sin, and, ere long, the vision of the sombre emperor fades from your
thought. Now it is silent and peaceful up at Villa Tiberio. You lie
there on your back gazing out over the gulf, and it seems to you as
though the world ended beyond its lovely shores. The restless strife of
the day does not reach you here, and all dissonance is silenced; your
thoughts fly aimlessly round, play for awhile amongst the surf near
Sorrento's rocks, send their open-armed greeting to Ischia's groves, and
pluck some fragrant roses from the verdant shore of Posilipo. So
perception gradually dies away, no longer do you hear the buzz of the
whirling wheels in the factory of thought--to-day is a day of rest and
your soul may dream. What dream you?--You know not! Where are you?--You
know not! You fly on the white wings of the sea-gulls far, far away over
the wide waters; you sail with the brilliant clouds high overhead where
no thought can reach you.
But you are only a prisoner after all--a prisoner who dreamt he was free
and is awakened in the midst of his dreams by the rattle of a jailer's
key. The sound of voices strikes your ear, and like a wing-shot bird you
fall to the earth. Beside you stands a lanky individual, and he says to
his companion that it is incredible that a man can be prosaic enough to
fall asleep on a spot so _wunderbar_. Ah, you are asleep, are you?
The spell is broken, the harmony destroyed, and you get up to go away.
He then assaults you with the question whether you don't think the gulf
is blue? and you have not walked on ten yards before he attacks you
treacherously from behind with the remark that the sky is also blue. You
believe it helps to stare savagely at him--I have done it many times,
and it does not impress him in the very least. You want to try to make
him believe you are deaf--that is no use either; he takes it as a
compliment, for he prefers to have the conversation all to himself.
The sun stands high in the heavens and the summer's day is so
warm--come, let us go and bathe in the cool water of the blue grotto.
No, my friend, not there! Even thither, like sharks they come swimming
after us to ask us if we are aware that the blue grotto of Capri is
virtually German, that it was _ein Deutscher_ who discovered the grotto
in 1826. Let us be off for Bagni di Tiberio, the ruins of the emperor's
bath, strip off our clothes inside one of the cool little chambers which
still remain amongst huge blocks of crumbling masonry, and plunge into
the sapphire water. But do you see those huge holes in the fine
sand,--are there elephants in the island? No, my friend, but let us be
off! I know the track, and there she sits, the blonde Gretchen, reading
one of Spielhagen's novels--were it Heine she was reading I might
perhaps forgive her.
We return along the beach to the Marina and wend our way along the old
path between the vineyards leading up to the village. Unfortunately the
new carriage road is nearly ready, but we, of course, prefer the old
way, by far the more picturesque of the two. On the beach we stumble
over easels and colour-boxes at short distances set out as traps for
dreamers; beside each trap sits an amateur in ambush under a big
umbrella, and he invokes _der Teufel_ to help him, which I suppose he
does.
You propose putting up at Albergo Pagano--yes, you are right; it is no
doubt the best hotel in the island. Old Pagano, who was a capital
fellow, died many years ago, and only we old Capriotes can remember him.
His son Manfredo, who now manages the hotel, is my very good friend; but
it is not his fault that his house has become as German as though it
lay in the heart of _Das grosse Vaterland_. At least a good fifty of
them are gathered round the table in the big dining-room. Upon the walls
hangs a plaster medallion of the _Kaiser_ decorated with fresh laurels,
and should they pay you the compliment of mistaking you for a Frenchman,
it is just possible they may drink a bumper to the memory of 1870--an
experience I once went through myself. Instead of the silence and the
peace you so longed for, you are subjected during the whole of
dinner-time to the most terrific uproar worthy of a _Kneipe_ in Bremen.
In despair you fling open the door leading into the garden--no, you are
in Italy after all! Out there under the pergola the moonbeams are
playing amongst the vines, the air is soft and caressing, and the summer
evening recites to you its enchanting sonnet as a compensation for the
prose within. You wander there up and down all alone, but scarcely have
you had time to say to yourself that you are happy before
"Heil dir im Sieges Kranz!"
rings like a war-cry through the peaceful night, answered from the
street by some little Capriote ragamuffins with a horrible chorus of
"Ach! du lieber Augustin!
Augustin, Augustin!"
