A BAD NIGHT IN GENOA HARBOR.
A man not in a hurry to reach Southern Italy before hot weather, might
find happiness and contentment in three or four days of Genoa. The
old city has churches and palaces worth visiting. Some of the drives
in the environs are charming, and I should not soon tire of views of
the Mediterranean to be had from the Acqua Sola. But, when the tourist
is burning up with a desire to pass early May in Rome, Naples, and
Sorrento, and hopes to see the glorious Greek ruins of Pæstum without
fear of a sunstroke, he willingly leaves over Genoa to the chance of
another visit. My real object in breaking the journey at that point was
to take boat thence to Naples direct, and avoid the rail route to Rome,
which I had traversed in 1883.
I had gathered from books the impression that, for unalloyed pleasure,
nothing in the line of travel was quite equal to the steamship trip
from Genoa along the coast, touching at Leghorn, Cività Vecchia (port
of Rome), passing in full view of Elba and Corsica, and entering the
glorious Neapolitan bay by daylight. The view of Naples from the sea,
with the long curve of coast, the white houses of the city piled high
in terraces, smoking Vesuvius in the background, and the islands of
Ischia and Capri deep blue in the offing, like sapphires in a setting
of lapis-lazuli, is the identical view to which the much-quoted proverb
refers. We had looked forward to this trip with the greatest pleasure,
and now I must tell the reader how the cup was dashed to the ground
even before it had been raised to our lips.
We thought we were in great luck when we found, on arriving at Genoa,
that a steamship would start for Naples, and take in all the wonderful
sights along the coast, the following night at 9 P. M. precisely. Even
before I had made a tour of the city, I went to the office of the
steamship company to secure the best cabin left. I greatly feared that
all the accommodations had been snapped up by other more fortunate
travelers. When I reached the office I was quite alarmed to see crowds
of people standing before the heavy wire network which separated them
from the cashier and clerks. These people were all thrusting their
money through small open wickets, and receiving in exchange slips
of paper that looked like tickets. I annexed myself to one of these
anxious crowds, and after a delay of ten minutes, and a little firm but
still polite working of my elbows into the ribs of others all about me,
found myself face to face with a nervous and overworked young man.
I told him in French what I wanted, and asked him the price of two
first-class tickets. Like most intelligent Italians, he understood a
little French. His face expressed great surprise, as if my application
for a first-class cabin on a Naples steamer was something unheard of.
He begged me to excuse him a moment, and he would find out the price.
I thought this very strange, when I considered the great demand that
must exist for the best berths. I was curious for an explanation, but
forbore to seek it when I looked at that poor young man’s tired face.
He sat down, with one hand partly covering his forehead, in which I
could see the distended veins, while with the other hand he ciphered
on a blotting-pad, meanwhile looking hard at some columns of printed
figures on a placard before him. He was immersed in deep calculations
for five minutes. One would have thought he was working out an eclipse
of the sun.
The pack of Italians behind me was increasing, and there were murmurs
of dissatisfaction on account of their delay, while the young man
was performing prodigies in arithmetic. I was beginning to feel very
uncomfortable under the pressure in the rear, when he suddenly footed
up his elaborate computations, and told me what two first-class tickets
from Genoa to Naples--table-fare included, without wine--would cost. I
was surprised to learn that the fares were much higher than those by
rail all the way; but, _per contra_, there was the escape from a dreary
land-ride, and, better yet, the sea-view of Naples, cheap even at the
price of death. So I paid over the money and received my tickets, with
the accompanying injunction that I must be on board at 8 P. M., one
hour before sailing, without fail. The exhausted young man also gave
me directions about reaching the steamship, which was then anchored in
the harbor. I thanked him, and forced myself through the ever-growing
throng of Italians to the open air. I deemed myself truly fortunate
to have secured that prize of a cabin, and reveled in the fondest
anticipations.
