Mont Nuovo on
the other, this last a mountain or hillock of perhaps a hundred and
fifty metres in height, which grew up in a night as a result of a
sixteenth century earthquake.
The Lake of Averno is nearby, a tiny body of water whose name and fame
are celebrated afar, but which as a lake, properly considered, hardly
ranks in size with the average mill-pond. With a depth of some thirty
odd metres and a circumference of three kilometres its charms were
sufficient to attract Hannibal thither to sacrifice to Pluto, and Virgil
there laid the "Descent into Purgatory." Agrippa, with an indomitable
energy and the help of twenty thousand slaves, made it into a port great
enough to shelter the Roman fleet. At Baies there is a magnificent
feudal work in the form of a fortress-château of Pedro of Toledo (1538).
At the tiny port of Torregaveta, just beyond, one takes ship for Procida
and Ischia, two islands often neglected in making the round of Naples
Bay.
Procida, off shore three or four kilometres, and with a length of about
the same, has a population of fifteen thousand, most of whom rent boats
to visitors. Competition here being fierce, prices are reasonable--anything
you like to pay, provided you can clinch the bargain beforehand.
Ischia is twice the size of Procida, twice the distance from the
mainland and has twice the population of the latter. One might say, too,
that it is twice as interesting. It is a vast pyramid of rock dominated
by a château-fort dating from 1450. It looks almost unreal in its
impressiveness, and since it is of volcanic growth the island may some
day disappear as suddenly as it came. Such is the fear of most of the
population.
A quick round south from Naples can be made by following the itinerary
below. It can be done in a day or a week, but in the former case one
must be content with a cinematographic reminiscence.
Naples--Portici 4.8 Kilometres
Resina--Herculaneum 6.3 "
Torre del Greco 9.4 "
Torre Anunziata 16.6 "
Castellamare 24.5 "
Sorrento 42.9 "
Meta--Positano 59.8 "
Amalfi 70.1 "
Salerno 94.7 "
Naples 144.6 "
[Illustration: _Ischia_]
[Illustration: LAVA BEDS OF VESUVIUS]
Some one has said that Vesuvius was a vicious boil on the neck of
Naples. There is not much sentiment in the expression and little
delicacy, but there is much truth in it. Still, if it were not for
Vesuvius much of the charm and character of the Bay of Naples and its
_cadre_ would be gone for ever.
All around the base of the great cone are a flock of little half-baked,
lava-burned villages, as sad as an Esquimaux settlement in the great
lone land. This is the way they strike one as places to live in, though
the artist folk find them picturesque enough, it is true, and a poet of
the Dante type would probably get as much inspiration here as did
Alighieri from the Inferno.
It has been remarked before now that Italy is a birdless land. The
Renaissance poets sang differently, but judging from the country
immediately neighbouring upon Vesuvius, and Calabria to the southward,
one is inclined to join forces with the first mentioned authority. Not
even a carrion crow could make a living in some parts of southern Italy.
So desolate and lone is this sparsely populated region towards the south
that it is about the only part of Italy where one may hope to encounter
the brigand of romance and fiction.
The thing is not unheard of to-day, but what brigands are left are
presumably kidnappers for political purposes who wreak their vengeance
on some official. The stranger tourist goes free. He is only robbed by
the hotel keepers and their employees who think more of _buona mano_
than anything else. A recent account (1907), in an Italian journal,
tells of the adventures of the master of ceremonies at Victor Emmanuel's
court who was captured by bandits and imprisoned in a cave in that
_terra incognita_ back of Vesuvius away from the coast.
Newspaper accounts are often at variance with the facts, but these made
thrilling reading. One account said that the kidnappers tore out the
Marquis's teeth, one by one, in order to force him to write a letter
asking for ransom. As he still refused, lights were held to the soles of
his naked feet.
The Marquis was lured from Naples to the neighbourhood of a grotto in
the direction of Vesuvius, where he was seized by the brigand's
confederates.
"I was seized unexpectedly from behind," said the Marquis in his
version, "and after a sharp struggle with my unseen assailants was
carried down into the grotto with Herculanean force and tightly bound.
"Then, liberating my right arm, the brigands fetched a lamp and writing
materials, covering their faces with masks. Threatening me with instant
death, the chief forced me to write a letter to my friends demanding
that money be sent me forthwith. At the same time he took from me all my
valuables and then disappeared, leaving me a prisoner with a guard
before the entrance of my cave."
