to return to Capri just then, and we finally made up our minds to walk
up to Anacapri and greet la bella Margherita, and wait there till the
island should be restored to calm. We sat for a while under the pergola
and drank a glass of vino bianco, and then we slowly sauntered down to
Capri along the beautiful road, the whole of the myrtle-covered mountain
slope at our feet. When passing beneath Barbarossa's ruined castle we
glanced towards the Marina and saw to our relief that both steamers had
taken their departure. Genuine Capriotes always witness the departure of
the steamer with a certain satisfaction; they like to keep their beloved
Capri to themselves, and the crowd of noisy strangers only disturbs the
harmony of the dreamy little island.
It was very nearly dark by the time we reached the village. The piazza
was quite deserted; from the shop-window of Nicolino, barber and
bleeder, hung the tricoloured flag waving sadly in the wind, whilst
perched upon the triumphal arch the cardboard eagle sat aloft gnawing
gloomily at his _Willkommen_.
Upon reaching the hotel we found that every one was seated at table, but
an unusual silence prevailed. We withdrew to our little table and tried
to look as innocent as possible. At dessert there arose a frightful
dispute at the big table as to whose was the fault of a certain calamity
which apparently had happened to them during the day. I thought I heard
a murmur going round about an idiot who had been seen accompanying two
ladies down a short cut to the Marina, but I never got to know who he
was. Ah well! neither D---- nor I care to tell you more about this
story. If we behaved badly I have already been sufficiently punished.
Here I sit far from my beloved island in fog and gloom, whilst the
commercial traveller, for aught I know, is perhaps still enjoying
himself at Capri, and still entertaining the cocks of Pagano with--
"Ich stehe hier auf Felsenstrand!"
[Footnote 10: _Letters from a Mourning City_, by Axel Munthe. John
Murray: London, 1887.]
[Footnote 11: "Here I stand on a rocky shore!"]
[Footnote 12: The old means of communication between Capri and Naples.
Unfortunately replaced by an ugly little steamer.]
MENAGERIE
+--------------------------------------------+
| _For a few days only!!!_ |
| |
| BRUTUS, Lion from Nubia. |
| |
| Tigers, Bears, Wolves. |
| |
| POLAR BEAR. |
| |
| Monkeys, Hyaenas, and other remarkable |
| Animals. |
| |
| The Lion-Tamer, called "The Lion King," |
| will enter the Lion's Cage at 6 o'clock. |
| |
| _For a few days only!!!_ |
+--------------------------------------------+
The street boys hold out for a while longer, cold though the evening be,
for the Lion King himself has already twice appeared on the platform in
riding-boots, and his breast sparkling with decorations, and, besides
that, one can distinctly hear the howling of the animals within the
tent.
Yes, it would be a pity to miss an entertainment like this; come, let us
go in!
It is the Lion King's wife herself who is sitting there selling the
tickets, and we gaze at her with a deference due to her rank. She wears
gold bracelets round her thick wrists, and a double gold chain glitters
beneath her fur cape. But the monkeys who sit there on each side of her
chained to their perches with leather straps girt tightly round their
stomachs--they wear no fur capes. Their faces are blue with cold, and
when they jump up and down to try to keep themselves warm the street
boys laugh and the market people stop to have a look at them--poor
unconscious clowns of the menagerie who are there for the purpose of
luring in spectators to witness the tortures of their other companions
in distress.
The tent is full of people, and the many gas-lights inflame the infected
air. The show has already begun, and the spectators follow from cage to
cage a negro, who, pointing his stick at the prisoner behind the bars,
in monotonous voice announces his age, his country, and his crime of
having led the life which Nature has taught him to live.
I have been here several times, and I know the negro's description by
heart. I will show you the animals.
Here, in this cage, moping on his perch, his head hidden beneath his
ragged feather-cloak, you see the proudest representative of the bird
world--_The Royal Eagle, three years old, taken young_. You have read
about him, the strong-winged bird, who in solemn majesty circles above
the desolate mountain-tops. Alone he lives up there amongst the
clouds--alone like the human soul. He builds his nest upon an
inaccessible rock, and the precipice shields his young from rapacious
hands. _Taken young_; that means that the nest was plundered, the
mother was shot as she flew shrieking to protect her child, and by the
butt-end of the gun was broken the wing-bone of the half-grown eagle as
he struggled for his freedom. Here he has sat ever since; he sleeps
during the day, but he is awake the live-long night, and when all is
silent in the tent a strange, uncanny moan may be heard from his cage.
