Every one knows what kind of summer we had in Naples in 1884. The
newspapers of all lands teemed with the story of its horrors. The
cholera walked abroad like a destroying demon; under its withering
touch scores of people, young and old, dropped down in the streets to
die. The fell disease, born of dirt and criminal neglect of sanitary
precautions, gained on the city with awful rapidity, and worse even
than the plague was the unreasoning but universal panic. The
never-to-be-forgotten heroism of King Humbert had its effect on the
more educated classes, but among the low Neapolitan populace, abject
fear, vulgar superstition, and utter selfishness reigned supreme. One
case may serve as an example of many others. A fisherman, well known in
the place, a handsome and popular young fellow, was seized, while
working in his boat, with the first symptoms of cholera. He was carried
to his mother’s house. The old woman, a villainous-looking hag, watched
the little procession as it approached her dwelling, and taking in the
situation at once, she shut and barricaded her door.
“_Santissima Madonna_!” she yelled, shrilly, through a half-opened
window. “Leave him in the street, the abandoned, miserable one! The
ungrateful pig! He would bring the plague to his own hard-working,
honest mother! Holy Joseph! who would have children? Leave him in the
street, I tell you!”
It was useless to expostulate with this feminine scarecrow; her son
was, happily for himself, unconscious, and after some more wrangling he
was laid down on her doorstep, where he shortly afterward expired, his
body being afterward carted away like so much rubbish by the
_beccamorti_.
The heat in the city was intense. The sky was a burning dome of
brilliancy, the bay was still as a glittering sheet of glass. A thin
column of smoke issuing from the crater of Vesuvius increased the
impression of an all-pervading, though imperceptible ring of fire, that
seemed to surround the place. No birds sung save in the late evening,
when the nightingales in my gardens broke out in a bubbling torrent of
melody, half joyous, half melancholy. Up on that wooded height where I
dwelt it was comparatively cool. I took all precautions necessary to
prevent the contagion from attacking our household; In fact, I would
have left the neighborhood altogether, had I not known that hasty
flight from an infected district often carries with it the possibility
of closer contact with the disease. My wife, besides, was not nervous—I
think very beautiful women seldom are. Their superb vanity is an
excellent shield to repel pestilence; it does away with the principal
element of danger—fear. As for our Stella, a toddling mite of two years
old, she was a healthy child, for whom neither her mother nor myself
entertained the least anxiety.
Guido Ferrari came and stayed with us, and while the cholera, like a
sharp scythe put into a field of ripe corn, mowed down the dirt-loving
Neapolitans by hundreds, we three, with a small retinue of servants,
none of whom were ever permitted to visit the city, lived on
farinaceous food and distilled water, bathed regularly, rose and
retired early, and enjoyed the most perfect health.
Among her many other attractions my wife was gifted with a beautiful
and well-trained voice. She sung with exquisite expression, and many an
evening when Guido and myself sat smoking in the garden, after little
Stella had gone to bed, Nina would ravish our ears with the music of
her nightingale notes, singing song after song, quaint _stornelli_ and
_ritornelli_—songs of the people, full of wild and passionate beauty.
In these Guido would often join her, his full barytone chiming in with
her delicate and clear soprano as deliciously as the fall of a fountain
with the trill of a bird. I can hear those two voices now; their united
melody still rings mockingly in my ears; the heavy perfume of
orange-blossom, mingled with myrtle, floats toward me on the air; the
yellow moon burns round and full in the dense blue sky, like the King
of Thule’s goblet of gold flung into a deep sea, and again I behold
those two heads leaning together, the one fair, the other dark; my
wife, my friend—those two whose lives were a million times dearer to me
than my own. Ah! they were happy days—days of self-delusion always are.
We are never grateful enough to the candid persons who wake us from our
dream—yet such are in truth our best friends, could we but realize it.
August was the most terrible of all the summer months in Naples. The
cholera increased with frightful steadiness, and the people seemed to
be literally mad with terror. Some of them, seized with a wild spirit
of defiance, plunged into orgies of vice and intemperance with a
reckless disregard of consequences. One of these frantic revels took
place at a well-known cafe. Eight young men, accompanied by eight girls
of remarkable beauty, arrived, and ordered a private room, where they
were served with a sumptuous repast. At its close one of the party
raised his glass and proposed, “Success to the cholera!” The toast was
received with riotous shouts of applause, and all drank it with
delirious laughter. That very night every one of the revelers died in
horrible agony; their bodies, as usual, were thrust into flimsy coffins
and buried one on top of another in a hole hastily dug for the purpose.
