That day seemed very long to me I wandered aimlessly about the city,
seeing few faces that I knew, for the wealthier inhabitants, afraid of
the cholera, had either left the place together or remained closely
shut within their own houses. Everywhere I went something bore witness
to the terrible ravages of the plague. At almost every corner I met a
funeral procession. Once I came upon a group of men who were standing
in an open door way packing a dead body into a coffin too small for it.
There was something truly revolting in the way they doubled up the arms
and legs and squeezed in the shoulders of the deceased man—one could
hear the bones crack. I watched the brutal proceedings for a minute or
so, and then I said aloud:
“You had better make sure he is quite dead.”
The _beccamorti_ looked at me in surprise; one laughed grimly and
swore. “By the body of God, if I thought he were not I would twist his
accursed neck for him! But the cholera never fails, he is dead for
certain—see!” And he knocked the head of the corpse to and fro against
the sides of the coffin with no more compunction than if it had been a
block of wood. Sickened at the sight, I turned away and said no more.
On reaching one of the more important thoroughfares I perceived several
knots of people collected, who glanced at one another with eager yet
shamed faces, and spoke in low voices. A whisper reached my ears, “The
king! the king!” All heads were turned in one direction; I paused and
looked also. Walking at a leisurely pace, accompanied by a few
gentlemen of earnest mien and grave deportment, I saw the fearless
monarch, Humbert of Italy—he whom his subjects delight to honor. He was
making a round of visits to all the vilest holes and corners of the
city, where the plague raged most terribly—he had not so much as a
cigarette in his mouth to ward off infection. He walked with the easy
and assured step of a hero; his face was somewhat sad, as though the
sufferings of his people had pressed heavily upon his sympathetic
heart. I bared my head reverently as he passed, his keen kind eyes
lighted on me with a smile.
“A subject for a painting, yon white-haired fisherman!” I heard him say
to one of his attendants. Almost I betrayed myself. I was on the point
of springing forward and throwing myself at his feet to tell him my
story. It seemed to me both cruel and unnatural that he, my beloved
sovereign, should pass me without recognition—me, to whom he had spoken
so often and so cordially. For when I visited Rome, as I was accustomed
to do annually, there were few more welcome guests at the balls of the
Quirinal Palace than Count Fabio Romani. I began to wonder stupidly who
Fabio Romani was; the gay gallant known as such seemed no longer to
have any existence—a “white-haired fisherman” usurped his place. But
though I thought these things I refrained from addressing the king.
Some impulse, however, led me to follow him at a respectful distance,
as did also many others. His majesty strolled through the most
pestilential streets with as much unconcern as though he were taking
his pleasure in a garden of roses; he stepped quietly into the dirtiest
hovels where lay both dead and dying; he spoke words of kindly
encouragement to the grief-stricken and terrified mourners, who stared
through their tears at the monarch with astonishment and gratitude;
silver and gold were gently dropped into the hands of the suffering
poor, and the very pressing cases received the royal benefactor’s
personal attention and immediate relief. Mothers with infants in their
arms knelt to implore the king’s blessing—which to pacify them he gave
with a modest hesitation, as though he thought himself unworthy, and
yet with a parental tenderness that was infinitely touching. One
wild-eyed, black-haired girl flung herself down on the ground right in
the king’s path; she kissed his feet, and then sprung erect with a
gesture of triumph.
“I am saved!” she cried; “the plague cannot walk in the same road with
the king!”
Humbert smiled, and regarded her somewhat as an indulgent father might
regard a spoiled daughter; but he said nothing, and passed on. A
cluster of men and women standing at the open door of one of the
poorest-looking houses in the street next attracted the monarch’s
attention. There was some noisy argument going on; two or three
_beccamorti_ were loudly discussing together and swearing
profusely—some women were crying bitterly, and in the center of the
excited group a coffin stood on end as though waiting for an occupant.
One of the gentlemen in attendance on the king preceded him and
announced his approach, whereupon the loud clamor of tongues ceased,
the men bared their heads, and the women checked their sobs.
“What is wrong here, my friends?” the monarch asked with exceeding
gentleness.