* * * * *
Of course I am aware of the supercilious way in which many of the
readers of _Letters from a Mourning City_[10] have turned up their noses
at my circle of friends out here--lazzaroni, shabby old monks,
half-starving sailors, etc. The hour is at hand for introducing you to
some acquaintances of mine of somewhat higher rank, and now I will tell
you a story of the upper regions of society. It happened at Capri a good
many years ago, and the _dramatis personae_ consisted of my friend
D----, myself, and the then Crown Princess of Germany.
My friend D---- and I happened to be the only profane people in the
hotel just then. The whole of the big dining-table was in the hands of
the Germans, whilst we two sat by ourselves at a small side-table. It
was there we had our little observatory, as Professor Palmieri had his
on Mount Vesuvius. For some days past our keen instruments of perception
had warned us that something unusual was going on at the big table. The
roaring of an evening was louder than ever, the smoke rose in thicker
clouds, the beer ran in streams, and the faces were flushed to
red-heat--everything announced an eruption of patriotism. One evening
there arrived a telegram which, amidst a terrific babel of voices, was
read aloud by one of the party--a commercial traveller from Potsdam,
whom I personally hated because he snored at night; his room was next
to mine and the walls of the hotel were thin. The telegram announced
that the Crown Princess of Germany, who had been spending the last few
days in Naples, was expected to visit Capri the next day in the
strictest incognito. Nobody appeared to understand that the word
"incognito" means that one wishes to be left in peace, and during the
rest of the dinner the faithful patriots did nothing but discuss the
best way of how to spoil the unfortunate Princess's little visit to the
island. A complete programme was drawn up there and then: a triumphal
arch was to be erected, a select deputation was to swoop down upon her
the moment she set foot on land, while the main body was to block her
way up to the piazza. Patriotic songs were to be sung in chorus, a
speech read, whilst the commercial traveller from Potsdam was to express
in a welcoming poem what already his face said eloquently enough--that
poetry was not in his line. Every garden in Capri was to be despoiled of
its roses, whole bushes and trees were to be uprooted wherewith to deck
the triumphal arch, and all night they were to weave garlands and stitch
flags.
I went up to my room, threw myself on the sofa, and lit a cigarette. And
as I lay there meditating, feelings of the deepest compassion towards
the Crown Princess of Germany began to overwhelm me. I had just read in
the papers how, during her stay in Naples, she had sought by every
manner of means to elude all official recognition, and to avoid every
sort of demonstration in her honour during her excursions round the bay.
Poor Princess! she had flattered herself upon having left all weary
court etiquette behind in foggy Berlin, and yet she was not to be
allowed to enjoy in peace one single summer day on the gulf! To be rich
enough to be able to buy the whole of Capri, and yet be unable to enjoy
the peaceful idyll of the enchanting island for one short hour! To be
destined to wear one of the proudest crowns of the world, and yet to be
powerless to prevent a commercial traveller from writing poetry! My
compassionate reflections were here disturbed by the noise of heavy
footsteps in the adjoining room; it sounded like the tramp of horses'
hoofs; it was the "_Probenreiter_" who mounted his Pegasus. The whole
night through I lay there reflecting on the vanity of earthly power, and
the whole night did the Poet Laureate wander up and down his room. Once
the tramping ceased, and there was a silence. There was a panting from
within, and I heard a husky voice murmur--
"Ich stehe hier auf Felsenstrand!
Ich stehe hier auf Felsenstrand!"[11]
A moment afterwards I heard him fling open his window and let the night
air cool the fire of his inspiration. Our rooms opened on to the same
balcony, and carefully lifting up my blind I could see the moonlight
falling full upon him as he leaned against the window-frame. His hair
stood on end and an inarticulate mumble fell from his lips. He gazed in
despair up to the heavens where the stars were twinkling knowingly at
one another; he glanced out over the garden where the night wind flew
tittering amongst the leaves. But he never saw the joke until a startled
young cock inquired of some old cocks down in the poultry yard what time
it was, and then crowed straight into his face that the night was passed
and he had got no further than the first verse. Then he murmured once
more a plaintive--
"Ich stehe hier auf Felsenstrand!"
and banged his windows to. All the cocks of Pagano's crowed "Bravo!
