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ITALIAN DAYS AND WAYS
[THIRD EDITION]
* * * * * *
_By Anne Hollingsworth Wharton_
Italian Days and Ways. Decorated title and 8 illustrations.
Crown, 8vo. Cloth, extra, $1.50 _net_.
Social Life in the Early Republic. Profusely illustrated.
8vo. Buckram, gilt top, uncut edges, $3.00 _net_; half levant,
$6.00 _net_.
Salons, Colonial and Republican. Profusely illustrated. 8vo.
Buckram, $3.00; three-quarters levant, $6.00.
Heirlooms in Miniatures. Profusely illustrated. 8vo. Buckram,
$3.00; three-quarters levant, $6.00.
Through Colonial Doorways. Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, $1.25.
Colonial Days and Dames. Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, $1.25.
A Last Century Maid. Illustrated. 4to. Cloth, $1.25.
* * * * * *
[Illustration: Castello Sant' Angelo]
ITALIAN DAYS AND WAYS
by
ANNE HOLLINGSWORTH WHARTON
With Illustrations
[Illustration: Church of S. Damian, Assisi]
Philadelphia and London
J. B. Lippincott Company
MCMVII
Copyright, 1906 By J. B. Lippincott Company
Published, November, 1906
CONTENTS
PAGE
I LA SUPERBA IN THE CLOUDS 9
II ALONG THE RIVIERA 27
III CAPTURED BY A CABMAN 39
IV AN EXCITING DRIVE 53
V BELLA ROMA 76
VI A POET'S CORNER 93
VII ANTIQUITIES AND ORANGE-BLOSSOMS 102
VIII VIA APPIA 116
IX TU ES PETRUS 129
X VALE ROMA 145
XI SHORT JOURNEYS 158
XII AN UMBRIAN IDYL 173
XIII A SUNDAY IN ASSISI 192
XIV THE CITY OF FLOWERS 211
XV AN EARTHLY PARADISE 232
XVI FIESOLE 253
XVII HAPS AND HAPPENINGS 272
XVIII ANGELA'S LETTER 295
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
CASTELLO SANT' ANGELO _Frontispiece_
THE BAY OF NAPLES. _Photographed by Dr. Bertha Lewis_ 41
ON THE ROAD TO PAESTUM. _Photographed by Dr. Bertha Lewis_ 59
AN AMAZONIAN TRIBUTE, CAPRI. _Photographed by Dr. Bertha Lewis_ 71
CYPRESS WALK, HADRIAN'S VILLA 87
A STREET IN FLORENCE 212
THE MICHAEL ANGELO WELL AT THE CERTOSA, FLORENCE 269
PALAZZO REZZONICO 277
ITALIAN DAYS AND WAYS
I
LA SUPERBA IN THE CLOUDS
GENOA, February 19th.
Your most interesting letter, Sir Philosopher, reached me at Gibraltar,
and served to give me a homelike feeling in that alien land of Spain.
Any one who can write letters as interesting as yours, from your
library, with the mercury at zero outside, and nothing more refreshing
to look upon from the window than snow and sleet, does not need to
wander in sunny lands and among ancient ruins for an inspiration. No,
travel would be absolutely wasted upon you, who require only a cigar
and a wood fire to encourage your "reveries of a bachelor."
You wish to know what are my first impressions of Italy, and how
we three women get on together? To be perfectly candid with you, we
ourselves are not wandering in sunny lands at present, and the cheerful
blaze of your library fire would prove most welcome to benumbed fingers
and pinched noses.
Our welcome to Genoa was not particularly cheerful. It had been raining
for days; the sky was heavy with clouds, and the air chilly and damp.
We can well understand why the prudent and all-informing Baedeker
advises invalids visiting Genoa at this time to guard against raw winds
and abrupt changes of temperature.
We enjoyed coming into the fine harbor, around which Genoa is built
upon its hills and terraces in the form of a half-circle, the city
widening out toward the ends of the arc. On the hills, we know, are
many beautiful villas, seen to-day but dimly through veils of mist, and
beyond are the mountains, which in clear weather must add much to the
charm of this old fortress as seen from the sea.
Zelphine says that it would be very ungrateful of us if we were to
complain of cloudy weather, as the skies might be pouring down upon
us instead of only threatening, and, after all, we are having the same
good luck that we had in Madeira, Granada, and Algiers in coming after
the rain instead of before it.
And how do we get on together? Really, monsieur, you display courage
when you ask that question, as I might here and now unburden my mind
of a long list of grievances. As it is, however, I have so far no
woes to relate, although I know that a sojourn on the Continent has
wrecked many a friendship. We three must appear to those who meet us
an ill-assorted trio; but because of our individualities we may be the
better fitted to stand the crucial test of a tour of indefinite length,
whose only object is pleasure.
Zelphine is the encyclopædia of the party, and, as Angela says,
her information is always on tap, besides which she is amiable and
refreshingly romantic. It is inspiring to travel with a woman, no
longer young, to whom the world and its inhabitants still wear "the
glory and the dream." On the other hand, when one is suffering from
the discomforts of travel to such an extent that it would be a luxury
to moan and groan a bit and find fault with the general condition of
things, it is a trifle irritating to see Zelphine sailing serenely upon
the seas of high content, apparently above such trifling accidents as
material comfort. You, being a man and consequently a philosopher of
greater or less degree, may not be able to understand this; it is just
here that Zelphine and I might quarrel, but we "generally most always"
do not.