The adventure ended harmlessly enough, and whether it was all a dream or
not of course nobody but the Marquis knows. At any rate it has quite a
mediæval ring to it.
[Illustration: THE EXCAVATIONS OF POMPEII]
Pompeii is remarkable, but it is disappointing. All that is of real
interest has been removed to the Naples museum. Without its Forum and
its magnificent temples and Vesuvius as a _toile de fond_ Pompeii would
be a dreary place indeed to any but an archæologist. It is a waste of
time to view any restored historic monument where modern house painters
have refurbished the old half-obliterated frescoes. The famous Cave
Canem, too, the only mosaic that remains intact, has been twice removed
from its original emplacement. Yes, Pompeii is a disappointment! It is
too much of a show-place!
The most notable observation to be made with regard to the admirable
architectural details of Pompeii is that they are all on a diminutive
scale. The colonnade of the Forum, for instance, could never be carried
out on the magnificent scale of the Roman Forum, and indeed, when modern
architects have attempted to reproduce the façade of a tiny pagan
temple, as in the Église de la Madeleine, or the Palais Bourbon at
Paris, they have failed miserably.
The rival claims of the Hotel Suisse and the Hotel Diomede at Pompeii
(to say nothing of that of the Albergo del Sol opposite the entrance to
the Amphitheatre) make it difficult for the stranger to decide upon
which to bestow his patronage.
The artists go to the Albergo del Sol, which is rough and uncomfortable
enough from many points of view, and the tourists of convention go to
one of the other two, where they are "exploited" a bit but get more
attention. At any one of these hotels one can hire a horse to climb up
the cone of Vesuvius, if one thinks he would like such rude sport, and
prices are anything he will pay, about five or six francs, though it
costs another two francs for a guide and another two francs for the
ragamuffin who follows after and holds the horses while you explore the
crater. If the latter was blacking boots in New York, even for a
padrone, at five cents a shine, he would make more money and be counted
out of the robber class. As it is he is a rank impostor and
needless--provided you have the courage to refuse his services.
The contrast between Herculaneum and Pompeii is notable. Herculaneum was
buried under thirty metres of liquid lava, but Pompeii was buried only
roof-high under cinders. Herculaneum will some day be uncovered to the
extent of Pompeii, and then it is probable the world will have new
marvels at which to wonder.
The rewards from the excavation of Herculaneum may well be commensurate
with the toil. It was an infinitely more important place than Pompeii,
which was only a little country town without libraries or particularly
wealthy inhabitants. Herculaneum, on the other hand, was the summer
resort of wealthy Romans, who spent their lives in adorning their
beautiful villas with the choicest work of Greek art. Pliny said that
they had a mania for collecting Greek silver and other works of art, and
at prices that would even make the wealthiest art connoisseurs of
to-day pause for thought. Agrippina, among others, had her villa here.
Herculaneum remains intact and undespoiled, as it was more than eighteen
centuries ago.
[Illustration: _The Environs of Pompeii_
STABIAE · SARNVS-FLV · SVRRENTVM · CAPREÆ · PORTVS
POMPEIANA]
From Pompeii to Sorrento via Castellamare is twenty-five kilometres.
Sorrento is, in summer, a bathing place for such of the Neapolitan
high-life population as are not able to get far away from home. One
properly enough attaches no importance whatever to the gay life of the
boulevards, the cafés and the restaurants of Naples. It is the same
thing as at Rome, Paris and London over again with all its silly
flaneries, but here at Sorrento, or across the peninsula at Amalfi, life
is less feverish and one may stroll about or indeed live free and
tranquil from care in hotels, less luxurious no doubt than those of the
Quai Parthenope, but offering a sufficient degree of comfort to make
them agreeable to the most exacting.
The real winter birds of passage only alight here for a period of three
or four weeks in January or February. After that it is delightful,
except for the short period when it is given up to the crowd of tourists
which invariably comes at Easter.
Sorrento is the great centre for all the charming region bordering upon
the southern shore of the Bay of Naples. It is at once the city and the
country. Its hotels are delightfully disposed amid flowering gardens or
on a terrace overlooking the escarpments of the rock-bound coast. Six or
seven francs a day, or eight or ten, according to the class of
establishment one patronizes, and one finds the best of simple fare and
comfort. Eight days or a fortnight one may roam about the neighbourhood
at Sorrento, from Sant Agatha on a nearby height to Sejano Castellamare,
Positano, Amalfi and finally Capri. There is hardly such a range of
charming little towns and townlets to be found elsewhere in all the
world.
