hour for a drive; but we should have to go then or give up all idea
of a fashionable _promenade en voiture_ with the élite of Naples.
This afternoon was the time arranged for our drive. A _carrozza_, a
two-horse carriage, was to meet us at a favorite coral shop on the
Chiaia, whose exquisite wares draw Angela daily with a glittering
eye. Having arranged with Zelphine about this rendezvous, I left her
hanging over some Pompeian statuettes in a shop on the Toledo, copies,
of course, but very good ones, quite too tempting to be safely dallied
with, and made my way to Thomas Cook's office and to several glove
shops. When my commissions were finished, I had more than an hour on
my hands, so I lingered for some time before the tall monument in
the Square of the Martyrs, a memorial to the patriots who perished
during several Neapolitan revolutions. This monument has much of the
simplicity and strength of the Nelson memorial on Trafalgar Square,
having like it four colossal bronze lions at the base. The noble
shaft is surmounted by one of Caggiani's graceful figures, a Victory
delicately poised as if on tiptoe for a flight.
After gazing long at the beautiful monument, I strolled down the Strada
Chiaia to the esplanade with the statues and fountains, a charming
place to walk on a cool afternoon. You know my fancy for wandering
alone through strange streets and byways. On and on I sauntered,
thinking that I might have time to walk as far as the Aquarium before
keeping my tryst at the coral shop, and not fully realizing how
deserted the place was until I heard a penetrating voice quite close to
me speaking rapid and almost unintelligible French, accompanied by the
cracking of a whip. "A cabman--I'll pay no attention to him," I said to
myself; "he'll be discouraged after a while and leave me." I soon found
that I had reckoned without my host: that vociferous, whip-cracking
Jehu followed me, dogged my steps, offered me his cab at absurdly low
rates, and finally cornered me in a recess of one of the large public
buildings. I looked around; there was not a person in sight to help me,
only a few beggars on the steps, who would naturally make common cause
with the cabman. You will laugh at me, I am sure, but so terrified
was I by the creature's language and gestures and whip-cracking that
I abjectly stepped into his cab, telling him to drive me for an hour
and set me down at the well-known coral shop on the Chiaia at five
o'clock, showing him the time on my watch-face. Was I not just a bit
like the woman who married a persistent suitor in order to get rid
of him? Her troubles probably began then and there; mine certainly
did. My _cocher_, with an irritating expression of triumph on his
face, set forth upon a tour of sight-seeing which threatened to be
of long duration. We passed from street to street, from building to
building, until to my dismay I found that he was driving toward the
upper town. I protested, knowing that there would not be time to get
back to the Chiaia by five o'clock. Would I like to see San Martino?
No, I answered, with decision, I had already been to San Martino; I
wished to go back to the Chiaia. Then--for astuteness commend me to
a Neapolitan _vetturino_--that irritating creature became suddenly
deaf, dumb, and blind, while his horse went on and on up the heights
toward San Martino. Fortunately, the road winds around the hill, and
as we reached one of its windings I saw, by a sign, that we were on
the Strada Vittorio Emanuele. Hope revived when I began to recognize
familiar buildings; we would soon reach our hotel. "Hotel B.! Albergo
B.!" I cried, with so much insistence and with gestures so like his own
that the creature finally listened to me, the horse slackened its pace
slightly, and then, oh joy! the Hotel B. appeared, the concierge at the
door. I called to him, he made a peremptory sign to the driver to stop,
and I was once again a free woman, standing on my two feet, with solid
ground beneath them.
My Jehu now regained the use of his tongue, and unblushingly insisted
upon a two hours' fee for the drive of a trifle over an hour which I
had been coerced into taking. The sum was not extortionate, according
to American ideas, but no one wishes to be cheated, especially with
one's eyes wide open. I protested, explained the state of affairs to
the concierge, when, to my surprise, he, my ally and champion as I had
thought him, deserted me at this critical moment and joined the enemy,
saying, "The signorina would do well to pay the _vetturino_ what he
asks, as according to the signorina's own watch she has had the cab
over an hour."
My humiliation was great when I handed the triumphant cabman his
ill-gotten gains, but greater still was my disappointment over the
defection of the concierge, whom we have all trusted. It seems, indeed,
as if every man's hand is against us in this beautiful city, from the
salesman who tries to sell us imperfect coral to the crafty vendor of
fruit who slips bad oranges into a paper bag for us, while he tries to
distract our attention by sentimental remarks on the weather and the
"bella vista."