Bravo!" but Phoebus, Phoebus Apollo, the God of the Sun and of the
poets, entered his room at that moment, and he reddened with anger when
he caught sight of the commercial traveller tampering with his lyre.
Later on, when the chambermaid appeared, I heard him call out for coffee
and cognac--having spent the whole night like that on his
_Felsenstrand_, no wonder he needed a pick-me-up. He was late for
luncheon. I glanced at the poet; an interesting pallor lent a faint look
of distinction to the commercial traveller's plump features, and his
great goggle eyes lay like extinct suns under his heavy eyelids. He
received great attention from everybody, especially from the fair sex. I
heard him confide to his neighbour at table that he always succeeded
best with improvisations, and that he did not intend to let the reins of
his inspiration loose until the last moment. They drank to his charming
talent, whereupon he modestly smiled. He ate nothing, but drank
considerably. At dessert he had regained his high colour, harangued
every one excitedly, and drank toasts right and left. But it seemed as
if he dared not be alone with his thoughts; as soon as the conversation
around him ceased, he sank into profound meditation, and an attentive
observer could easily detect that the roses of his cheeks were hiding
cruel thorns which pierced his soul. For it was twelve o'clock; the
Princess was expected at four, and he still stood there like Napoleon on
St. Helena, alone and abandoned on his _Felsenstrand_, vainly gazing out
over the unfathomable ocean of poetry in search of one single little
friendly rhyme to row him over to the next verse.
The hotel had become quite unbearable downstairs; rehearsals of
patriotic songs were going on in the salon, whilst in the hall went on a
busy manufacture of garlands, to which the victim's name and long
fluttering ribbons were being attached. The piazza was gaily decorated;
the triumphal arch was ready--a black cardboard eagle perched on the top
holding a white placard in his beak, upon which stood out in huge red
letters the word _Willkommen_. Flag-staffs and garlands all over the
piazza; even Nicolino, barber and _salassatore_ (bleeder), had decided
to join the triple alliance, and a colossal German flag was waving
before his _salone_. I did not know what to do with myself, and at last
I strolled up towards Villa di Tiberio--up there, there might be a
chance of a little peace at all events. I had scarcely had time to lie
down in my favourite place far out on the edge of the cliff, viewing the
Bay of Naples on one side and the Bay of Salerno and the wide sea on the
other, before a long shadow fell across me. I looked up, and saw a
patriot staring fixedly through a telescope towards Naples. As a matter
of fact, something was visible in the midst of the bay, but the haze
made it difficult to see what it was. Suddenly he gave a sort of
war-whoop, whereupon two other spies, who must have been sitting at the
top of the old watch-tower, came bursting on the scene. I knew quite
well what it was that had appeared in sight--it was the big
"Scoppa-boat" sailing home from Naples.[12] Of course I said nothing, as
there was always a faint hope that they might mistake it for the
expected steamer, and take themselves off. But unfortunately they also
guessed rightly, and all three sat down on the grass beside me, and
began munching sandwiches and abusing Tiberius. I took myself off, and
returned to Capri. On the piazza I came across my friend D----, who did
not seem to be in a very good temper either; he was on his way to the
Marina, and I accompanied him thither. Down at the Marina everything was
peaceful and quiet, for the time being at all events. Old men sat there
in the open boathouses mending their nets, and small boys, who had not
seen fit to put on more clothes than usual for the Princess's expected
visit, played about in the surf, and rolled their little bronze bodies
in the sand. The landing-place was crowded as usual when the Naples
steamer is expected; girls stood there offering corals, flowers, and
fruit for sale, and in the rear stood patient little donkeys, ready
saddled for carrying the expected visitors on a trip up to the village.
We were just about to blot the whole of Germany from our minds, when my
friend Alessio, shading his eyes with his hand, suddenly observed that
the steamer which had just come in sight was not the usual passenger
steamer from Naples, but a larger and more rapid boat. I looked at my
watch, it was barely three o'clock; I had hoped for at least another
hour's respite. Alessio was right; it was not the usual boat that hove
in sight. And now the Marina began to wake up, and people came pouring
in from all sides. We saw the deputation rush down the hill at full
speed, with the chorus at its heels, and last of all came the court
poet, who surely disapproved as much as we did at the Princess's
anticipating her visit by a whole hour. The steamer was certainly going
with a greater speed than the usual boat, and she also seemed to draw
more water, as she backed farther out than usual from the harbour. The
solemn moment was at hand; the deputation stood on the landing-stage in
battle array, headed by the commercial traveller. We saw several people
descend the ladder and step into a little boat, which rapidly made for
the shore.