Except for its restricted little business quarter the houses and villas
of Sorrento are disposed on the best of "garden city" plans. Again a
plague on a beauty spot must be admitted: mosquitoes will all but devour
you here between mid-August and the end of October. The only safe-guard
is to paint yourself with iodine, but the cure is as bad as the
complaint.
The traveller in Italy learns of course to beware of coral, of white,
pink and milky coloured coral. We had been afraid to even look at such
ever since we had seen it being made by the ton in Belgium--and good
looking "coral" it was.
Once the artist bought a string of the real thing at Tabarka in Tunisia,
and once a friend who was with us on the Riviera di Ponente bought a
necklet of what was called coral, at an outrageous price, of a wily
boatman. It all went up in smoke (accompanied by a vile smell)
ultimately, though fortunately it was not on the owner's neck at the
time. It was an injudicious mixture of gun-cotton, nitroglycerine or
what not. It wasn't coral; that was evident.
Now, when we walk out at Sorrento, no Graziella, her shoulders
scintillating with ropes of coral, beguiles us into buying any of her
family heirlooms. To sum up: the coral which is sold to tourists is
often false; that which is fished up before your eyes from the sea is
always so. Beware of the coral of Sorrento or Capri.
The trip to Capri is of course included in every one's itinerary in
these parts, and for that reason it is not omitted here, though indeed
the famous grotto over which the sentimentally inclined so love to rave
has little more charm than the same thing represented on the stage. This
at any rate is one man's opinion. It is most conveniently reached by
boat from Sorrento.
The famous retreat of Augustus and the scene of the debauches of
Tiberius will ever have an attraction for the globe-trotter, even though
its romance is mostly fictitious. One may gather any opinions he
chooses, and, provided he gathers them on the spot and makes them up out
of his own imaginings, he will be content with Capri's grotto; only he
mustn't take the guide-books too seriously.
The Blue Grotto's goddess is Amphitrite, and if any one catches a
glimpse of her traditional scanty draperies swishing around a corner,
let him not be misguided into following her into her retreat. If he does
the sea is guaranteed to rise and close the orifice so that he may not
get out again as soon as he might wish.
In that case one must wait till the wind, which has veered suddenly from
east to west, comes about again and blows from the south. Without
bringing Amphitrite into the matter at all it sometimes happens that
visitors entering the grotto for a pleasant half hour may be obliged to
stay there two, three or even five days. The boatmen-guides, providing
for such emergencies, carry with them a certain quantity of _biscotti_
with which to sustain their victims. As for fresh water it trickles
through into the grotto in several places in a sufficient quantity to
allay any apprehensions as to dying of thirst. One might well blame the
Capri guides for not calling the visitor's attention to these things.
But if one is reproached he simply answers: "_Ma che_! _eccelenza_, if
we should call attention to this thing, half the would-be visitors would
balk at the first step, and that would be bad for our business."
Alexandre Dumas tells of how on a visit to Capri in 1835 the fisherman
was pointed out to him who had ten years earlier re-discovered the Blue
Grotto of Augustus' time, whilst searching for mussels among the rocks.
He went at once to the authorities on the island and told them of his
discovery and asked for the privilege of exploiting visitors. This
discoverer of a new underground world was able by means of graft, or
other means, to put the thing through and lived in ease ever after,
through his ability to levy a toll on other guides to whom he farmed out
his privilege.
Quite the best of Capri is above ground, the isle itself, set like a gem
in the waters of the Mediterranean. The very natural symphonic colouring
of the rocks and hillsides and rooftops of its houses, and indeed the
costuming of its very people, make it very beautiful.
For Amalfi, Salerno and Pæstum the automobilist must retrace his way
from Sorrento to Castellamare, when, in thirty kilometres, he may gain
Amalfi, and, in another twenty-five, Salerno. Pæstum and its temples, to
many the chief things of interest in Italy, the land of noble monuments,
lie forty kilometres away from Salerno. The automobilist, to add this to
his excursion out from Naples, is debarred from making the round in a
day, even if he would. It is worth doing however; that goes without
saying, though the attempt is not made here of purveying guide-book or
historical information. If you don't know anything about Pæstum, or care
anything about it, then leave it out and get back to Naples as quickly
as you can, and so on out of the country at the same rate of speed.