Rather than trust myself to the mercy of another cabman, I
ignominiously made my way down the many steps of the terrace to the
street below, where I took a tram to the Chiaia. Angela was seated in
the carriage, looking around anxiously, while Zelphine was walking up
and down the pavement, both evidently much disturbed, wondering what
had detained me.
"There is still time to take the drive," I said, in reply to their
eager questions. "I saw a number of carriages coming down by the Square
of the Martyrs. Get in, Zelphine, and I will explain my delay as we
drive along."
All Naples seemed to be _en voiture_, this afternoon, and it was
pleasant to be making a _course_ with the languid, dark-eyed ladies and
their attendant cavaliers, even if we were not intimately associated
with them.
March 7th.
This whole morning we spent in the Aquarium, which is down near the
sea, a part of the Villa Nazionale. Here we saw all manner of beautiful
and hideous creatures of the deep, some exquisitely colored fish from
the Mediterranean, living coral, medusæ, crested blubbers, airy and
transparent as soap-bubbles, and the wonderful octopus. Angela insisted
on seeing these horrible creatures fed, and by the time that important
ceremony was over and we had walked through the shaded park enjoying
the flowers, which are blooming in profusion everywhere, it was time to
go home for our second breakfast.
We went to Posilipo in the steam tram, this afternoon, and were shown
the old Roman columbarium on the hillside, popularly known as the Tomb
of Virgil. Whether or not the poet was buried there is now disputed
by scholars; however, Zelphine says that Virgil certainly wrote
his "Georgics" and "Æneid" in his villa near by, and that Petrarch
considered this tomb sufficiently important to plant a laurel here. She
and I have no patience with the iconoclasts who take so much pleasure
in destroying our illusions, and we see no reason why the traveller
should not be allowed to weep over this tomb of Virgil, unless, indeed,
a more authentic one can be furnished him.
Later we climbed up to the terraced garden that belongs to the
Ristorante Promessi Sposi--fancy an inn at home named The Betrothed!
Here we had afternoon tea, while our eyes were feasted with the
beauties of a gorgeous sunset. Vesuvius, Capri, Ischia, and all the
smaller islands of the bay were bathed in heliotrope light, a royal
array of purple velvet. Buchanan Read's lines on the Bay of Naples
must have been inspired by just such a sea and sky as this. Zelphine
evidently had the same thought, for she quoted softly:
"'My soul to-day
Is far away,
Sailing the Vesuvian Bay;
My winged boat,
A bird afloat,
Swims round the purple peaks remote.'"
We should have been in a boat on the purple bay instead of in a tram!
I am finishing this letter rather hurriedly for to-night's mail, as we
shall be off to-morrow bright and early for a tour of several days, to
Pompeii, La Cava, and Pæstum, returning by the coast drive and stopping
at Amalfi and Sorrento. It is the sort of excursion that you would
enjoy so much--would you like to be of the party?
IV
AN EXCITING DRIVE
CAVA DEI TIRRENI, March 8th.
We have spent the day in the streets and houses of Pompeii, living over
again in the buried city the thrilling scenes of Lord Lytton's novel.
His descriptions are still marvellously accurate, although so much has
been unearthed since he wrote "The Last Days of Pompeii" that the ruins
as they stand to-day are much more extensive than those pictured by
the novelist. The house of Glaucus is called by the guides the House
of the Tragic Poet, but the mosaic of the dog, with its inscription,
"Cave canem," apparently as perfect as in the days when Glaucus thus
whimsically greeted his friends and enemies, serves to identify it.
Lord Lytton was in Naples during the winter of the most important
excavations at Pompeii, and his romance doubtless took form and shape
as he walked through these deserted streets, where the ruts made by the
chariot-wheels of the two rivals, Glaucus and Arbaces, are still to be
seen. The houses, as he tells us, still undespoiled of their exquisite
decorations and rich furniture, were much as their unfortunate owners
left them. Even now, despite the fact that many of the beautiful
frescoes, statues, busts, and other ornaments have been taken to the
Naples Museum, much is still left of the interior of the houses, enough
to give one a very good idea of how these luxurious Pompeians lived.
The lower floors of some of these houses, as that of the Vettii and
the Faun, are complete, with their vestibule, dining-room, parlor,
bedrooms, and kitchen. These rooms are all rather small, according to
our ideas, as the wise Pompeians lived out of doors, spending their
days in the large central court of their houses or in the gardens.