The next night, a few minutes before eight o’clock, we descended from a
carriage to the quay, where small boats could be obtained to put us on
board. The driver blew a shrill whistle, to which several boats near by
responded. The one that reached us first, and thereby became entitled
to our patronage, looked like the relic of an Arctic whaler. Its
sides were worm-eaten; its bottom was covered with water. It exhaled
a rank smell of fish. The rower was as unpleasant to the eye as the
craft he slowly propelled with two oars that looked as if they would
snap off in the middle with the least strain. My first intention was
to reject the services of this boat and man; but when I glanced at the
others heading for me, I saw that, if possible, they were worse. So
I accepted the situation, and in a few minutes we, with our trunks,
were on board, keeping our feet out of the water by resting them on
the spare seat before us. Then he struck out for the steamship, and he
had not made ten strokes of the oars before I had forgotten all about
the disagreeable sight and smell of the boat. For in that part of the
harbor, in that tide, we were initiated into the mysteries of the old
sewage system of Genoa. In this respect the city is probably better
off than any other along the Italian coast; but, during that little
boat-ride, I ceased to wonder why the cholera, which thrives on filth
and stenches, is so fond of Mediterranean towns. If I had not known
the ride to be a short one, and that we should weigh anchor in an hour
and be off for the open sea, I should have felt like abandoning the
expedition at that early stage of it.
When we reached the goal at last, after making the circuit of several
other sea-going craft, steam and sail, anchored close together,
we found a large, handsome boat. She was freshly painted, and I
shall always remember how nice the paint smelt in contrast with the
unpleasant odors all around her. We could see men on deck hoisting in
the cargo from a lighter alongside, and hear their cheery cries as
they tugged at the ropes. They were so very busy that not one of them
could lend a hand to us. But our boatman, with all his dirt, was not
lazy. He lost no time in putting our two trunks aboard, shouldering
them with ease, and bounding up the flight of wooden steps which hung
precariously from the deck to the water’s edge. We followed quickly,
and I inquired at once for _il capitano_. One of the sailors pointed
me to a wiry little man, who was sharply watching the hands as they
swung the barrels and boxes on board and lowered them into the hold.
I stepped up to him and handed him my ticket. He looked it over twice
carefully, scratched his head in evident perplexity, and murmured
words in Italian unintelligible to me. I tried him in French, but he
only shook his head. His astonishment at something was even greater
than that of the young man in the company’s office the day before.
Finally, in despair, he called to a subordinate of some rank and put
us in his charge, significantly shrugging his shoulders at the same
time. This man’s manner expressed surprise, mingled with amusement,
I should say. He also could not speak French, but he made signs that
we were to follow him. We did so, and, descending the companion-way,
found ourselves in a small but neat saloon, off which six or eight
cabins opened on either side. The one assigned to us was well situated
and commodious enough, but the two beds in it were not made up, and it
had a musty smell, as if it had not been aired through the port-hole
for some years. But this stuffiness was more tolerable than the stench
which would soon have permeated the cabin if the dead-light had been
open. Of washing arrangements there were none in the cabin, but we
were shown a place outside which would have supplied that deficiency,
if there had been any jug for water, or stopper at the bottom of the
basin to keep the water from running out, or towel or soap-dish. These
discoveries were dampers, but we were inclined to be philosophical.
The worst, however, was yet to be learned, and, thanks to the scrappy
French of the captain’s cook, whom we interviewed upon the subject of a
little hot supper, we soon found it out.
It appears that this boat, and others of the same line, no longer
made a business of carrying first-class passengers; the railways do
all that now. Once in a while an officer of the Italian army or
navy presents himself with a government pass, and some provision is
made for him, but yet he must rough it. Just before nine o’clock a
gentleman with a long, trailing sword and spurs, appeared with a pass,
and took a cabin next to ours. He was the only first or even second
class passenger aboard besides ourselves. There were a few persons in
the steerage, who furnished their own food. Being out of the habit of
taking saloon-passengers, the officers of the boat had made no suitable
preparations for them. They were just as much amazed to see us there as
the company’s agent had been to receive my order for a cabin. To the
former we also represented a certain amount of extra trouble and care.
“But how about the rush for tickets?” I asked the cook.
“Oh, that was only for freight-receipts,” he replied.
