NAPLES--SORRENTO--CAPRI--PÆSTUM.
My sanitary inspection of Naples was hasty, and did not prepare me
to give the city a clean bill of health. The streets through which
I passed were less dirty than those of New York. Except for certain
foul smells on the waterfronts, there was nothing in Naples to alarm
the stranger, ever sensitive on the subject of fever and cholera.
The light-hearted Neapolitans laugh at the fears of Englishmen and
Americans. They are now claiming great things for their city on the
strength of their new and copious water-supply. Visitors, however,
refuse to believe in its excellence as a beverage, and persist in
drinking Apollinaris, Victoria, St. Galmier, Source Badoit, and
some other natural or doctored water. It is not for the interest of
hotel-keepers to decry those bottled waters, from the sale of which
they make large profits. But the landlord of the “Nobile” assured me
that none of them can possibly be purer and healthier than the fluid
which sparkles untouched in the _caraffes_ on his tables. The water is
freely used for sprinkling the streets and sluicing the gutters. The
fountains of New York are dried up and mute; but those of Naples play
at certain hours of the day, if not from morning to night. They remind
us of the abundant jets and cascades which we had, with so much regret,
left behind us at Rome. Though the weather in early May is extremely
pleasant, and the heat just right for out-of-door exercise, the sun
glares at times with Italian fierceness. Then it is refreshing to see
the fountains glittering aloft, and to hear the musical splash of their
waters in deep marble basins.
The radical improvements which are expected to render Naples one of
the healthiest cities of Europe have yet to be made. But they are
all planned, and the work has begun on some of them. They include a
complete system of sewerage and the construction of long, wide streets
through those populous quarters where the sun and fresh air never come
now. It was in this swarming, dark, and unventilated district that the
cholera did its worst. Toward these great works the Italian Government
has contributed ten million dollars, and the city (and province) of
Naples eight million more. It is by showing such interest in the
fortunes of all her component parts, especially the large cities, that
unified Italy deepens her hold upon the affections of her people all
over the peninsula.
Snow on Vesuvius in May! The weather at Sorrento flies in the face
of all the authorities. We have been warned a hundred times not to
visit Southern Italy during the “hot month” of May. At the Hôtel
Tramontano we burned little sticks of wood at the rate of a quarter of
a cord a day in the vain effort to keep our sitting-room comfortable.
Our English friends have misled us in the kindest manner possible.
They call the weather warm at 60° Fahr., and hot at 70°. Americans,
accustomed to broiling summers at home, find this climate barely genial
at the very time when Englishmen are roasted out of it. Therefore, I
say, put no faith in their statements where temperature is concerned.
Men who never wear overcoats, and who walk twenty miles before
breakfast, are no guides for people less hardened. With the exception
of one day (strangely enough) in London, and another in Naples, we have
not stopped at a hotel where a fire at night was not a necessity as
well as an expensive luxury. Of course, the thickness of the walls is
responsible for some of the coldness. At Naples I looked down from the
balcony of my hotel and watched some masons at work just across the
narrow street. They were laying outside walls three feet thick, and
walls of two feet between the rooms. The rising structure seemed to be
a jail or a bank. I inquired, and found it was designed for an elegant
private residence. Yet, for the exclusion of heat, it might as well be
a prison, and would look like one, if the walls were not papered and
frescoed.
Vesuvius is an ever-fascinating subject of study. I observe it fifty
times a day with undiminished interest. The changed position of the sun
and every passing cloud, and especially the shifting directions and
forms of the “smoke,” make a new picture of the mountain every time.
The natives for twenty miles around look upon Vesuvius at once as a
barometer and a weather-vane. When the vapor--for such it is for the
most part--drifts, they know from what quarter the wind is blowing. The
capricious shapes it suddenly assumes at times foretell them of coming
storms or calms. I am not yet deep in this lore. But, all the same,
it is a pleasure to note the protean changes of the escaping steam.