Dismal stories like these reached us every day, but we were not
morbidly impressed by them. Stella was a living charm against
pestilence; her innocent playfulness and prattle kept us amused and
employed, and surrounded us with an atmosphere that was physically and
mentally wholesome.
One morning—one of the very hottest mornings of that scorching month—I
woke at an earlier hour than usual. A suggestion of possible coolness
in the air tempted me to rise and stroll through the garden. My wife
slept soundly at my side. I dressed softly, without disturbing her. As
I was about to leave the room some instinct made me turn back to look
at her once more. How lovely she was! she smiled in her sleep! My heart
beat as I gazed—she had been mine for three years—mine only!—and my
passionate admiration and love of her had increased in proportion to
that length of time. I raised one of the scattered golden locks that
lay shining like a sunbeam on the pillow, and kissed it tenderly.
Then—all unconscious of my fate—I left her.
A faint breeze greeted me as I sauntered slowly along the garden
walks—a breath of wind scarce strong enough to flutter the leaves, yet
it had a salt savor in it that was refreshing after the tropical heat
of the past night. I was at that time absorbed in the study of Plato,
and as I walked, my mind occupied itself with many high problems and
deep questions suggested by that great teacher. Lost in a train of
profound yet pleasant thought, I strayed on further than I intended,
and found myself at last in a by-path, long disused by our household—a
winding footway leading downward in the direction of the harbor. It was
shady and cool, and I followed the road almost unconsciously, till I
caught a glimpse of masts and white sails gleaming through the leafage
of the overarching trees. I was then about to retrace my steps, when I
was startled by a sudden sound. It was a low moan of intense pain—a
smothered cry that seemed to be wrung from some animal in torture. I
turned in the direction whence it came, and saw, lying face downward on
the grass, a boy—a little fruit-seller of eleven or twelve years of
age. His basket of wares stood beside him, a tempting pile of peaches,
grapes, pomegranates, and melons—lovely but dangerous eating in cholera
times. I touched the lad on the shoulder.
“What ails you?” I asked. He twisted himself convulsively and turned
his face toward me—a beautiful face, though livid with anguish.
“The plague, _signor_!” he moaned; “the plague! Keep away from me, for
the love of God! I am dying!”
I hesitated. For myself I had no fear. But my wife—my child—for their
sakes it was necessary to be prudent. Yet I could not leave this poor
boy unassisted. I resolved to go to the harbor in search of medical
aid. With this idea in my mind I spoke cheerfully.
“Courage, my boy,” I said; “do not lose heart! All illness is not the
plague. Rest here till I return; I am going to fetch a doctor.”
The little fellow looked at me with wondering, pathetic eyes, and tried
to smile. He pointed to his throat, and made an effort to speak, but
vainly. Then he crouched down in the grass and writhed in torture like
a hunted animal wounded to the death. I left him and walked on rapidly;
reaching the harbor, where the heat was sulphurous and intense, I found
a few scared-looking men standing aimlessly about, to whom I explained
the boy’s case, and appealed for assistance. They all hung back—none of
them would accompany me, not even for the gold I offered. Cursing their
cowardice, I hurried on in search of a physician, and found one at
last, a sallow Frenchman, who listened with obvious reluctance to my
account of the condition in which I had left the little fruit-seller,
and at the end shook his head decisively, and refused to move.
“He is as good as dead,” he observed, with cold brevity. “Better call
at the house of the _Miserecordia_; the brethren will fetch his body.”
“What!” I cried; “you will not try if you can save him?”
The Frenchman bowed with satirical suavity.
“Monsieur must pardon me! My own health would be seriously endangered
by touching a cholera corpse. Allow me to wish monsieur the good-day!”
And he disappeared, shutting his door in my face. I was thoroughly
exasperated, and though the heat and the fetid odor of the sun-baked
streets made me feel faint and sick, I forgot all danger for myself as
I stood in the plague-stricken city, wondering what I should do next to
obtain succor. A grave, kind voice saluted my ear.