Angela you have scarcely known since she was a little girl, when she
was a prime favorite of yours. In the half-hour in which you saw her,
just before we sailed, you must have realized that in appearance she
had fulfilled the promise of her beautiful childhood. She is a spirited
creature, but with a fine balance of common sense, and with her
delicate, spirituelle beauty is astonishingly practical--an up-to-date
girl, in fine. Have you ever wondered, among your many ponderings,
why the girls of to-day, with the beauty of their great-grandmothers,
should be utterly devoid of the sentiment that enhanced the loveliness
of those dear ladies as perfume adds to the charm of a flower? This
question I leave with you for future solution.
Here in Genoa we meet the narrow, precipitous passages, streets by
courtesy, which interested us in the Moorish quarter of Algiers, dating
back in both cases to remote antiquity. They are to be found, we are
told, in every old Italian town. Many of them answer to Hawthorne's
description of the streets of Perugia, which, he says, are "like
caverns, being arched all over and plunging down abruptly towards an
unknown darkness, which, when you have fathomed its depths, admits you
to a daylight that you scarcely hoped to behold again."
Old palaces overshadow these narrow, crooked streets, built many
stories high and close together for protection against enemies without
and factional feuds at home; such as those between the powerful
houses of Doria, Spinola, Fieschi, and the like. The majority of these
buildings have fallen from their ancient glory, and look, as Angela
says, like tenement houses. This plebeian association is carried out
by the squalid appearance of the inhabitants, and by the clothes-lines
stretched across the streets from window to window, on which are hung
garments of every size, degree, color, and ingenuity of patch, the
predominant red and white lending a certain picturesqueness to the
motley array.
Turning a corner, we suddenly found ourselves in the midst of a
quarrel, or a violent altercation at the best, between a pretty signora
at a fourth-floor window and a vendor of fruits and vegetables on the
sidewalk below. The language which the lady used, as she leaned far
out of the window, was so vigorous that no interpreter was needed to
make her meaning plain: the merchant was a charlatan and a villain;
the saints were all called upon as witnesses to his depravity. He, the
so-called vendor of over-ripe fruit, pointed to his wares, beating his
breast and spreading out his hands in token of his spotless innocence.
He sell over-ripe oranges? All his neighbors would testify to his
poverty and that of his family because he, honest one, daily sacrificed
hundreds of oranges to satisfy his unreasonable customers!
The signora's dark eyes flashed, the Spanish mantilla upon her head
shook in sympathy with the violence of her emotions, as she repeated
her vocabulary of epithets. We were thankful that four stories
separated the combatants, and retiring under the shadow of a doorway we
anxiously awaited results. Something happened, we know not what; the
fruit may have been reduced the fraction of a penny; whatever it was,
a truce was declared, during which the signora's basket, filled with
fruit and artichokes, was drawn up to the window by a rope. After the
lady had carefully inspected each individual fruit and vegetable, she
smiled blandly, lowered some money in her basket, and the pair parted
with bows and compliments. Juliet on her balcony could not have been
more graceful, nor Romeo on the pavement below more gallant than this
shabby _venditore_, as he swept the ground with his cap, one hand upon
his heart!
Feeling that we owed something to somebody for the pleasure that this
little drama had afforded us, we crossed the street and bought from the
chief actor some fresh dates such as we had first tasted in Algiers.
As we paid the asking price without protest, we felt quite sure that
the valiant little merchant was making off us anything that he may have
lost in his previous transaction; but the dates, of a delicate amber
color, as sweet as honey and almost as transparent, were worth whatever
price we paid for them.
After much turning and retracing of steps, and laughing over being lost
and not having the power to make inquiries with any certainty of being
understood, we finally gained wider and more open streets, and on the
Piazza Banchi found an exchange, where we were able to get some money
on our letters of credit.
After attending to this practical detail we turned into the little old
Via Orefici, Jewellers' Street, with its many goldsmiths' shops. Over
one of the doors is a Virgin and Child, so beautiful that it cost the
artist his life. Pellegrino Piola's master, insanely jealous of this
work of his pupil, rose up in wrath and killed him. Even the patron,
St. Eloy, was unable to save poor Piola's life, but the guild of
smiths, who revere St. Eloy as their patron saint, invoked his aid to
preserve this lovely fresco from the ruthless hands of Napoleon when he
would have carried it off to France.
As we passed window after window, some with their display of exquisite
gold and silver filigree and others containing lofty pyramids of the
most delicious-looking candied fruit, Angela said that after a few
hours' stay in Genoa she was quite sure of two characteristics of the
Genoese: a passion for jewelry, especially of the filigree sort, and an
inordinate appetite for sweets. The pretty, delicate ornaments, I am
inclined to think, are only spread forth to tempt the unwary tourist;
but the Italian taste for sweets is proverbial, whetted, doubtless,
by the high price of sugar and the exquisiteness of the native
confections.