All this intelligence, and much more of the kind, especially relating
to the lean larder, and the cook’s inability to get a hot supper for
us, with some uncertainty as to breakfast next morning, were vexatious
and even distressing. Still, we knew we should not starve on board;
and, after all, the privations, whatever they might be, would last
only thirty-six hours, the time required for the whole trip, including
a stoppage at Leghorn, so we were told. Besides, it was almost nine
o’clock now, and too late to go ashore. So we decided to put the
best face on our disappointment. Meanwhile, the stewardess had come
aboard, and she had fished out of the lockers enough sheets, blankets,
and pillows to equip our two berths. A pair of towels were also
discovered after much search and hung up on nails above the mockery of
a wash-stand. Toward ten o’clock matters were becoming slightly more
endurable. But the boat had not started. The men were still hoisting in
the cargo, as we knew from their droning songs and the creaking of the
windlass. Eleven o’clock came and went, and yet no sign of departure.
So we went to bed, hoping that we might soon fall asleep, and wake in
the morning to find the boat far on her way across the Gulf of Genoa.
But sleep was impossible while those interminable choruses rang in our
ears. Twelve, one, two, three, four o’clock!--and our craft was still
at her anchorage and the operation of loading progressing as noisily
as ever. As dawn stole through the dead-light, I arose and opened it
to get a whiff of fresh air as a change from the stifling atmosphere
of the cabin, which had only a lattice-work opening on the saloon for
ventilation. But a mephitic odor arose from the water, and compelled
me to close the bull’s-eye. Dressing myself, I went on deck, and
there saw that the work of loading had in fact only just begun. A
second lighter, with a towering pile of merchandise, had been brought
alongside during the night, and the transfer of her cargo to the hold
I knew would be the work of many hours. I resolved to hail a boat, go
ashore with my trunks, trust to getting my passage-money refunded by
the company, and leave for Rome _via_ Pisa on the ten-o’clock train.
We carried this resolve into instant execution. The officers, who
were then on deck, beamed with delight as they saw us preparing to
leave. One hailed a boat for us. Another brought our two trunks in his
strong arms from the room where they had been stored overnight. The
cook bustled around ecstatically and made us a cup of good coffee,
with sugar and milk. I never saw a man so pleased; for our presence
on the boat had been a cause of the greatest solicitude to him, in
the impoverished state of his supplies. The stewardess grinned with
unspeakable satisfaction. Even the captain found time to quit his post
at the hatchway to see us over the ship’s side in safety. None of us
said a word, but our hearts swelled with thankfulness at the thought
that we were parting with each other forever.
The _battello_ which put us ashore seemed to be a twin-sister of
the one that put us aboard. But we reached the quay in safety, after
running a gantlet of foul smells. Then another singular incident befell
us. Custom-house officers were on the watch at our landing-place. They
might have seen us when we left the steamship out there. They must have
known that we had passed the night on board, for they asked questions
of the boatman, which he answered, all doubtless to that effect. And
yet our baggage was taken to the custom-house, not far off, for an
inspection. The head-man spoke a little French, and I explained to him
the facts of the case. But this did not prevent him from performing the
solemn ceremony of examining the contents of the trunks, the valise,
the bundle of shawls, and the hand-bag, just as if we had arrived from
the coast of Africa. I thought, from the expression on the faces of the
inspectors, that a couple of francs would have saved me this detention.
But I was really amused at the farce, and allowed it to proceed
unchecked.
Returning to the Hôtel de Gênes, greatly to the surprise of the worthy
head-porter, we stopped there long enough to take a solid breakfast.
A visit soon after made to the office of the steamship company was
successful in getting back the passage-money, with apologies for the
mishaps which had occurred. I could not quite make out whether the
fault was with the young man who sold me the tickets, or with somebody
on board ship who did not heed the wishes of his employers on shore,
and I did not care to settle the question so long as I was not obliged
to be imprisoned on that craft during the uncertain period of her
voyage from Genoa to Naples.
I wonder if she has started yet? Perhaps she is still taking in cargo.
I only know that, for weeks afterward, every time I saw a Naples
newspaper, I looked among the marine arrivals for the name of that
boat, and did not find it.