"Heil dir im Sieges Kranz!"
was now performed, and hardly had they got through the first verse when
the boat pulled up alongside the little quay, and two ladies and a
gentleman in uniform prepared to land. If they thought this would prove
so easy a matter, they were mistaken--they were stopped short by the
commercial traveller from Potsdam, who solemnly and warningly stretched
out his right hand towards them, while with his left he drew a paper out
of his trousers pocket. My old compassion for the Crown Princess rose
anew, but what could I do for her? All hope of escape was at an
end. . . .
"Ich stehe hier auf Felsenstrand"--
--but here there was a sudden silence. One of the ladies laughingly bent
forward to say a few words to the gentleman in uniform, who quietly
informed the deputation that these two ladies of the Princess's suite
were anxious to make an excursion up to the village, while the Princess
herself, who had remained on board, would sail round the island. At
that very moment we saw the steamer turn round and make for the western
side of the island.
Utterly dumbfounded, the deputation held a council of war as to the best
course to be pursued. It was evident that the steamer had gone to make
"_il giro_" (_i.e._ the usual round of the island), to return finally to
the Grande Marina, the only real landing-place which Capri possesses.
True that a sort of harbour exists also on the south side at the Piccola
Marina, but it has fallen into disuse, and the road hence into the
village is very rough. They therefore decided to await the steamer's
return where they were; more than an hour it would scarcely take. The
deputation sank dejectedly down upon some upturned boats, but the poet
remained standing for fear of creasing his dress-coat (fancy wearing a
dress-coat and top-hat in Capri!) And he ran no chance of freezing, I
can tell you, as he stood there in his sun-bath. The hour dragged
wearily along, but still no sign of the steamer. They had waited for
nearly two hours, when a fisherman phlegmatically observed that as far
as he could make out the steamer had gone to the Piccola Marina, for he
had rowed past just as the jolly-boat set out from the steamer, and some
one on the captain's bridge had asked him how many feet of water they
might count upon at the Piccola Marina. Up flew the deputation as if
stung by an asp, and disappeared in a cloud of dust on to the Capri
road.
We dawdled about the Marina for some time longer, but finally we also
wandered up to Capri, not by the broad carriage-road, but climbing the
old path which joins the Anacapri road at some distance from the
village, thus avoiding the piazza altogether.
It was as warm as a summer's day, and we lay down by the roadside to
rest in the high grass. We talked politics by way of exception. My
friend D---- is an Alsatian; he had been through the Franco-German war,
and was anything but tender towards the Germans, and neither was I, for
reasons of my own. But we were generous enemies, and we agreed that we
were very sorry for the Crown Princess, however German she might be.
And thus I came to speak of my nocturnal adventure with the commercial
traveller, and no one being within earshot it is just possible that we
cracked a joke or two at the poet's expense. I remember that we tried to
steer him safely through his poem, and lay there roaring with laughter,
composing some extra verses to his unfinished inspiration. My old dog
lay beside me in the grass; he did his best to follow us in our poetical
flights, but the heat had made him somewhat indifferent to literary
pursuits, and he never succeeded in keeping more than one eye open at a
time. From out the ivy covering the old stone wall behind us a little
quick-tailed lizard peeped every now and then to warm itself in the sun.
Whenever you catch sight of one of these little lizards you should
whistle softly; the graceful little animal will then stand still, gazing
wonderingly around with her bright eyes to see from whence the sound
proceeds. She is so frightened that you can see her heart beat in her
brilliant green breast, but she is so curious and so fond of music--and
there is so little music to be heard inside the old stone wall! You have
only to keep quite quiet to see her emerge from her hiding-place and
settle down to listen attentively. Something rather melancholy is what
pleases her best; she likes Verdi, and I often start with Traviata when
I give concerts for lizards. I am so fond of music myself, and maybe
that is the reason why I try to be kind to these small music-lovers.