Strolling along the fine, wide Via Vittorio Emanuele, eating our dates
like true Bohemians and gazing about us upon the sights of the strange
city, we turned, almost involuntarily, into the busy thoroughfare of
the Via San Lorenzo, where we were confronted by the great façade of
the cathedral of the same name, with huge stone lions standing guard
at the door. Above the entrance--grewsome and realistic spectacle--is
poor St. Lawrence broiling away on his stone gridiron! We shall
doubtless behold many such spectacles during our travels, and may, like
Mark Twain, become quite hardened to the sight of St. Sebastian stuck
full of arrows, and of lovely young St. Anastasia and of many others,
of whom the world was not worthy, smiling amid the flames; but this
realistic thrusting of St. Lawrence and his gridiron into the life
of to-day, as an ornament to a church, impressed us as unworthy of a
people credited with a sense of beauty and fitness.
We were thankful to turn from the cathedral, whose interior we may
explore to-morrow, and, like good Americans, wend our way along the
Via Balbi, with its many palaces and handsome university buildings,
to a lovely little square called Acquaverde, where there is a handsome
modern statue of Columbus. Beside the really fine figure of the Genoese
navigator is a woman who represents either Columbia or an Italianized
American Indian, we were not sure which, to whom Columbus is offering
the Catholic religion and other blessings of civilization. From the
benevolent expression of the donor it is evident that he is making
the presentation in good faith, although the lady appears singularly
indifferent to the gifts offered her.
Some children with large, dark eyes and round, rosy cheeks, beautiful
enough to serve as models for the Holy Child and St. John, were playing
in the little green square some rhymed game in which their high, clear
voices rang out joyously. It was probably an Italian equivalent for
"ring-around-the-rosy" or "hot butter-beans." We longed to know just
what the words meant. Zelphine bribed the singers with soldi to an
encore; but, alas! the song fell upon ears dull of understanding. This
was the merriest scene that we have found in Genoa, which does not
impress us as a gay city at all; but what mature and sane community
could be merry under skies as leaden as these?
We are lodged in an old palace, which opens out on those most
disappointing arcades of which we have read such fascinating
descriptions. We see no pretty young Genoese women in thin muslin veils
nor handsome matrons in veils of flowered chintz; probably the rain
keeps them and their finery indoors. We remind ourselves, from time
to time, that we are dwelling in marble halls for the first time in
our lives, and yet some of the appointments of this rather expensive
_albergo_ are not equal to those of a second or third class hotel in
America. My room is spacious, with windows opening to the floor and
commanding a fine view of the harbor, where many ships lie at anchor,
among them the floating city in which we came hither. It makes us feel
at home to-night to see the lights of the Augusta Victoria, and we wave
friendly greetings to her and our fellow-voyagers across the bay.
"We were far more comfortable in our little state-rooms on the ship
than we shall ever be in this damp palace!" said Angela, shivering.
"This room feels like a cellar. Do they never have any fires here?"
"Yes, behold the fireplace!" I replied, drawing aside a screen and
revealing a small hole in the wall. "We will bask in the warmth of
a cheerful blaze this evening, and toast our toes before the glowing
coals."
As luck would have it, the chimney did not draw well, probably not
having been used in this century, and so instead of a cheerful blaze
we had clouds of smoke, and went to bed to dream of snow-storms and
icebergs.
February 20th.
I awoke to hear the rain beating against my window and Angela's merry
voice at my side, saying, "Such an experience! Zelphine rang our bell,
thinking that she would have a fire or smoke or something to take off
the deadly chill from our room. In a minute there came a knock at the
door, and instead of the chambermaid there stood a grand gentleman in
a blue coat and brass buttons, with a breakfast-tray--the proprietor
or head waiter, I should say. We hadn't the courage to say a word
about fire to this dignified person. Indeed, he gave us no time to say
anything, as he set the tray on a table beside the bed, and vanished
with 'Madame est servie.' Of course Z. is the madame; I don't count,
being _jeune fille_. Such manners Z. says she has seldom seen in a
ballroom at home. So now, Margaret, the breakfast is there and must be
eaten. Do order yours, and let us breakfast together."
"A kimono _déjeuner à trois_," I said, laughing over Angela's ignorance
of Continental ways, to which I had become quite accustomed during my
art winter in Paris with Katharine Clarke.
"A second ring may fetch the maid and fire," said Angela, pressing the
button.
This, however, only served to bring the blue-coated waiter, with
another tray of coffee and rolls. It was some time before we were able
to get the maid, who, in turn, sent for the _facchino_ who attends to
the fires, and he, assisted by another _facchino_, finally succeeded in
fanning into a blaze the infinitesimal quantity of wood used here for
a fire. This "house that Jack built" distribution of labor is rather
puzzling to the uninitiated. We are wondering how we shall ever compass
the problem of fees, so many people are serving us.
"I don't wonder that Eugene Field sang with longing of the 'land of
stoves and sunshine,'" said Zelphine, as she held her hands over the
feeble flame, "if he ever stayed in Genoa in February."
This is the nearest approach to a complaint that Zelphine has uttered
since we left New York. She accepts everything that comes to us, good,
bad, or indifferent, as a part of the game. We breakfasted heartily,
calling for more rolls and boiled eggs, to the evident but entirely
well-bred astonishment of the presiding genius, who was not accustomed
to such early morning appetites.