“You seek aid, my son?”
I looked up. A tall monk, whose cowl partly concealed his pale, but
resolute features, stood at my side—one of those heroes who, for the
love of Christ, came forth at that terrible time and faced the
pestilence fearlessly, where the blatant boasters of no-religion
scurried away like frightened hares from the very scent of danger. I
greeted him with an obeisance, and explained my errand.
“I will go at once,” he said, with an accent of pity in his voice. “But
I fear the worst. I have remedies with me; I may not be too late.”
“I will accompany you,” I said, eagerly. “One would not let a dog die
unaided; much less this poor lad, who seems friendless.”
The monk looked at me attentively as we walked on together.
“You are not residing in Naples?” he asked.
I gave him my name, which he knew by repute, and described the position
of my villa.
“Up on that height we enjoy perfect health,” I added. “I cannot
understand the panic that prevails in the city. The plague is fostered
by such cowardice.”
“Of course!” he answered, calmly. “But what will you? The people here
love pleasure. Their hearts are set solely on this life. When death,
common to all, enters their midst, they are like babes scared by a dark
shadow. Religion itself”—here he sighed deeply—“has no hold upon them.”
“But you, my father,” I began, and stopped abruptly, conscious of a
sharp throbbing pain in my temples.
“I,” he answered, gravely, “am the servant of Christ. As such, the
plague has no terrors for me. Unworthy as I am, for my Master’s sake I
am ready—nay, willing—to face all deaths.”
He spoke firmly, yet without arrogance. I looked at him in a certain
admiration, and was about to speak, when a curious dizziness overcame
me, and I caught at his arm to save myself from falling. The street
rocked like a ship at sea, and the skies whirled round me in circles of
blue fire. The feeling slowly passed, and I heard the monk’s voice, as
though it were a long way off, asking me anxiously what was the matter.
I forced a smile.
“It is the heat, I think,” I said, in feeble tones like those of a very
aged man. “I am faint—giddy. You had best leave me here—see to the boy.
Oh, my God!”
This last exclamation was wrung out of me by sheer anguish. My limbs
refused to support me, and a pang, cold and bitter as though naked
steel had been thrust through my body, caused me to sink down upon the
pavement in a kind of convulsion. The tall and sinewy monk, without a
moment’s hesitation, dragged me up and half carried, half led me into a
kind of auberge, or restaurant for the poorer classes. Here he placed
me in a recumbent position on one of the wooden benches, and called up
the proprietor of the place, a man to whom he seemed to be well known.
Though suffering acutely I was conscious, and could hear and see
everything that passed.
“Attend to him well, Pietro—it is the rich Count Fabio Romani. Thou
wilt not lose by thy pains. I will return within an hour.”
“The Count Romani! _Santissima Madonna_! He has caught the plague!”
“Thou fool!” exclaimed the monk, fiercely. “How canst thou tell? A
stroke of the sun is not the plague, thou coward! See to him, or by St.
Peter and the keys there shall be no place for thee in heaven!”
The trembling innkeeper looked terrified at this menace, and
submissively approached me with pillows, which he placed under my head.
The monk, meanwhile, held a glass to my lips containing some medicinal
mixture, which I swallowed mechanically.
“Rest here, my son,” he said, addressing me in soothing tones. “These
people are good-natured. I will but hasten to the boy for whom you
sought assistance—in less than an hour I will be with you again.”
I laid a detaining hand on his arm.
“Stay,” I murmured, feebly, “let me know the worst. Is this the
plague?”
“I hope not!” he replied, compassionately. “But what if it be? You are
young and strong enough to fight against it without fear.”
“I have no fear,” I said. “But, father, promise me one thing—send no
word of my illness to my wife—swear it! Even if I am
unconscious—dead—swear that I shall not be taken to the villa. Swear
it! I cannot rest till I have your word.”
“I swear it most willingly, my son,” he answered, solemnly. “By all I
hold sacred, I will respect your wishes.”
