II

If it’s very well meanwhile to come to Turin first it’s better still to

go to Genoa afterwards. Genoa is the tightest topographic tangle in the

world, which even a second visit helps you little to straighten out. In

the wonderful crooked, twisting, climbing, soaring, burrowing Genoese

alleys the traveller is really up to his neck in the old Italian

sketchability. The pride of the place, I believe, is a port of great

capacity, and the bequest of the late Duke of Galliera, who left four

millions of dollars for the purpose of improving and enlarging it, will

doubtless do much toward converting it into one of the great commercial

stations of Europe. But as, after leaving my hotel the afternoon I

arrived, I wandered for a long time at hazard through the tortuous

by-ways of the city, I said to myself, not without an accent of private

triumph, that here at last was something it would be almost impossible

to modernise. I had found my hotel, in the first place, extremely

entertaining--the Croce di Malta, as it is called, established in a

gigantic palace on the edge of the swarming and not over-clean harbour.

It was the biggest house I had ever entered--the basement alone would

have contained a dozen American caravansaries. I met an American

gentleman in the vestibule who (as he had indeed a perfect right to be)

was annoyed by its troublesome dimensions--one was a quarter of an hour

ascending out of the basement--and desired to know if it were a “fair

sample” of the Genoese inns. It appeared an excellent specimen of

Genoese architecture generally; so far as I observed there were few

houses perceptibly smaller than this Titanic tavern. I lunched in a

dusky ballroom whose ceiling was vaulted, frescoed and gilded with the

fatal facility of a couple of centuries ago, and which looked out upon

another ancient housefront, equally huge and equally battered, separated

from it only by a little wedge of dusky space--one of the principal

streets, I believe, of Genoa--whence out of dim abysses the population

sent up to the windows (I had to crane out very far to see it) a

perpetual clattering, shuffling, chaffering sound. Issuing forth

presently into this crevice of a street I found myself up to my neck

in that element of the rich and strange--as to visible and reproducible

“effect,” I mean--for the love of which one revisits Italy. It offered

itself indeed in a variety of colours, some of which were not remarkable

for their freshness or purity. But their combined charm was not to be

resisted, and the picture glowed with the rankly human side of southern

lowlife.

Genoa, as I have hinted, is the crookedest and most incoherent of

cities; tossed about on the sides and crests of a dozen hills, it is

seamed with gullies and ravines that bristle with those innumerable

palaces for which we have heard from our earliest years that the place

is celebrated. These great structures, with their mottled and faded

complexions, lift their big ornamental cornices to a tremendous height

in the air, where, in a certain indescribably forlorn and desolate

fashion, overtopping each other, they seem to reflect the twinkle and

glitter of the warm Mediterranean. Down about the basements, in the

close crepuscular alleys, the people are for ever moving to and fro or

standing in their cavernous doorways and their dusky, crowded shops,

calling, chattering, laughing, lamenting, living their lives in the

conversational Italian fashion. I had for a long time had no such

vision of possible social pressure. I hadn’t for a long time seen people

elbowing each other so closely or swarming so thickly out of populous

hives. A traveller is often moved to ask himself whether it has been

worth while to leave his home--whatever his home may have been--only to

encounter new forms of human suffering, only to be reminded that toil

and privation, hunger and sorrow and sordid effort, are the portion of

the mass of mankind. To travel is, as it were, to go to the play, to

attend a spectacle; and there is something heartless in stepping forth

into foreign streets to feast on “character” when character consists

simply of the slightly different costume in which labour and want

present themselves. These reflections were forced upon me as I strolled

as through a twilight patched with colour and charged with stale smells;

but after a time they ceased to bear me company. The reason of this, I

think, is because--at least to foreign eyes--the sum of Italian misery

is, on the whole, less than the sum of the Italian knowledge of life.