The rain continued to pour in torrents; and here let me confess,
with more or less contrition, that we were all three most desperately
homesick. Whether it was that we missed our pleasant fellow-travellers
who were steaming off for Nice to-day, or because of the persistent
rain, we, one after another, fell a prey to the depressing malady.
Angela, first of all, with eyes full of tears, wondered many times,
in language more or less strenuous, why she had ever left her happy
home for these inhospitable shores; and I--well, it matters little
what I said. Zelphine surprised me weeping over my travelling-hat,
which, although it did present a rather dilapidated appearance after
yesterday's rain, failed to afford sufficient cause for my tears. She,
the heroic one, who had never told her woe, in attempting to console
me broke down herself, and we wept in each other's arms, which had
the good result of bringing Angela to our side and making her laugh
heartily. Finally, in desperation, I proposed that we should order a
cab and drive over to the Hôtel de Londres and try to find some of our
steamer friends who expected to stay here a few days _en route_ for
Florence.
We were cordially welcomed by Bertha Linn and Mrs. Robins, who received
us in their rooms, one of which was comfortably heated by a porcelain
stove. Despite their more favorable surroundings, we soon discovered
that our two countrywomen were as down-hearted as ourselves. Bertha,
seated upon a trunk, looking about as cheerful as Miss Betsey Trotwood
when she came up to London in pursuit of her scattered fortune,
expressed herself to the effect that foreign travel might be of
advantage educationally and enlarging to the mind, but for her part
she preferred her own country, and would gladly take the next steamer
back to New York. Angela heartily agreed with Bertha, while Zelphine
begged her to remember the enchanting days we had spent in Madeira
and Granada, and that even more delightful experiences lay before
us, assuring them that Italy is not a proverbially rainy country,
et cetera; in the midst of which profitable conversation Mrs. Robins
suggested that we should take cabs and drive to the Campo Santo, by way
of a diversion.
"We certainly are in a proper frame of mind for a visit to a cemetery,"
said Angela, laughing a cheerless laugh, with a minor chord in it
suggestive of tears near the surface.
No place could be more admirably adapted for a rainy day excursion
than the Campo Santo of Genoa, as that vast cemetery is nearly all
under cover. Our first impression of the long galleries with their
monuments and low reliefs, many of them decorated with photographs of
the dead and overhung with the tasteless wreaths of tin flowers dear
to the Continental mourner, was of something hopelessly inartistic
and artificial. Among the many shockingly realistic and inappropriate
monuments we found a few simple and beautiful statues and low reliefs.
You remember how many of the monuments in Westminster Abbey are in bad
taste and overweighted with carved ornaments; the majority of these are
not less artistic, but one has a right to expect more beauty and grace
in Italy than in England, and then the grand old abbey lends a certain
dignity to everything within its walls. The Campo Santo looks more like
a picture-gallery than a necropolis; but _chacun à son goût_. This is
evidently the _goût_ of the Genoese, and the name of their cemetery is
so beautiful that I, for one, am inclined to overlook lack of taste in
other matters.
The tomb of the patriot Giuseppe Mazzini is in this Campo Santo, above
the rotunda and over against the steep hillside. It did not impress us
particularly; but we found ourselves turning again and again to the
figure of an old woman in a fine brocade gown, with a ring of bread,
which here they call _pain de la couronne_, over her arm, and what
seemed to be strings of large pearls depending from her waist.
"It is evidently the statue of some great lady who sold her pearls to
raise money to feed the poor," said Zelphine. "Here are the pearls,
and she carries the bread on her arm just as the peasants do in Spain
and in all these southern countries. I wish we could find the story
somewhere and the lady's name. This statue may have been erected by a
grateful people in recognition of her generous aid."
"She certainly has the face and bearing of a peasant, rather than of a
grand lady," said Bertha.
Just then we heard a low, infectious laugh behind us, and turned to
find General W., one of our ship's company, who was evidently much
amused by our discussion, and made haste to tear Zelphine's romance
into shreds by explaining that her Lady Bountiful was a peasant woman
who made quite a sum of money by selling bread and nuts on the streets
of Genoa. Having an ambition to rest with the rich and great in the
Campo Santo, under a fine monument, she bought the right to be buried
here for three thousand francs, and had the pleasure of ordering her
own monument, for which she paid six thousand francs. Nine thousand
francs, in all, for glory--quite a fortune for a peasant!
"The pearls are only nuts, after all!" exclaimed Zelphine, "and----"
"The cake is dough," said Bertha, laughing; "but it is all very
interesting as a study in human nature. I don't doubt the poor woman
found great satisfaction in looking at this fine figure of herself."
"She did not have even that satisfaction," replied General W., "for she
died soon after she had ordered it, in a street brawl or something of
the sort. _Sic transit gloria mundi._"
"How you do break down our images and bowl over our idols!" exclaimed
Angela.
We had dismissed our cabs on entering the Campo Santo, and, as the
rain had ceased for the time, we returned by the electric tram of
the Via di Circonvallazione a Mare, which runs close to the sea, and
which, as Angela says, besides circumambulating the city, is a clever
way of circumventing the cabman. Our homesickness had disappeared
amid the shades of the departed, and, a merry party, we made our way
to the Concordia, that most delightful garden-café. Here we lunched
upon _risotto_ (rice made yellow with saffron), spaghetti, and other
Italian dishes, with an accompaniment of bread in small sticks, crisp
and brown.