_Three years old!_ He is not the most to be pitied here, for he is not
likely to last long--the Royal Eagle dies when caged.
Here you see a _Bear_. His cage is so small that he cannot walk up and
down; he sits there almost upright on his hindquarters, rocking his meek
and heavy head from side to side. If you offer him a piece of bread, he
flattens his nose against the bars and gently and carefully takes the
gift out of your hand. His nose is torn by the iron ring he once was
made to wear, and his eyes are bloodshot and streaming from the strong
gaslight; but their expression is not bad, it is kind and intelligent
like that of an old dog. Now and then he grips the bars with his mighty
paws, helplessly shaking the cage until the guinea-pigs who live below
him rush up and down in abject terror. Ay, shake your cage, old Bruin!
the bars are steel, stronger than your paws; you will never come
out--you are to die in your prison. You are a dangerous beast of
prey--you live on bilberries and fruit, and now and then you help
yourself to a sheep to keep yourself from dying of starvation. God
Almighty did not know better than to teach you to do so, but no doubt it
was very ill-judged of Him, and you are very much to blame; it is only
man who has the right to eat his fill.
Here you see a _Hyaena_. The negro stirs up the hyaena with a cut of his
whip, and timorously the animal crouches in the farthermost corner of
the cage, whilst the negro tells the spectators that the hyaena is known
for its cowardice. The hyaena dare not risk an open fight, but
treacherously attacks the defenceless prisoner whom the savages have
left bound hand and foot to his fate in the wilderness, or the exhausted
beast of burden whom the caravan has abandoned in the desert after
having hoisted on to another the load he is no longer able to bear. The
negro pokes cautiously with his pointed stick into the corner where the
cowardly animal tries to hide itself, and the spectators all agree that
the hyaena, with its crouching back and restless eyes, conveys a faithful
picture of treachery and cowardice. None of the spectators have ever
seen a hyaena before, but they have seen crouching backs and restless
eyes. Not even the dead does the hyaena leave in peace, says the negro,
and with disgust man turns away from the guilty animal.
Here you see a _Polar Bear_. Its name is advertised in huge letters on
the placard outside; and he deserves the distinction well indeed, for
his torture perhaps surpasses that of all the other animals. The Polar
bear is another dangerous beast of prey; he does a little fishing for
himself up in the north where man is busy exterminating the whales. The
horrible sufferings of the animal need no comment--let us go on.
A little _South African Monkey_ and a rabbit live next to the cage
inhabited by the panting Polar bear.[13]
The little monkey is sick to death of the eternal clambering up and down
the bars of the cage, and the swing which dangles over her head does not
amuse her any more. Sadly she sits there upon her straw-covered prison
floor, in one hand she holds a half-withered carrot, which she turns
over once again to see if it looks equally unappetising on every side,
while with the other she sorrowfully scratches the rabbit's back. Now
and then she gets interested, drops the carrot, and attentively with
both hands explores some suspicious-looking spot on her companion's
mangy back and pulls out a few hairs, which she carefully examines. But
soon she wearies of the rabbit also, and does not know in the least what
to do with herself. She looks round in the straw, but there is nothing
to be seen but the carrot; she looks round the bare, slippery walls of
her cage, but neither there is there anything of the slightest interest
to be found. And at last she has nothing else to do but, for the
hundredth time that hour, to jump into the swing, only to leap on to the
floor the next minute and seat herself again, leaning against the
rabbit. The spectators call this jumping for joy, but the poor little
monkey knows how jolly it is.