Of the gardens we saw the most perfect examples in the house of the
Vettii. The restoration seems to have been made most carefully here
as elsewhere; even the graceful bronze statuettes are not wanting, as
excellent replicas have been put in the places of the originals, which
are in the Naples Museum.
Nothing brings the reality of that old life before us more forcibly
than to walk along the streets, where the bakeries and the wine and oil
shops are still to be found. In the latter are many great jars, which
are, as Zelphine says, not unlike those in which Morgiana entrapped her
Forty Thieves.
Turning a corner, we were startled by seeing a roughly drawn sketch
upon a wall, such as any street gamin of to-day might draw upon a
tempting blank surface. Further along the same street we beheld a still
stronger evidence that the life of Pompeii was not altogether different
from that of our own time. Something corresponding to a modern poster
announced in red letters the name of a favorite candidate for the next
municipal election. We lingered long in the vast amphitheatre, in which
the Pompeians were wont to take their pleasure, protected in sunny
weather by an awning, whose usefulness we could appreciate to-day, as
the sun of March is intensely hot in this region. The barracks for
the gladiators, near the theatre, are not unlike the casemates for
soldiers in a fort, and are quite complete. Zelphine, who is sitting
near me, poring over Bulwer's novel, has just read me Pansa's lament
over what he considered an infamous law, that forbade a man to send his
own slaves to the wild beasts in the arena. Having seen the houses of
Glaucus and Pansa, one can more readily understand the point of view of
these luxurious, pleasure-loving ancients, who were probably not more
cruel than many of their contemporaries.
We left Pompeii late this afternoon and came to La Cava, a pretty town
in the mountains, where we are stopping on our way to Pæstum. Zelphine
has just been talking to the _padrone_, who speaks excellent English,
about the excursion to-morrow. Our tickets, which we bought of the
concierge at the Hotel B., entitle us to a drive or a railway journey.
The _padrone_ strongly advises the former. He says the trains are so
slow and the waits so long that we make almost as good time by driving,
and then it is much more interesting. The drive is between forty and
fifty miles, but by starting at eight o'clock in the morning, and
changing horses at Battipaglia, we shall have two hours at Pæstum and
get back to this hotel in time for dinner. Another party of American
travellers, of the inconvenient number of five, go by coach to-morrow.
The _padrone_ asks us, in case we decide to drive, whether we will give
a seat in our carriage to the odd number. Having concluded to drive, we
are hoping that the fifth wheel of the other coaching-party may prove
to be Mrs. Coxe, a charming old lady who talks most picturesquely of
a drive to Pæstum forty years ago, when the roads were so infested by
brigands that it was necessary to travel with a mounted escort.
"Could anything be more delightfully romantic?" exclaims Zelphine, on
hearing this.
"Or more horridly uncomfortable?" adds Angela.
These exclamations drew from Mrs. Coxe a detailed and spirited recital
of her adventures, which Zelphine heard with the great wide-open eyes
of a child listening to a fairy-tale. Women of Mrs. Coxe's age delight
in a sympathetic listener. The members of her own party have doubtless
heard all of her _contes de voyage_. She will certainly elect to go
with us, and have the advantage of a new and appreciative audience.
March 9th.
I opened my windows this morning and stepped out on the marble terrace
to enjoy a view of the mountains, which had looked so enchanting by
moonlight and were no less beautiful by day. In the garden below a
blue gown flitting about among the orange-trees attracted my attention.
Angela had evidently brought her charms to bear upon the heart of the
_padrone_, as I heard him say, "Here are scissors for the signorina
to cut all the oranges she wishes. In the signorina's own country the
oranges do not grow up to the doorstep as with us. Is it not so?"
"No, indeed," said Angela, deftly snipping off a golden ball. "This
is a great pleasure. I never cut an orange from a tree but once in my
life, and that was in Granada."
Being possessed of an inquiring turn of mind, the _padrone_ asked many
questions concerning Granada, and so talking and working industriously
Angela soon collected a fine dish of oranges for our breakfast--an
unwonted luxury, as in this land of abundance they never give us fruit
for our early _déjeuner_. The carriages were at the door before we
had finished our breakfast, and in ours, as though in answer to our
desires, sat Mrs. Coxe, provided with a guide-book, lorgnette, lunch,
and all the equipment of a good traveller for a long day's drive.