There was silence for a moment; the _beccamorti_ looked sullen and
ashamed. Then one of the women, with a fat good-natured face and eyes
rimmed redly round with weeping, elbowed her way through the little
throng to the front and spoke.
“May the Holy Virgin and saints bless your majesty!” she cried, in
shrill accents. “And as for what is wrong, it would soon be right if
those shameless pigs,” pointing to the _beccamorti_, “would let us
alone. They would kill a man rather than wait an hour—one little hour!
The girl is dead, your majesty—and Giovanni, poor lad! will not leave
her; he has his two arms round her tight—Holy Virgin!—think of it! and
she a cholera corpse—and do what we can, he will not be parted from
her, and they seek her body for the burial. And if we force him away,
_poverino_, he will lose his head for certain. One little hour, your
majesty, just one, and the reverend father will come and persuade
Giovanni better than we can.”
The king raised his hand with a slight gesture of command—the little
crowd parted before him—and he entered the miserable dwelling wherein
lay the corpse that was the cause of all the argument. His attendants
followed; I, too, availed myself of a corner in the doorway. The scene
disclosed was so terribly pathetic that few could look upon it without
emotion—Humbert of Italy himself uncovered his head and stood silent.
On a poor pallet bed lay the fair body of a girl in her first youth,
her tender loveliness as yet untouched even by the disfiguring marks of
the death that had overtaken her. One would have thought she slept, had
it not been for the rigidity of her stiffened limbs, and the wax-like
pallor of her face and hands. Right across her form, almost covering it
from view, a man lay prone, as though he had fallen there
lifeless—indeed he might have been dead also for any sign he showed to
the contrary. His arms were closed firmly round the girl’s corpse—his
face was hidden from view on the cold breast that would no more respond
to the warmth of his caresses. A straight beam of sunlight shot like a
golden spear into the dark little room and lighted up the whole
scene—the prostrate figures on the bed—the erect form of the
compassionate king, and the grave and anxious faces of the little crowd
of people who stood around him.
“See! that is the way he has been ever since last night when she died,”
whispered the woman who had before spoken; “and his hands are clinched
round her like iron—one cannot move a finger!”
The king advanced. He touched the shoulder of the unhappy lover. His
voice, modulated to an exquisite softness, struck on the ears of the
listeners like a note of cheerful music.
“_Figlio mio_!”
There was no answer. The women, touched by the simple endearing words
of the monarch, began to sob though gently, and even the men brushed a
few drops from their eyes. Again the king spoke.
“_Figlio mio_! I am your king. Have you no greeting for me?”
The man raised his head from its pillow on the breast of the beloved
corpse and stared vacantly at the royal speaker. His haggard face,
tangled hair, and wild eyes gave him the appearance of one who had long
wandered in a labyrinth of frightful visions from which there was no
escape but self-murder.
“Your hand, my son!” resumed the king in a tone of soldier-like
authority.
Very slowly—very reluctantly—as though he were forced to the action by
some strange magnetic influence which he had no power to withstand, he
loosened his right arm from the dead form it clasped so pertinaciously,
and stretched forth the hand as commanded. Humbert caught it firmly
within his own and held it fast—then looking the poor fellow full in
the face, he said with grave steadiness and simplicity,
“There is no death in love, my friend!”