The rabbit is resigned. The captivity of generations has stupefied
him--the longing for liberty has died ages ago from out of his
degenerated hare-brain. He hopes for nothing, but he desires nothing. He
has no social talents; he is in no way qualified to entertain his
restless friend; and besides that, he fails to grasp the situation. But
he rewards the monkey to the best of his abilities for the little
offices of friendship which she performs for him; and when the gas has
been turned out, and the cold night air enters the tent, then the
Northerner lends his warm fur coat to the trembling little Southerner,
and nestling close to one another they await the new day.
The inhabitant of the cage in yonder corner has not been advertised at
all upon the placard outside. He is not to be seen just now; perhaps he
is asleep for a while in his dark, little bedroom; but every one who
catches sight of that wire wheel knows that it is a _Squirrel_ who lives
here. What he has to do in a menagerie is more than I can say, for on
that point the zoological education of the public should surely be
completed--we all know what the squirrel looks like. Superstitious
people of my country say that it is an evil omen if a squirrel crosses
their path. I don't know where they got hold of that idea, but maybe
they have taken it from a squirrel--for the squirrel believes exactly in
the same way if a man crosses his path, and, alas! he has got reason
enough for his belief. I, on the contrary, have always thought it a
piece of good luck whenever I have happened to come across a little
squirrel. Often enough while roaming through the woods and halting with
grateful joy at every other step before some new wonder in the fairyland
of nature--often enough have I caught a glimpse of the graceful, nimble,
little fellow swinging himself high overhead on some leafy branch, or
carefully peeping out from his little twig cottage, watching with his
bright eyes whether any schoolboys were lurking beneath his tree. "Come
along, little man," I then would say in squirrel language; "true enough,
I did not turn out the man I had been expected to become when at school;
but, thank God! I have at least arrived so far in knowledge that I have
learned to feel tender sympathy for you and yours!" We were, alas! not
taught this at school in my days; we exchanged birds' eggs for old
stamps; we shot small birds with guns as big as ourselves--and now let
him who can come and deny the doctrine of original sin! We were cruel to
animals, like all savages. To the best of my abilities do I now
endeavour to expiate the wrong I was then guilty of. But an evil action
never dies; and I know of bloodstains on tiny boys' fingers which have
rusted to stains of shame in the childhood recollections of the man. To
my humiliation I have shot many a little bird, and many another did I
keep imprisoned. Regretfully do I also own to having killed a squirrel;
treacherously did I plunder his home, and his little one did I imprison
in just such another cage as the one we now stand in front of. See!
there comes the little squirrel out from his bedroom and begins to run
round and round in his wire wheel. He has made the same attempt
thousands and thousands of times, and yet he makes it once again. Yes,
it looks very pretty! when I used to watch my squirrel running round and
round in his wire wheel in precisely the same way, and at last the wheel
was turning so rapidly that I could not distinguish the bars, I thought
it was capital fun. I know now why he runs; he runs in anxious longing
for freedom; he runs as long as he has strength to run; for neither is
_he_ able to distinguish any more the bars of the turning wheel. He may
run a mile and still he is hedged in by the same prison bars. The simple
invention is almost diabolically cunning; it is the wheel of Ixion in
the Tartarus of pain to which mankind has banished animals.
Here you see a _Wolf from Siberia_. The wolf is also, as is well known,
a dangerous, wild beast. When the cold is extreme, and the snow lies
very deep, the wolves approach the habitation of man, and in starving
crowds they follow any sledge they meet--they have even been known in
very rare cases to attack the horses. We have all read that terrible
story of the Russian peasant on his way home across the deserted
snow-fields; he heard the panting of the wolves behind his sledge, and
he could see their eyes glitter through the darkness of the night, and
in order to save his own life he had to throw one of his children to
the wolves.
The negro informs you that the wild beast in this cage was caught young;
the she-wolf as usual was killed while attempting to save her cub.
The bottom of the cage is shining like a parquet floor from the
continual tramping up and down of the prisoner within, for he knows no
rest. Night and day he paces to and fro, his head bent low as though in
search of some outlet of escape; he will never find it; he will die
behind those bars even as the prisoners in his own country die in their
irons.