The proprietor announced that he would accompany us as far as Salerno,
occupying the seat on the box beside the driver and his little
brother. Mrs. Coxe evidently considered this her opportunity for
informing herself with regard to the country, its inhabitants, and its
productions. She had added not a little to her already large store of
information, gained in many lands, when the _padrone_, to our great
regret, left us, with many bows, smiles, and wishes for a "bel giro."
We had the very tip-top of the morning for the beginning of our drive,
as we set forth at eight o'clock. The air is soft and clear like that
of a May day at home. We can scarcely believe that it is March, and
that our friends across the water are still in the grasp of winter, as
we left all that behind us when we sailed from New York six weeks ago.
[Illustration: On the Road to Paestum]
Our way lay between green meadows dotted with purple cyclamen and a
small yellow flower much like the English primrose, and in some places
through groves of orange-trees covered with golden fruit.
Fortunately for those who take this long drive, the roads are
excellent. We drove slowly through the old town of Cava, with its
narrow, precipitous streets, and through Salerno, which is upon a
bluff overlooking the bay, and commands a noble panorama of sea and
shore. When, however, we reached the plain, our horses set forth
at a brisk pace. There was not much to be seen here except acres of
fennel, artichoke, and a bean, now covered with white blossoms, which
I believe is used chiefly for feeding the cattle. Even this road
through a flat country is not without a touch of picturesqueness, as
it is in many places bordered by gnarled sycamores twisted into the
most weird and grotesque shapes. Between these trees a peasant woman
was walking, bearing upon her head an immense brush-heap, which was
probably her winter firewood. Zelphine and Angela had their kodaks with
them, of course, and begged the driver to stop and allow them to get a
snap-shot, which he did, crying out, "Ecco, ecco, signora!" The woman
stopped obediently, and stood like a statue, in a natural pose full
of grace and strength. She was evidently pleased to have her picture
taken, as these peasants always are, especially if a few soldi are
thrown in to seal the contract. If the picture is good you shall have
one, as it will give you a characteristic bit of this Southern Italian
life.
Here women young and old are to be seen working in the fields with the
men, driving ox-carts, walking beside them, and bearing burdens that
seem far too heavy for any woman's shoulders. Although the land seems
fertile, the people are evidently very poor, the villages small, and
the houses comfortless.
We should have liked to ask the driver some questions about the
products of the soil, the peasants, and their lives, but neither he nor
his little brother, who was on the box beside him, adapted themselves
gracefully to the restrictions of our vocabulary--there is, we find, a
great difference in drivers in this respect. At Battipaglia, a railroad
station and the most considerable town on the route, we changed
horses and drivers also. This latter substitution we found was to our
advantage, as the second _vetturino_ proved to be a better linguist
than his predecessor, which enabled us to continue our interrupted
studies in agriculture and political economy. The new driver was
serviceable also in other respects. When we came upon a field of
narcissus, he stopped the carriage in order to allow us the pleasure
of gathering the fragrant blossoms, besides bringing us handfuls of
flowers, the largest bunch of course being laid at Angela's feet. We
are quite sure that he considers her the living image of the pictures
of the Blessed Virgin, although he is too discreet to say so.
Angela was charming to-day, in a blue suit and a white shirt-waist,
but the March sun was so hot that by the time we reached Pæstum it had
taken all the color out of the crown of her pretty blue hat.
As there is no inn at Pæstum we ate our luncheon by the roadside,
stopping under the shade of a tree where a peasant was enjoying his
siesta, his oxen being tethered near by. Zelphine is enthusiastic
over the beauty of these gentle creatures, with their soft, kindly
brown eyes, and says that she is sure that Homer, when he wrote of his
ox-eyed maidens, had just such a one in mind as she was feeding from
her hand. She made so pretty a picture as she stood beside the great
white ox, feeding him daintily with bean-blossoms, that Angela tried
to get a snap-shot of her, but that provoking ox--the slowest of all
animals--took it into his head to move at the critical moment.
The country seemed more level and marshy as we drew near Pæstum,
although on the left there rose the spur of a mountain range, on one
of whose heights are the ruins of the hillside fortress of Capaccio
Vecchio. This town was founded by the inhabitants of Pæstum when they
were driven from their city by the Saracens in the ninth century.