That any one can have the heart to take the pretty, graceful little
lizards captive is more than I can understand; they belong to an old
Italian wall as much as the ivy and the sunshine. But in Albergo Pagano
is a German who does nothing but go about hunting lizards; he shuts them
up in a cigar-box, which he opens every now and then to gaze like
another Gulliver upon his Lilliputian captives. We are deadly enemies,
he and I, for once I opened his cigar-box and set all his lizards free.
Suddenly Puck gave a growl. We looked up, and to our great astonishment
we saw two ladies standing in front of us, and behind them stood a
gentleman in black, staring fixedly into space. We had not heard them
come up, so that they must have been standing there while D---- and I
were busy finishing off the commercial traveller's poem. We looked at
each other in consternation, but there was evidently nothing to fear; it
was not difficult to see that they were English, and not likely to have
understood one word of what we had been talking about. One of the ladies
was middle-aged, rather stout, and wore a gray travelling-dress, while
the other was a very smart young lady, whom we thought very good-looking
indeed. They stood there gazing out over the Marina, and on looking in
the same direction we saw that the Princess's steamer had returned from
its _giro_ round the island, and had anchored beside the Naples boat.
Our discomfiture was complete upon the younger of the ladies turning
round to ask us in perfect French how long it would take them to get to
the village. D----, who was lying nearest them, answered it would hardly
take ten minutes.
"Is it necessary to go through the village in order to reach the beach?"
said she, pointing towards the Marina.
"Yes," answered D----, "it is necessary to do so."
Here Puck stretched himself and stared yawningly at them.
"What a beautiful dog!" I heard the elder lady say to her companion in
English. I at once discovered her to be a lady of great distinction and
exceptional taste, and I immediately felt a desire to show her some
politeness. I could not hit upon anything better to tell her than that
she had chosen an unfortunate day for coming to Capri, the island having
fallen a prey to the barbarians for the whole day. I told her that the
Crown Princess of Germany was actually on the island, and that, pursued
by a deputation and a commercial traveller, she had just now been caught
on the Piccola Marina and carried off to the Piazza. I added that all
our sympathies followed the Princess. I noticed a rather peculiar
expression on the younger lady's face as I delivered myself of these
remarks, but the elder listened to all I said with a scarcely
perceptible smile over her eyes.
"We are anxious to reach the harbour as soon as possible," said she; "we
have been absent longer than we intended."
"There is a short cut down to the Marina," answered I, politely; "we
have just come up that way ourselves. But I am afraid it is rather too
rough a road for you, madam."
"Will it lead us straight down there?" said she, pointing to the harbour
where both steamers lay at anchor.
"Oh dear, yes!"
"And without obliging us to enter the village?"
"Without obliging you to enter the village," answered I.
She exchanged a few words with the younger lady, and then said in a
decided, abrupt sort of way, "Be kind enough to show us the way."
Yes, that was easy enough, and I led them down to the Marina.
Conversation rather languished on the way. I had come across two
singularly reticent ladies, and had it not been for my repeated efforts
it would have died altogether. Every now and then the younger lady
smiled to herself, which made me fear I had said something stupid. I
have never been much of a society man, and it is not so easy a matter to
entertain two entirely strange ladies.
Upon reaching the wider part of the road I pointed towards the Marina at
their feet, and told them that they could not possibly go wrong now. We
saw one or two officers walking up and down the landing-stage, whereupon
I told the ladies that, were they desirous of seeing the Crown Princess,
they had only to wait there a moment or two; she was bound to arrive
soon with her tormentors at her heels. But this, they said, they did not
care about, and then they kindly wished me good-bye.
Hardly had I begun to retrace my steps when two lackeys in the royal
livery of the house of Savoy came running down the road; I had barely
time to move to one side before they were yards beyond me. They were
immediately followed by a long, gaunt individual with very thin legs and
a very big moustache--_ma foi!_ if not a German officer, remarkably like
one at all events. He in his turn was succeeded by a fat, fussy little
person, who literally threw himself into my arms; he held his gold-laced
hat in one hand, while with the other he wiped the perspiration from his
forehead; he stammered an apology, and then rolled off again like a ball
down the hill. Most extraordinary, thought I to myself, the number of
people on this footpath to-day, considering that as a rule one never
meets a soul here!