The big _Parrot_ on her perch over there sheds the one ray of light on
this dark picture. The parrot I need not describe to you, for you know
the species well. This one hails, we are told, from the New World, but
one comes across a good many parrots in the Old World also. The parrot
is a universal favourite and is to be found in nearly every house. The
parrot is not unhappy; she is unconscious of the chain round her leg,
she does not realise that she was born with wings. She is undisturbed by
any unnecessary brain activity; she eats, she sleeps, trims her gorgeous
feather cloak, and chatters ceaselessly from morning till night. Left to
herself she is silent, for she is only able to repeat what others have
said before her, and this she does so cleverly that often, on hearing
some one chatter, I have to ask myself whether it be a human being or a
parrot. . . .
The ragged, attenuated animal standing over there and gazing at us with
her soft, sad eyes is a _Chamois from Switzerland_. The chamois is a
rarity in a menagerie, for, as is well known, it usually frets to death
during the first year of its captivity. I look at the poor animal with a
feeling of oppression at my heart which you can scarcely realise--I have
breathed the free air of the high mountains myself, and I know why the
chamois dies in prison. Those were other times, poor captive chamois,
when you were roving on the Alpine meadows amidst rhododendrons and
myrtillus; when on high, over a precipice, I saw your beautiful
silhouette standing out against the clear, bright sky! You had no need
of an alpenstock, you, to climb up there, where I watched the aerial
play of your graceful limbs amongst the rocks. Up to the realm of ice
you led the way, high on the slopes of Monte Rosa has my clumsy, human
foot trodden the snow in the track of your dainty mountain shoes. Ay,
those were other times, poor prisoner!--those were other times both for
you and me, and we had better say no more about them.
Yonder stalwart, muscular ape is a _Baboon_; _aged, Abyssinian male_,
stands written under his cage. He sits there, wrapped in thought,
fingering a straw. Now and then he casts a rapid glance around him, and
be sure he is not so absent-minded as he looks. The eye is intelligent
but malevolent; its owner is a candidate for humanity.
When the negro approaches his cage he shows him a row of teeth not very
unlike the negro's own--the family likeness between the two faces is,
for the matter of that, unmistakable. The negro cautions the public
against accepting the wrinkled hand which the old baboon extends between
the bars. I always treat him to an extra lump of sugar ever since the
negro told me he once bit off the thumb of an old woman who poked her
umbrella at him. Besides, I look at him with veneration, for he comes
from an illustrious family. Who knows whether he is not an ill-starred
descendant of that heroic old baboon whom Brehm once met in
Abyssinia?--The negro is sure to know nothing of that story, so I may as
well tell it you. One day, while travelling in Abyssinia, the great
German naturalist fell in with a whole troop of baboons, who, bound for
some high rocks, were marching along a narrow defile. The rear had not
yet emerged from the defile when the dogs of Brehm and his companions
rushed forward and barred their passage. Seeing the danger the other
baboons, who had already reached the rocks, then descended in a body to
the rescue of the attacked, and they screamed so terribly that the dogs
actually fell back; the whole troop of baboons was now filing off in
perfect order when the dogs were again set at them. All the apes,
however, reached the rocks in safety, with the exception of one
half-year-old baboon who happened to have been lagging behind; he was
surrounded on all sides by the open-mouthed dogs, and with loud cries of
distress he jumped on to a big boulder. At this juncture a huge baboon
stepped down from the rocks for the second time, advanced alone to the
stone where the little one was crouching, patted him on the back, lifted
him gently down, and so led him off triumphantly before the very noses
of the dogs, who were so taken by surprise that it never even occurred
to them to attack him. One need not have read Darwin to pronounce that
baboon a hero.
I have noticed that even kind-hearted spectators do not seem to feel
very much commiseration for captive monkeys. The ape is playing in the
menagerie the same role as Don Quixote in literature--the superficial
observer looks upon them as exclusively comical, and only laughs at
them. But the attentive looker-on knows that the solitary monkey's life
behind the bars is in its way nothing but a tragedy, as well as
Cervantes' immortal book is nothing but a mournful epic. With tender
emotion he feels how an increasing sympathy mingles in his pitiful smile
the more he gets to know of them, these two superannuated types: Don
Quixote, the simple-minded, would-be hero, still lagging on the scene
long after the _epopee_ of chivalry has departed in the twilight of
mediaeval mysticism; and the ape, the phantom from the vanishing animal
world, over whose hairy human face already falls the dawn of the
birthday of the first man.