The young man’s eyes met his—his set mouth softened—and wresting his
hand passionately from that of the king, he broke into a passion of
weeping. Humbert at once placed a protecting arm around him, and with
the assistance of one of his attendants raised him from the bed, and
led him unresistingly away, as passively obedient as a child, though
sobbing convulsively as he went. The rush of tears had saved his
reason, and most probably his life. A murmur of enthusiastic applause
greeted the good king as he passed through the little throng of persons
who had witnessed what had taken place. Acknowledging it with a quiet
unaffected bow, he left the house, and signed to the _beccamorti_, who
still waited outside, that they were now free to perform their
melancholy office. He then went on his way attended by more heart-felt
blessings and praises than ever fell to the lot of the proudest
conqueror returning with the spoils of a hundred battles. I looked
after his retreating figure till I could see it no more—I felt that I
had grown stronger for the mere presence of a hero—a man who indeed was
“every inch a king.” I am a royalist—yes. Governed by such a sovereign,
few men of calm reason would be otherwise. But royalist though I am, I
would assist in bringing about the dethronement and death of a mean
tyrant, were he crowned king a hundred times over! Few monarchs are
like Humbert of Italy—even now my heart warms when I think of him—in
all the distraction of my sufferings, his figure stands out like a
supreme embodied Beneficent Force surrounded by the clear light of
unselfish goodness—a light in which Italia suns her fair face and
smiles again with the old sweet smile of her happiest days of high
achievement—days in which her children were great, simply because they
were _earnest_. The fault of all modern labor lies in the fact that
there is no heart in anything we do—we seldom love our work for work’s
sake—we perform it solely for what we can get by it. Therein lies the
secret of failure. Friends will scarcely serve each other unless they
can also serve their own interests—true, there are exceptions to this
rule, but they are deemed fools for their pains.
As soon as the king disappeared I also left the scene of the foregoing
incident. I had a fancy to visit the little restaurant where I had been
taken ill, and after some trouble I found it. The door stood open. I
saw the fat landlord, Pietro, polishing his glasses as though he had
never left off; and there in the same corner was the very wooden bench
on which I had lain—where I had—as was generally supposed—died. I
stepped in. The landlord looked up and bade me good-day. I returned his
salutation, and ordered some coffee and rolls of bread. Seating myself
carelessly at one of the little tables I turned over the newspaper,
while he bustled about in haste to serve me. As he dusted and rubbed up
a cup and saucer for my use, he said, briskly,
“You have had a long voyage, _amico_? And successful fishing?”
For a moment I was confused and knew not what to answer, but gathering
my wits together I smiled and answered readily in the affirmative.
“And you?” I said, gayly. “How goes the cholera?”
The landlord shook his head dolefully.
“Holy Joseph! do not speak of it. The people die like flies in a
honey-pot. Only yesterday—body of Bacchus!—who would have thought it?”
And he sighed deeply as he poured out the steaming coffee, and shook
his head more sorrowfully than before.
“Why, what happened yesterday?” I asked, though I knew perfectly well
what he was going to say; “I am a stranger in Naples, and empty of
news.”
The perspiring Pietro laid a fat thumb on the marble top of the table,
and with it traced a pattern meditatively.
“You never heard of the rich Count Romani?” he inquired.
I made a sign in the negative, and bent my face over my coffee-cup.
“Ah, well!” he went on with a half groan, “it does not matter—there is
no Count Romani any more. It is all gone—finished! But he was rich—as
rich as the king, they say—yet see how low the saints brought him! Fra
Cipriano of the Benedictines carried him in here yesterday morning—he
was struck by the plague—in five hours he was dead,” here the landlord
caught a mosquito and killed it—“ah! as dead as that _zinzara_! Yes, he
lay dead on that very wooden bench opposite to you. They buried him
before sunset. It is like a bad dream!”
I affected to be deeply engrossed with the cutting and spreading of my
roll and butter.
“I see nothing particular about it,” I said, indifferently. “That he
was rich is nothing—rich and poor must die alike.”
“And that is true, very true,” assented Pietro, with another groan,
“for not all his property could save the blessed Cipriano.”
I started, but quickly controlled myself.
“What do you mean?” I asked, as carelessly as I could. “Are you talking
of some saint?”
“Well, if he were not canonized he deserves to be,” replied the
landlord; “I speak of the holy Benedictine father who brought hither
the Count Romani in a dying condition. Ah I little he knew how soon the
good God would call him himself!”
I felt a sickening sensation at my heart.
“Is he dead?” I exclaimed.
“Dead as the martyrs!” answered Pietro. “He caught the plague, I
suppose, from the count, for he was bending over him to the last. Ay,
and he sprinkled holy water over the corpse, and laid his own crucifix
upon it in the coffin. Then up he went to the Villa Romani, taking with
him the count’s trinkets, his watch, ring, and cigar-case—and nothing
would satisfy him but that he should deliver them himself to the young
_contessa_, telling her how her husband died.”