Sometimes it goes straight up to the sky in a long, slender shaft, and
at the extreme height opens out like a palm-tree. Then, again, it looks
like a mushroom, with a thick stem and a “chunky” top. Often it streams
out horizontally at great length, like the smoke of a steamer at sea.
When the wind is out of the north or east, accompanied by a slight
rain, then I notice that the vapor rolls down the mountain like its
own lava. At other times Vesuvius makes a huge white cap or turban for
itself--the vapor settling down on the peak and remaining stationary.
Frequently this enlarges into a shroud and gradually covers the volcano
from head to foot. At night, when the sky is clear, there is only one
thing to be seen on Vesuvius--that is the dull-red light which crowns
its dark outlines. While under my observation it was in a state of
unusual activity. It “worked,” as the phrase is.
One morning “Old Vesuve” (for so one finds himself calling the volcano
after a short acquaintance) indicated a change of wind from the
northeast to the southwest. This favored an expedition to the famous
Blue Grotto of Capri, which can not be entered when the wind is driving
the water against and into the narrow opening through which the little
boats must pass. I made the trip from Sorrento to Capri by steamer,
and was then transferred to a frail-looking but stanch canoe, most
skillfully handled. The waves were pretty high--the effect of a storm
which had lasted two days. As we neared the portal of the grotto, it
seemed impossible to shoot through it, for it is not more than three
feet high and three wide, and the water was constantly rushing in and
out of it with a deafening roar and showers of spray. At times more
than half of the opening was filled with the current, which threatened
to dash the fragile bark into splinters and drown the passengers. The
boatman himself hesitated. The conditions were much worse than those he
usually overcame with ease. But he watched his chances, and, seizing
a moment when the current was setting outward, he caught hold of a
jutting point of rock, and, by a sudden jerk, swung us in. I had been
lying flat in the boat, drenched with spray. Responding to his call, I
sat up and looked around.
My first feeling was of disappointment. The grotto is not blue. The
wonderful color, of which one hears so much, is in the water. The vault
rises to a graceful arch in the center and covers a space--irregular in
shape--equal, perhaps, to 125 feet square. Its point of greatest height
is thirty or forty feet above the water. The stone is of a dirty white,
and the faint reflection of light from its concave surface doubtless
has something to do with the production of the phenomenon which gives
the grotto its name. The water of the Mediterranean is beautiful under
all conditions. One need not penetrate grottoes in order to admire its
tints, ever varying on a background of blue. But here the relations
of the water to the light of day are unique. I tried to study the
thing in cold blood, and these are my conclusions about it: Some of
the diffused daylight enters the cave through the only opening above
the water-line. This light irradiates the water to a certain depth,
and causes the white roof to be reflected in it. A great deal of light
also enters beneath the surface of the water, through the opening which
descends to the floor of the grotto. This floor also seems to be white
(as observed by me) at its depth of (say) fifty feet. It therefore
sends back the reflection which the water has already received from the
limestone roof. This double effect gives a brilliant silver tone to the
inclosed mass of blue water. One hunts in vain for some comparison to
convey a clear idea of the unearthly beauty of the spectacle. Sky-blue
satin with the sun shining on it would resemble the surface of the
water as I saw it. But that simile fails to describe the extraordinary
effects of the Blue Grotto. These are mainly derived from the depths,
and are best compared to the sheen of silver and blue which are noticed
in the heart of a sapphire held up against the sunlight.
I was rudely aroused from these cogitations by a boat bumping against
mine. A man in it apologized, and thrust a card into my hand.
Inspecting it by the faint light, I saw that it was the _menu_ of a
_déjeûner_ which would be held hot in waiting for all comers on the
arrival of the steamer at the _Marina Grande_, or chief landing-place
of the island, farther on. Feeling hungry, I ordered my boatman to
return to the ship. The exit was easily made. As soon as all the
visitors to the grotto were safely on board, we proceeded to our other
destination. The business energy of the man who chose so strange a
place to advertise his _table d’hôte_ breakfast was not without reward.