To our surprise, we saw herds of buffalo grazing in the fields, much
smaller and different in other respects from the American bison. Our
driver told us that this small black buffalo is to be found near the
coast in many parts of Italy, and is often seen on the Campagna near
Rome. From the number of calves in some of the fields we are inclined
to think that the young buffaloes are used for food. I noticed several
of the well-grown animals drawing carts, sometimes harnessed with the
white oxen.
We caught a glimpse of the old wall and gate with the sea beyond,
and then in a moment the temples were in full view. Nothing could be
more impressive than those magnificent ruins on that lonely plain,
sharply outlined against the blue sky. The Temple of Neptune, with its
thirty-six fluted Doric columns, its double columns inside, and its
noble, almost perfect façade, is a superb example of Greek architecture
of the fifth century B.C. The stone of which the temple is built is a
kind of travertine, to which the passing years have imparted a creamy,
mellow tone. The Temple of Ceres is less complete than that dedicated
to Neptune, although it belongs to the same period. The gate of the
town opening out toward the sea and the old wall adjoining it are
wonderfully preserved. These with the temples of Neptune and Ceres and
the so-called Basilica are all that remain of this settlement made by
Greeks from Sybaris about 600 B.C. Two days we have passed with the
ancients, yesterday in a city where "the earth, with faithful watch,
has hoarded all," and to-day in a town not much older than Pompeii,
where the conquering Saracens and Normans and the devastating elements
have left nothing to tell the tale of the daily life and habits of the
Greeks who made their home upon these shores.
We climbed over the ruins of the old temples and sat upon the town
wall overlooking the sea, while Angela made a fairly good sketch of
the temples. Zelphine and I bought coins and pottery from children
who, being without visible habitation, seemed to have literally sprung
from the soil. Finally our _vetturino_ warned us that we had better set
forth at once if we wished to reach Cava before nightfall.
At Battipaglia we resumed our former horses and driver. Zelphine
whispered something to me about his face being rather red. I quite
agreed with her, but as the mention of the fact could not be of any
especial advantage, the other carriage being already far in advance and
no person at hand to take the reins, there was nothing to do but to set
forth on our homeward journey, despite some misgivings upon Zelphine's
part and mine.
We had not left Battipaglia before I realized that our gravest
fears were fulfilled. Our driver was what you men picturesquely call
"gloriously drunk"--we practical women would use a less dignified
adverb. He was as happy as a lord, cracking his whip and dashing
through the streets of Battipaglia in fine style. We soon passed the
other coach, containing Mrs. Coxe's friends. They called after us, but
must have seen that we had no time for conversation _en route_; indeed,
like Cowper's citizen "of credit and renown," we passed everything on
the road. Zelphine and I were on the front seat, facing Mrs. Coxe and
Angela. They, happily, did not grasp the situation at once, but when
they did the terror written on that dear old lady's face was something
never to be forgotten. Angela, with resolute cheerfulness, chatted away
about anything and everything, especially about Mrs. Coxe's experiences
in Honolulu, her favorite subject of conversation. I shall never hear
of that island kingdom of the Pacific without seeing before me Mrs.
Coxe's agonized face.
Remembering that there lay before us a long stretch of road overhanging
a sharp declivity, Zelphine and I made a desperate attempt to stop our
hilarious _vetturino_ in his mad career. Finding that our remonstrances
excited him to more strenuous exertions, Zelphine tried the effect
of her few available words and many eloquent gestures upon the small
boy, urging him to make his brother drive more carefully, telling him
that the old lady of the party was very much alarmed, and advising
him to get the whip into his own hands. This, however, proved to
be impossible; the boy, well frightened himself by this time, only
succeeded in getting hard words and a shaking. Give up his whip! Not
he. As well ask a soldier to lay down his arms. The whip was his
pride and joy, his _pièce de résistance_, so to speak, with which
he awoke the echoes of these slumbering old Italian towns, bringing
the inhabitants, men, women, children, cats, dogs, and chickens, to
the sidewalk to witness our rapid transit. Even those among our own
countrymen who pride themselves most upon their skill in annihilating
space could not have made better time than we did as we rattled over
that Calabrian highway. Fortunately, the horses were well-trained and
steady enough to balance the driver's eccentricities. Perhaps they were
accustomed to them by long experience. Be this as it may, we proceeded
on our way without any accident, passing the dangerous part of the road
before darkness overtook us.