I was infinitely relieved—the safety of those I loved was assured—and I
thanked him by a mute gesture. I was too weak to say more. He
disappeared, and my brain wandered into a chaos of strange fancies. Let
me try to revolve these delusions. I plainly see the interior of the
common room where I lie. There is the timid innkeeper—he polishes his
glasses and bottles, casting ever and anon a scared glance in my
direction. Groups of men look in at the door, and, seeing me, hurry
away. I observe all this—I know where I am—yet I am also climbing the
steep passes of an Alpine gorge—the cold snow is at my feet—I hear the
rush and roar of a thousand torrents. A crimson cloud floats above the
summit of a white glacier—it parts asunder gradually, and in its bright
center a face smiles forth! “Nina! my love, my wife, my soul!” I cry
aloud. I stretch out my arms—I clasp her!—bah! it is this good rogue of
an innkeeper who holds me in his musty embrace! I struggle with him
fiercely—pantingly.
“Fool!” I shriek in his ear. “Let me go to her—her lips pout for
kisses—let me go!”
Another man advances and seizes me; he and the innkeeper force me back
on the pillows—they overcome me, and the utter incapacity of a terrible
exhaustion steals away my strength. I cease to struggle. Pietro and his
assistant look down upon me.
“_E morto_!” they whisper one to the other.
I hear them and smile. Dead? Not I! The scorching sunlight streams
through the open door of the inn—the thirsty flies buzz with persistent
loudness—some voices are singing “_La Fata di Amalfi_”—I can
distinguish the words—
“Chiagnarò la mia sventura
Si non tuorne chiù, Rosella!
Tu d’ Amalfi la chiù bella,
Tu na Fata sì pe me!
Viene, vie, regina mie,
Viene curre a chisto core,
Ca non c’è non c’è sciore,
Non c’è stella comm’a te!”[1]
[1] A popular song in the Neapolitan dialect.
That is a true song, Nina _mia_! “_Non c’è Stella comm’ a te_!” What
did Guido say? “Purer than the flawless diamond—unapproachable as the
furthest star!” That foolish Pietro still polishes his wine-bottles. I
see him—his meek round face is greasy with heat and dust; but I cannot
understand how he comes to be here at all, for I am on the banks of a
tropical river where huge palms grow wild, and drowsy alligators lie
asleep in the sun. Their large jaws are open—their small eyes glitter
greenly. A light boat glides over the silent water—in it I behold the
erect lithe figure of an Indian. His features are strangely similar to
those of Guido. He draws a long thin shining blade of steel as he
approaches. Brave fellow!—he means to attack single-handed the cruel
creatures who lie in wait for him on the sultry shore. He springs to
land—I watch him with a weird fascination. He passes the alligators—he
seems not to be aware of their presence—he comes with swift,
unhesitating step to _me_—it is I whom he seeks—it is in _my_ heart
that he plunges the cold steel dagger, and draws it out again dripping
with blood! Once—twice—thrice!—and yet I cannot die! I writhe—I moan in
bitter anguish! Then something dark comes between me and the glaring
sun—something cool and shadowy, against which I fling myself
despairingly. Two dark eyes look steadily into mine, and a voice
speaks:
“Be calm, my son, be calm. Commend thyself to Christ!”
It is my friend the monk. I recognize him gladly. He has returned from
his errand of mercy. Though I can scarcely speak, I hear myself asking
for news of the boy. The holy man crosses himself devoutly.
“May his young soul rest in peace! I found him dead.”
I am dreamily astonished at this. Dead—so soon! I cannot understand it;
and I drift off again into a state of confused imaginings. As I look
back now to that time, I find I have no specially distinct recollection
of what afterward happened to me. I know I suffered intense,
intolerable pain—that I was literally tortured on a rack of
excruciating anguish—and that through all the delirium of my senses I
heard a muffled, melancholy sound like a chant or prayer. I have an
idea that I also heard the tinkle of the bell that accompanies the
Host, but my brain reeled more wildly with each moment, and I cannot be
certain of this. I remember shrieking out after what seemed an eternity
of pain, “Not to the villa! no, no, not there! You shall not take me—my
curse on him who disobeys me!”
I remember then a fearful sensation, as of being dragged into a deep
whirlpool, from whence I stretched up appealing hands and eyes to the
monk who stood above me—I caught a drowning glimpse of a silver
crucifix glittering before my gaze, and at last, with one loud cry for
help, I sunk—down—down! into an abyss of black night and nothingness!