February 21st.
A note has just come from your cousin, Genevra Fuller, urging us to
make her a visit at her home in San Remo. This invitation, which is
most cordial, is a temptation to us all, but Zelphine and Angela have
promised to spend their time with friends in Nice, stopping for a day
at Monte Carlo, if their sporting tastes lead them so far afield, while
I yield to Genevra's blandishments. You know of old that she is not a
person to be lightly refused when she has set her heart upon any given
thing--a family trait, I believe.
II
ALONG THE RIVIERA
February 22d.
Of course the sun was shining when we left Genoa. We were glad to see
how fair La Superba could be, with her terraced gardens, many villas,
and noble background of blue mountains. Indeed, I confess to some
qualms of conscience, feeling that I may have given you a too gloomy
picture of the fine old city; but how can one give a cheerful view of
the attractions of a place where one's gayest hours were spent in a
cemetery?
Our way lay along the sea by the Western Riviera, one of the garden
spots of the world. The railroad winds in and out among the rocks,
or into tunnels pierced through them, often running parallel with the
famous Cornice Drive, which was for many years the only road from Genoa
to Nice. The beauty of this drive, which lies sometimes between the
railroad and the sea and again ascends the rocky heights beyond, made
us wish that railroads had never been invented. A coach and four, a
Cinderella coach, would be the only suitable equipage in which to make
this journey into fairyland.
"Why did we not drive?" I hear you ask, and you may well ask. Because
the railroad, dashing in and out of tunnels, often crosses the drive
most unexpectedly and on the grade. Even Zelphine, much as she wished
to drive over the self-same road taken by her dear Lucy in "Doctor
Antonio," hesitated about imperilling her neck, and I was quite
resolute upon this point. And if Zelphine and I were so reckless as
to be willing to risk our own lives, have we not under our care the
only and well-beloved daughter of the ancient and honorable house of
Haldane?
Did I say that the train dashed? Really, that was a slip of the
pen--nothing dashes in Italy except a mountain torrent; but where there
are so many grade crossings, even a slow train may be dangerous. We
proceeded moderately and sedately upon our shining way, skirting the
sapphire sea, dotted here and there with green islands. Reaching far
out into the blue, one may see small towns which seem bent upon washing
their white houses to a more dazzling whiteness in the clear water,
painted towns against a painted sea and sky. Other hamlets and villas,
with their green jalousies and their luxuriant gardens full of flowers
and orange-trees, are on the heights above, and not seldom a solitary
sanctuary is seen, perched upon some sea-washed cliff, the cherished
guardian of the shore.
Now indeed, looking up at the terraced olive-groves, we feel that we
are in Italy. For many miles the road lies beside these gardens, which
are monuments to Italian thrift and industry, as every square inch of
the scanty earth on the hillsides is held in place by stone walls, one
above another, until some are almost mountain high, olive-trees growing
to the very top. On the sunny plains between the hills are acres of
carnations, violets, stock-gillies, and mignonette, which fill the
air with their delicious fragrance. From these immense gardens the
large cities are supplied with flowers, and also the manufactories
of perfumes. Hundreds of the beautiful blossoms, they tell us, are
sacrificed to make a single drop of essence.
We passed by Albenga and Alassio, over the suspension bridge at Porto
Maurizio, and so on to Taggia, which is near San Remo, where we three
were to part company for a few days. Off to the right we could see
the picturesque ruins of Bussana Vecchia, destroyed by an earthquake
as late as 1887, never rebuilt, and now standing silent and desolate
on the hill-top above its namesake, the little modern town of Bussana
Nuova.
Our view of Poggio and Bussana Vecchia was suddenly cut off by an
inopportune tunnel, from which we emerged into the brilliant sunshine,
to see before us the pretty villas, the waving palms, and the general
air of cultivation and _bien-être_ that belong to this favorite and
highly favored town. When Zelphine and Angela caught this glimpse of
San Remo from the train, and saw Genevra's children waiting for me at
the station, I am quite sure they repented them of their decision.
I had not seen Roger and Phœbe since they were babies, but I knew
them at once, and we are already fast friends. Genevra's welcome, as
you may believe, was of the warmest. It is delightful to be in a home
again, after tossing about in a state-room and knocking around in
strange hotels, and in a home as charming as this!
February 25th.
Everything is delightfully foreign in this _ménage_; Genevra lives in
an apartment, as most people do here; hers is on the second floor, with
a huge salon on one side of the hall, a _salle à manger_ on the other,
and the usual complement of bedrooms, kitchens, and the like. This is
quite different from anything we have in America, where the apartments
are on a scale of princely magnificence, with prices to match, or of a
simplicity so extreme that "flat" seems to designate appropriately both
them and the condition of those who inhabit them. This apartment is
really a house on one floor; the entrance and stone stairway are quite
palatial, and yet it is _à bon marché_. The drawing-room is spacious,
with windows to the floor, opening out on balconies on which we step
out to see the _bersaglieri_ drill in the evenings, as the children are
on the qui vive from the moment the spirited music reaches their ears.
Genevra's large salon is heated by an open fire of olive-wood, which
she says makes it warm enough except when the winters are unusually
cold. The English ladies who come to tea in the afternoon throw aside
their wraps, exclaiming, "Ah, Mrs. Fuller's drawing-room is always so
very hot!"