I patronized his hotel. His quail was nice, as it ought to have been,
for the island is celebrated for the abundance and succulence of that
bird. But that which he served as the wine of Capri would in New York
be called water with a dash of vinegar. There are some ruins of a villa
of Tiberius, which may be seen, per donkey, at the top of a high hill.
But one ruin more or less is nothing in this land of wrecked greatness.
So I contented myself with my Blue Grotto, and, when the steamer
whistled for her truant passengers, bade a good-by to Capri.
It is interesting to watch the fishermen at work just underneath my
windows. The Hôtel Tramontano stands 150 feet above the sea, on a rock
that is lapped by its waves. The nets have been set the night before,
and at daybreak the racket begins. Men in boats go out to regulate
matters and take the fish from the meshes. There is a crowd of people
on shore hauling at the ropes and slowly dragging the nets and their
prey out of the depths. They are mostly women, with bare legs and
arms, as strong-looking as the men. They pull in unison, slowly and
carefully. Presently they cease, in compliance with orders screamed to
them from the captains of the boats. Then, from my height, I see one
net raised to the surface with extreme caution. The harvest is about
to be gathered in. The men out there tug at the seine as if it were
heavy. They soon have it well in hand. Their joyous shouts tell the
anxious women on shore that the catch is a good one. They lift the net
now with the greatest possible care, and I begin to see its silvery
contents. The fish, which almost cover its exposed surface, shine like
new standard dollars. The men shake and strip them off, and they fall
a glittering heap into the bottom of the boat. I should say there
were bushels of them, and rejoice that the brave fishermen and their
wives will have something to eat and much to spare for the market. In
size and taste these smelts are exactly like those we eat in America.
I shall relish them a little more at the table to-night after having
“assisted,” as a Frenchman would say, in the operation of catching
them.
I wonder how much of the sub-Treasury building in Wall Street will
still be standing in the year 4372? This question occurred to me very
forcibly as I gazed on the majestic ruins of the Greek temples at
Pæstum. These are supposed to date back to about 600 B. C. They are all
in the same general state of decay as the Parthenon at Athens, which
they much resemble. The largest and best preserved is the Temple of
Neptune, which vividly recalls, by its dimensions and form, the Wall
Street temple of quite another kind. The original thirty-six Doric
columns, each about eight feet in diameter, are yet proudly erect, and,
at a little distance, seem in perfect condition. Only when one comes
near to them does he discover how the tooth of Time has gnawed into and
marred their exquisite shape. The outline of the eastern front is yet
so complete that it could be “restored” by the addition of a few great
stones. Long rows of other fluted columns, not far off, are the remains
of a structure to which the name Basilica is given for want of a
better. A third ruin still farther away is called the Temple of Ceres,
or of Vesta, just as one pleases. Thus uncertain is the most accurate
knowledge we now possess about Poseidonia, which the Greeks dedicated
to Neptune, on a lovely site near the Mediterranean, twenty-five
centuries ago. It must have been a large and important settlement in
their day. But, in the present year of grace, not a single stone or
trace of any edifice (of the old Greek town) can be found, except of
the three I have named, the massive construction of which has alone
saved any part of them to astonish and delight the modern world with
their noble and beautiful proportions. Bits of Roman antiquities lie
around, but these are so very new in comparison with the glorious
Greek fragments that one regards them without interest. Formerly a
trip to Pæstum was attended with danger from brigands. Now your sole
risk is malaria of the worst type. I am happy to inform any Americans
who may desire to see the treasures of Pæstum that they may now be
spared a long and fatiguing ride through a flat and monotonous country.
A railway has been completed from Battipaglia to Pæstum, linking it
directly and easily with Naples, Salerno, and La Cava. We made our
journey from the latter point, starting about 10 A. M., spending two
hours among the ruins, and getting back a little after six--a great
improvement on any possible way of “doing” Pæstum before the rails were
laid. But quinine is still as indispensable to the cautious visitor now
as a pistol was thirty years ago.