That people should thank you, with a smile of striking sweetness, for

the gift of twopence, is a proof, certainly, of extreme and constant

destitution; but (keeping in mind the sweetness) it also attests an

enviable ability not to be depressed by circumstances. I know that this

may possibly be great nonsense; that half the time we are acclaiming

the fine quality of the Italian smile the creature so constituted for

physiognomic radiance may be in a sullen frenzy of impatience and pain.

Our observation in any foreign land is extremely superficial, and our

remarks are happily not addressed to the inhabitants themselves, who

would be sure to exclaim upon the impudence of the fancy-picture.

The other day I visited a very picturesque old city upon a mountain-top,

where, in the course of my wanderings, I arrived at an old disused gate

in the ancient town-wall. The gate hadn’t been absolutely forfeited;

but the recent completion of a modern road down the mountain led most

vehicles away to another egress. The grass-grown pavement, which wound

into the plain by a hundred graceful twists and plunges, was now given

up to ragged contadini and their donkeys, and to such wayfarers as were

not alarmed at the disrepair into which it had fallen. I stood in the

shadow of the tall old gateway admiring the scene, looking to right and

left at the wonderful walls of the little town, perched on the edge of

a shaggy precipice; at the circling mountains over against them; at the

road dipping downward among the chestnuts and olives. There was no one

within sight but a young man who slowly trudged upward with his coat

slung over his shoulder and his hat upon his ear in the manner of a

cavalier in an opera. Like an operatic performer too he sang as he came;

the spectacle, generally, was operatic, and as his vocal flourishes

reached my ear I said to myself that in Italy accident was always

romantic and that such a figure had been exactly what was wanted to set

off the landscape. It suggested in a high degree that knowledge of life

for which I just now commended the Italians. I was turning back under

the old gateway when the young man overtook me and, suspending his song,

asked me if I could favour him with a match to light the hoarded remnant

of a cigar. This request led, as I took my way again to the inn, to my

falling into talk with him. He was a native of the ancient city, and

answered freely all my inquiries as to its manners and customs and

its note of public opinion. But the point of my anecdote is that he

presently acknowledged himself a brooding young radical and communist,

filled with hatred of the present Italian government, raging with

discontent and crude political passion, professing a ridiculous hope

that Italy would soon have, as France had had, her “‘89,” and declaring

that he for his part would willingly lend a hand to chop off the

heads of the king and the royal family. He was an unhappy, underfed,

unemployed young man, who took a hard, grim view of everything and was

operatic only quite in spite of himself. This made it very absurd of me

to have looked at him simply as a graceful ornament to the prospect,

an harmonious little figure in the middle distance. “Damn the prospect,

damn the middle distance!” would have been all _his_ philosophy. Yet but

for the accident of my having gossipped with him I should have made him

do service, in memory, as an example of sensuous optimism!

I am bound to say however that I believe a great deal of the sensuous

optimism observable in the Genoese alleys and beneath the low, crowded

arcades along the port was very real. Here every one was magnificently

sunburnt, and there were plenty of those queer types, mahogany-coloured,

bare-chested mariners with earrings and crimson girdles, that seem to

people a southern seaport with the chorus of “Masaniello.” But it is not

fair to speak as if at Genoa there were nothing but low-life to be seen,

for the place is the residence of some of the grandest people in the

world. Nor are all the palaces ranged upon dusky alleys; the handsomest

and most impressive form a splendid series on each side of a couple

of very proper streets, in which there is plenty of room for a

coach-and-four to approach the big doorways. Many of these doorways

are open, revealing great marble staircases with couchant lions for

balustrades and ceremonious courts surrounded by walls of sun-softened

yellow. One of the great piles in the array is coloured a goodly red and

contains in particular the grand people I just now spoke of. They

live indeed on the third floor; but here they have suites of wonderful

painted and gilded chambers, in which foreshortened frescoes also cover

the vaulted ceilings and florid mouldings emboss the ample walls. These

distinguished tenants bear the name of Vandyck, though they are members

of the noble family of Brignole-Sale, one of whose children--the Duchess

of Galliera--has lately given proof of nobleness in presenting the

gallery of the red palace to the city of Genoa.