Hot is not exactly the word that I should apply to dear Genevra's
pretty drawing-room, although I know that Lucie and Marthe are piling
on extra wood all the time in compliment to Mademoiselle, the shivering
American.
Everything in this house moves with a delightful smoothness and ease,
and the whole atmosphere of the place is indescribably restful. When I
awake in the morning I touch a bell, which soon brings to my bedside
the trim, neat-handed Lucie with rolls and coffee. This morning my
breakfast-tray was glorified with great bunches of dark purple and
light Neapolitan violets.
"What is the meaning of this reckless extravagance?" I call out to
Genevra, whose room is next to mine.
"Extravagance, _ma belle_!" replies Genevra. "Flowers are one of the
economies of San Remo. If I were to carpet your path with violets it
would be a cheap pleasure for me at the rate of two soldi a bunch!"
Wasn't that like Genevra?--like the old Genevra, yet with a certain
grace learned from these charming Italians! Only half believing her,
and yet comforted by her assurances, I enjoy the delicious fragrance
of the violets while I luxuriously sip my coffee and read the opening
pages of Ruffini's "Doctor Antonio."
Yesterday we drove to Bordighera, and Genevra and I tried to find the
place near Ospedaletti where Sir John Davenne's coach came to grief by
the roadside. It was disappointing to find no trace of Rosa's little
inn, only great hotels, a casino, and all manner of extravagant and
unromantic modern innovations. The sea and the picturesque coast are
fortunately the same, and Genevra pointed out to me the great rock
near which Battista rowed Lucy's boat while Antonio told Sir John how
cleverly the valiant citizens of Bordighera had here outwitted the
British in their brig-of-war. And on this road the Doctor walked home
by moonlight, after an evening with Sir John and Lucy, singing "O bell'
alma innamorata!" Poor, dear, brave Antonio--love, dear love, treated
him shabbily enough! Your mother will remember reading this story to
me on one of my early visits to Woodford. Although I was but a child
then, my wrath rose hot against Lucy's treatment of Antonio. After her
marriage with Lord Cleverton I refused to listen to another word about
the faithless Lucy, until curiosity and a real fondness for the pretty
blonde heroine sent me back to this saddest of stories, over which I
wept as girls of an earlier time wept over "The Sorrows of Werther."
This digression is all apropos of Bordighera, which is most interesting
aside from its associations with Lucy and her lover, with its
enchanting Coast Promenade ending at the Spianata del Capo. From this
promontory there is a noble view of Ventimiglia, Mentone, Monaco,
Villafranca and its light-house; beyond is the long, low line of the
French shore, and still beyond, the Maritime Alps, with flecks of
snow upon their sides, while near us, at our feet, lies the bay of
Ospedaletti, sparkling in the sun. Bordighera is literally framed in
by palm-trees--palms to right, to left, everywhere. No wonder that this
little town long had the exclusive honor of supplying the palms to St.
Peter's in Rome for Palm Sunday; but thereby hangs a tale which I may
not relate to-day, as Genevra bids me drop my pen and join her and her
friends over a cup of tea.
February 26th.
The days pass all too quickly in this charming place. My mornings
are generally spent in walking--sometimes on the Promenade du Midi,
which lies near the sea, a beautiful, palm-bordered terrace above the
beach--or in wandering through the old quarter of San Remo, with Roger
and Phœbe by my side. Here are narrow, precipitous streets like
those of Genoa, in strong contrast with the gay walk by the sea, which
has all the characteristics of a foreign watering-place. The _vive la
bagatelle_ existence of the Promenade du Midi is not without its charm
once in a while, but in the winding streets of the old town is the
typical life of San Remo.
We watch the vendors of fruit, vegetables, nuts, and herbs displaying
their simple wares upon the sidewalk, or stroll down by the bank where
the washing is done, picturesquely, if somewhat laboriously, in the
open. The _lavandaie_ are, most of them, vigorous young creatures, and
as they beat the clothes against the stones or rinse them in the clear,
running water, their merry chatter and laughter suggest social joys
even beyond those of our voluble Bridgets at home.
Your mother's favorite saw about the back being fitted to the burden
often recurs to me here. If these peasants are poor, their wants are
few, they live in a divine climate, the whole of the out-of-doors is
theirs, and, above all, they have dispositions and digestions that may
well cause them to be envied of princes. Dr. A., Genevra's physician,
tells me that the peasants here are usually healthy and the children
as robust as they are handsome. This Italian gentleman is one of the
interesting characters of San Remo. I always feel like calling him
Doctor Antonio, for although Dr. A. has travelled extensively, and
speaks English perfectly, he is quite Italian in appearance and manner,
and so loyally devoted to his Italy that I am quite sure he would have
sacrificed life and fortune to her cause had he lived in the stirring
times that developed Ruffini's heroic Doctor Antonio.
On Sunday afternoon Roger and Phœbe drove me up to the little
sanctuary of the Madonna della Guardia. Our road crossed that leading
to Bussana Vecchia, which picturesque ruin attracts me by its mystery
and its remoteness from the life of to-day. If you were here you would
certainly explore the remains of this old town, and perhaps you would
take me with you through its silent streets. Just now fate seems to be
against my seeing it. On Saturday, when we were all ready to set forth,
the rain fell in torrents, and on Sunday there was no time to stop
on our way to Capo Verde, so Bussana Vecchia seems destined to be my
"Carcassonne."