This baboon may perhaps appear to you very ugly, but we know that the
perception of physical beauty is an entirely individual one, and it is
quite possible that the baboon on his side finds us very ugly. You
cannot help smiling now and then when standing and watching him, but, at
least, try not to let him see it, for, like all monkeys, it saddens and
irritates him to be laughed at to his face. This old baboon is deeply
unhappy, for, as he has got more brains than the other animals in the
menagerie, his capacity for suffering is consequently greater--for we
all know that suffering is an intellectual function. He alone realises
the hopelessness of his situation, and his restless brain-activity
refuses him the relative oblivion which resignation vouchsafes to many
others of his companions in distress.
But as a compensation he possesses one quality which the other animals
lack, and it is the possession of this quality which saves him from
falling into hypochondria;--it is his sense of humour. That the monkey
is a born humorist every one knows who has had the opportunity of
observing him in society--for instance, in the monkey-house at the Zoo.
This sense of humour does not even desert the poor monkey kept in
solitary confinement. And sometimes when I have been standing here for a
while watching the mimicry of this old baboon I have involuntarily had
to ask myself whether he were not making fun of me. . . .
The negro has finished his recital, and it is time for the show-piece of
the evening to come off. The spectators crowd in front of the
lion-cage, dividing their admiration between Brutus, the Nubian lion,
behind the bars and the keeper who, unarmed, is about to enter the cage.
The man throws off his overcoat and the "Lion King" stands before us in
all his pride, pink tights, riding-boots, and his gold-laced breast
covered with decorations--from Nubia likewise even these. He is small of
stature like Napoleon, and the constant intercourse with the wild beasts
has given his face a rough and repulsive expression. He reeks of brandy,
to counteract the stale smell of the cage, and his pomatumed hair curls
neatly round his low-sloping forehead. The negro hands him a whip, and
the solemn moment is at hand. Proudly the Lion King creeps into the
cage, and proudly he cracks his whip at the half-sleeping Brutus. The
lion raises himself with a sullen roar, and, hugging the walls, begins
to wander round his cage. Proudly the Lion King stretches out his whip,
and obediently like a dog Brutus leaps lazily over it. Proudly the
negro hands his master a hoop, and wearily and dejectedly Brutus jumps
through it. Brutus is sulky to-night; he does not roar as he ought to
do. Things look up, however, towards the end of the performance, when
the Lion King, standing in a corner of the cage, paralyses Brutus with a
proud look just as he is about to attack him. Brutus is no longer
obstinate, but roars irreproachably, and shows his yellow fang. A few
half-smothered cries of alarm are heard from the audience, an old woman
faints, a pistol is fired off while the Lion King, under cover of the
smoke, hurriedly and proudly creeps out of the cage.
Captive lion, have you then forgotten that once you were a king
yourself, that once there was a time when all men trembled at your
approach, that the forest grew silent when your imperious voice
resounded? Fallen monarch, awake from the degradation of your thraldom;
rise giant-like and let the thunder of your royal voice be heard once
more!
Brutus, Brutus, vindicator of lost freedom, you are too proud to be a
slave! Rend asunder the chains which coward human cunning has bound
around the sleeping power of your limbs!
Shake your flaming lion mane, and, strong as Samson, in your mighty
wrath bring down the prison walls around you to crush the Philistines
assembled here to jeer at the impotence of their once dreaded enemy!
Brutus, Brutus, vindicator of lost freedom!
[Footnote 13: Perhaps you are not aware of the common practice in
menageries of keeping a rabbit in the monkey's cage for the sake of
warmth.]
ITALY IN PARIS
At one time I had many patients in the Roussel Yard. Ten or twelve
families lived there, but none were so badly off, I believe, as the
Salvatore family. At Salvatore's it was so dark that they were obliged
to burn a little oil-lamp the whole day, and there was no fireplace
except a brazier which stood in the middle of the floor. Damp as a
cellar it was at all times; but when it rained the water penetrated into
the room, which lay a couple of feet lower than the street.