My poor Nina!—I thought. “Was she much grieved?” I inquired, with a
vague curiosity.
“How do I know?” said the landlord, shrugging his bulky shoulders. “The
reverend father said nothing, save that she swooned away. But what of
that? Women swoon at everything—from a mouse to a corpse. As I said,
the good Cipriano attended the count’s burial—and he had scarce
returned from it when he was seized with the illness. And this morning
he died at the monastery—may his soul rest in peace! I heard the news
only an hour ago. Ah! he was a holy man! He has promised me a warm
corner in Paradise, and I know he will keep his word as truly as St.
Peter himself.”
I pushed away the rest of my meal untasted. The food choked me. I could
have shed tears for the noble, patient life thus self-sacrificed. One
hero the less in this world of unheroic, uninspired persons! I sat
silent, lost in sorrowful thought. The landlord looked at me curiously.
“The coffee does not please you?” he said at last. “You have no
appetite?” I forced a smile.
“Nay—your words would take the edge off the keenest appetite ever born
of the breath of the sea. Truly Naples affords but sorry entertainment
to a stranger; is there naught to hear but stories of the dying and the
dead?”
Pietro put on an air that was almost apologetic.
“Well, truly!” he answered, resignedly—“very little else. But what
would you, _amico_? It is the plague and the will of God.”
As he said the last words my gaze was caught and riveted by the figure
of a man strolling leisurely past the door of the cafe. It was Guido
Ferrari—my friend! I would have rushed out to speak to him—but
something in his look and manner checked the impulse as it rose in me.
He was walking very slowly, smoking a cigar as he went; there was a
smile on his face, and in his coat he wore a freshly-gathered rose _La
Gloire de France_, similar to those that grew in such profusion on the
upper terrace of my villa. I stared at him as he passed—my feelings
underwent a kind of shock. He looked perfectly happy and tranquil,
happier indeed than ever I remembered to have seen him, and yet—and
yet, according to _his_ knowledge, I, his best friend, had died only
yesterday! With this sorrow fresh upon him, he could smile like a man
going to a _festa_, and wear a coral-pink rose, which surely was no
sign of mourning! For one moment I felt hurt, the next, I laughed at my
own sensitiveness. After all, what of the smile, what of the rose! A
man could not always be answerable for the expression of his
countenance, and as for the flower, he might have gathered it _en
passent_, without thinking, or what was still more likely, the child
Stella might have given it to him, in which case he would have worn it
to please her. He displayed no badge of mourning? True!—but then
consider—I had only died yesterday! There had been no time to procure
all those outward appurtenances of woe which social customs rendered
necessary, but which were no infallible sign of the heart’s sincerity.
Satisfied with my own self-reasoning I made no attempt to follow Guido
in his walk—I let him go on his way unconscious of my existence. I
would wait, I thought, till the evening—then everything would be
explained.
I turned to the landlord. “How much to pay?” I asked.
“What you will, _amico_” he replied—“I am never hard on the fisher
folk—but times are bad, or you would be welcome to a breakfast for
nothing. Many and many a day have I done as much for men of your craft,
and the blessed Cipriano who is gone used to say that St. Peter would
remember me for it. It is true the Madonna gives a special blessing if
one looks after the fishers, because all the holy apostles were of the
trade; and I would be loth to lose her protection—yet—”
I laughed and tossed him a franc. He pocketed it at once and his eyes
twinkled.
“Though you have not taken half a franc’s worth,” he admitted, with an
honesty very unusual in a Neapolitan—“but the saints will make it up to
you, never fear!”
“I am sure of that!” I said, gayly. “_Addio_, my friend! Prosperity to
you and our Lady’s favor!”
This salutation, which I knew to be a common one with Sicilian
mariners, the good Pietro responded to with amiable heartiness, wishing
me luck on my next voyage. He then betook himself anew to the polishing
of his glasses—and I passed the rest of the day in strolling about the
least frequented streets of the city, and longing impatiently for the
crimson glory of the sunset, which, like a wide flag of triumph, was to
be the signal of my safe return to love and happiness.