The little sanctuary of the Madonna della Guardia is built, like the
home of the wise man of the Scriptures, upon a rock, crowning the
promontory of Capo Verde. From the heights there is a fine panorama,
as they say here, of sea and shore; Taggia and Poggio were at our feet
as we stood on the shelving rock, which overhangs a sheer declivity of
many feet. In the church there is a collection of curious pictures,
votive offerings, representing men and women in the midst of deadly
peril by field and flood: fishermen in boats tossing upon stormy
seas, and carriage-loads of pleasure-seekers pitching down precipices
or dashing along the road at the mercy of steeds as wild as that of
Mazeppa. All of these good people, as appears from the expressions of
gratitude recorded in the several paintings, were saved from sudden
and horrible death by the powerful intervention of the gentle Mother of
Sorrows and Mercies.
I am finishing this letter while Genevra sings to the children their
good-night songs and tucks them into their beds. To-morrow will be a
full day, with some commissions to be attended to at the shops, which
are tempting here, two or three visits, and an afternoon tea with some
charming Scotch ladies at the Hôtel de Londres. The day following I
leave here for Nice, having decided to meet Zelphine and Angela there
instead of at Genoa as I had intended. This change of plan is made in
order that we may take the famous drive from Nice to Genoa, which Dr.
A. assures me is not as dangerous as it appears, and in beauty more
nearly approaches the description of Paradise than anything else to be
seen upon earthly shores. If we make the trip in an automobile, which
we shall probably do, we shall have a couple of hours to spend here
with Genevra _en route_ for Genoa, which anticipation helps to console
her for her disappointment in losing two days of my visit. She will
then be able to judge for herself whether Angela is as pretty as I have
described her and whether Zelphine is as charming with white hair as
with brown, questions that may seem of little moment to the masculine
mind, but are deeply interesting to Genevra. She will be calling me
soon to join her at what Macaulay calls "the curling hour," which we
count the best in the twenty-four. Lucie heaps up the olive-wood on
the hearth until it blazes brightly, and places a tray with chocolate
before us. Thus cheered and sustained we gossip into "the wee, sma'
hours." Genevra asks so many questions about her old friends that we
should have to talk until the cocks crow if I were to answer them all.
By the way, do your ears ever burn these nights about twelve o' the
clock? She often talks of you, asks if you have grown more sedate with
added years and dignities, whether you have lost your habit of jesting,
and speaks of a certain merry twinkle in the corner of your eye which
used to betray you when mischief was brewing--on the whole Genevra
cherishes a very cousinly affection for your lordship. There! she is
calling me, so
"Good-night!--if the longitude please,--
For, maybe, while wasting my taper,
_Your_ sun's climbing over the trees."
III
CAPTURED BY A CABMAN
NAPLES, March 2d.
If Lady Morgan wrote of her beloved Irish capital "dear, dirty Dublin,"
we may describe Naples less alliteratively in somewhat the same words,
except that to American eyes the Neapolitan city is even dirtier
and vastly more beautiful. Indeed, no words written nor pictures
painted give any adequate conception of the blueness of the sea, the
soft purple shades upon the mountains, and the fine transparency and
lightness of this air. One breathes in gayety with every breath, a
certain elasticity and _joie de vivre_ which the filth, the noise, the
bad odors, and even the hopeless poverty all around us are powerless to
dispel.
From the Strada Vittorio Emanuele, where we are stopping, we look
down upon a series of terraced gardens, some of them very poor little
gardens with a few vegetables, among them the omnipresent and much
beloved artichoke, the fennel, like a coarse celery, and lettuce. Roses
are climbing all over the walls of these hillside gardens, and in many
of them orange-trees are blooming, spreading around them a delicious
perfume. Here on the heights we have none of the disadvantages of
Naples, the noise, the unsavory odors, or the uncleanliness.
Above this _strada_, which is the name by which the Neapolitans call
their streets, the hills tower for many feet, and way up on their
crests are the Castle of St. Elmo and the old Carthusian monastery
of San Martino. We visited San Martino the day after our arrival,
because Zelphine had an irrepressible desire to get to the tip-top of
everything and view both the city and bay from the heights above us.
The ascent was made in one of the _funicolari_, cable trams, which are
used so much over here. They are rather terrifying at first, but are
said to be quite safe, and are, I believe, less dangerous than many of
our elevators.
[Illustration: The Bay of Naples]
The old monastery is now a museum, under the management of the Museo
Nazionale, and contains many paintings, porcelains, carvings, and other
antiques. We neglected the treasures within for the greater pleasure
of wandering at will through the charming, picturesque cloisters, which
are richly carved and of a stone warm and creamy in tone, so different
from the heavy, dark cloisters one sees in England and elsewhere. Most
of our morning was spent basking in the sunshine of the court; we could
fancy the old monks enjoying, as we did, the genial warmth that in the
Southern Italian winter is only to be found out of doors. The museum
itself was damp, as are all the galleries at this season.
In this court are a number of handsome sarcophagi, with inscriptions
and coats-of-arms carved in the marble; from hence we passed into
the Belvedere, whose balconies command an exquisite view of the city
and bay. We gazed long at the noble panorama spread before us, from
Posilipo to the hill of Capodimonte. Over across the bay were Ischia
and Capri, blue as its own grotto, with Sorrento's long point of land
reaching out into the sea, and off in the far distance the snow-line of
the Apennines. To our left, Vesuvius, with its three peaks, was smoking
away as peacefully as a Hollander on his _hooge stoep_. Seeing them by
day it is hard to believe that these fair blue hills could have wrought
sudden destruction upon the cities of the plain; but last night, when
flames flashed up skyward from the smoking crater, I must confess that
we had some misgivings. When we beheld these danger-signals, as they
seemed to us, we carried our fears and our queries to the _padrone_ and
the concierge, who both assured us, to their own satisfaction if not
entirely to ours, that Vesuvius has never erupted in the direction of
Naples, evidently feeling that Italian volcanoes, like Italian people,
are not in the habit of changing their ways.
Standing upon the Belvedere of San Martino, we were able to form some
idea of the great width of the bay, where just now "William's yacht,"
as one of our English friends always calls it, is riding at anchor. The
Kaiser is making one of his rapid, semi-official, quite friendly, and
wholly diplomatic visits to Rome, and his yacht awaits him here.
March 4th.
We have spent the morning at the National Museum, where are so many of
the world-famous sculptures, the Hercules, a magnificent, strong figure
in perfect repose, a giant taking his ease, and the Farnese Bull, both
of them from the Baths of Caracalla in Rome, and a huge bronze horse
from Herculaneum. Most impressive and interesting to us is the statue
of Diana of the Ephesians, against whose worship Paul preached at
Ephesus. A curious statue is this, odd enough to have fallen down from
Jupiter, according to the tradition, or from any other heathen god! The
torso is of fine, variegated marble, and the head, hands, and feet,
the latter slender and delicate, are of bronze. This Diana is not a
huntress, like the Greek Artemis with the crescent above her brow, but
bears about her the symbols of abundance. We lingered long near this
statue of the great goddess of the Ephesians, marvelling wherein lay
the secret of her power. To Demetrius and the other silversmiths who
made her shrines she was valuable, as she brought them great gain; but
for beauty or grace there was no reason why this Diana should have been
worshipped by "Asia and all the world."
Among the bronzes from Pompeii and Herculaneum we found the originals
of many of the exquisitely graceful figures with which we are all
familiar. We greeted as old friends the Dancing Faun, the Mercury, the
Flying Victory, the Wrestlers, Silenus, the Boy with the Dolphin, and,
above all, the lovely Narcissus, which they now call by another name.
Zelphine and I have decided that we will never acknowledge this to be
a Dionysus or anything less poetic than the Narcissus. This charming,
youthful figure with the bent head and listening ear is quite small,
not nearly life-size, and for that reason, perhaps, its beauty is
more delicate and spiritual. If that little figure could speak, what
could it not tell of pomp, luxury, love, and delight, all overtaken
and overwhelmed by sudden destruction in the buried city where it was
found!
Now, indeed, if it were in my power to rhyme four lines and make sense
at the same time, which was my school-girl idea of poetry-making, I
should certainly be sending you a poem about the Narcissus; but why
cudgel my brains when Keats has, with his own sympathetic charm, told
the pathetic story of the beautiful youth?--
"Who gazed into the stream's deep recess
And died of his own dear loveliness."
On our way home from the museum our _vetturino_ beat his horse so
unmercifully, although the poor nag was going as fast as a horse could
be expected to go up hill, that Zelphine remonstrated with him, very
tactfully, as I thought, paying his sorry Rosinante compliments and
calling the wretched beast _il buono cavallo_. The idea of any one
feeling compassion for a horse evidently touched the driver's sense
of humor, and, regarding it as a huge joke, he laughed and whipped
the poor animal still more unmercifully, making us understand, in the
gibberish of French and Italian peculiar to the cabmen here, that there
was no need to be merciful to a creature without a soul. We longed for
greater facility in some language that he could understand, to inquire
into his own spiritual condition. As, however, words were wanting,
we fell to wondering wherein such a being as this differs from the
beasts of the field. The cabmen of Naples would certainly afford our
friend Dr. C. an additional argument in favor of his pet doctrine of
conditional immortality.
Our driver's attitude toward the animal creation is, we are told, that
of most Neapolitans. Even persons of more intelligence question the
advisability of caring for the comfort of dumb creatures, yet these
apparently cruel people have a most kindly custom. If parents lose a
child, and children are generally so numerous that it seems as if one
could scarcely be missed, they adopt an orphan, call it God's child,
and treat it as their own.
March 6th.
We have been wondering, ever since we came here, where the beauty
and fashion of Naples are to be found, having seen on the streets
only tradespeople and beggars. We put the question to our friend the
concierge at the Hotel B. At five o'clock in the afternoon, he told us,
the _beau monde_ could be seen taking an airing on the Chiaia, never
earlier. It seems that Neapolitans of quality do not drive while the
sun is shining. You remember that old Italian proverb about only dogs
and Englishmen liking the sun? To this I would add the wise peasants,
with whom its genial warmth takes the place of food, fire, and proper
clothing.