child into the country or placing it in the _Enfants trouves_ (foundling
hospital), and she who was uncultured had known of no other answer than
to wind her arms still closer round her child's neck. And _la nonna_
(the old grandmother), who scrubbed steps and carried coals all day, and
having at last lulled the child to rest in the evening, dead-tired went
to sleep with half-shut eyes and a string round her wrist, so as now and
then to rock the little one's cradle; neither could she understand that
it would be any relief if "_la piccerella_" were to be sent away.
The light fell on the squalid bed, and the doctor looked at his patient.
Yes! it was indeed very like her, he certainly was a clever artist that
young painter! Her face was only a little paler now, that painful shadow
over the forehead was probably not to be seen in the bright studio
where the picture was painted, those dark rings round her eyes very
likely were not suitable for the Salon. But the same perfection of form
in every feature, the same noble shape of the head, the same childishly
soft rounding of the cheek, the same curly locks round the beautiful
brow; yes, rumour spoke true, she bore the mark of nobility on her
forehead, not that of Faubourg St. Germain, but that of Hellas, she bore
the features of the Venus of Milo.
It was quite still up there in the dim little garret. The doctor looked
at the young mother who slept so peacefully with her child in her arms,
he looked at the old woman who sat by his side fingering her rosary.
With foreboding sadness he looked into the future which awaited these
three, and sorrowfully his thoughts wandered along the way which lay
before his poor friends.
Ah yes, Raffaella soon got well, for she was healthy with Nature's
youth. Model she never became again, for she could not leave her child.
She did not marry, for her people do not forgive one who has had a child
by a _Signore_. With the baby at her breast she wandered about in search
of work, any work whatever. Her demands were so small, but her chances
were still smaller. She found no work. The old woman still held out for
a time, then she broke down and Raffaella had to provide food for three
mouths. The last savings were gone, and the Sunday clothes were at the
pawn-shop. Public charity did not help her, for she was a foreigner, and
private charity never came near Raffaella. She had to choose between
want or going on the streets. Her child lived and she chose want. The
world did not reward her for her choice, for virtue hungers and freezes
in the poor quarters of Paris. And she ended like so many others by
_fare la Scopa_.[24] Pale and emaciated sat the child on _la nonna's_
knee, and with low bent back Raffaella swept the streets where pleasure
and luxury went by. Poverty had effaced her beauty, she bore the
features of want and hardship. Sorrow had furrowed her brow, but the
stamp of nobility was still there. Hats off for virtue in rags! It is
greater than the virtue of Faubourg St. Germain!
* * * * *
Perhaps a clever writer could make a nice little sketch out of
Raffaella's story; it is, however, as I said before, neither a very
original nor a very exciting one, it is quite commonplace. But I can
give you a subject for another little sketch; it is that doctor who is
so fond of Italians who has hit upon it. He has been thinking it over
for many years, but he never gets further than thinking. Write a story
about female models and dedicate it to artists! Write it without lies
and without sentimentality. Write it without exaggeration, for it needs
none; without severity, for we all have need of forbearance. Tell them,
the artists, how much we all like them, the light-hearted good-natured
comrades, tell them how proud we are of them, the happy interpreters of
our longing for beauty. But ask them why they so despise their models,
ask them if they know what becomes of the originals of their female
pictures!
They know it well.
If they answer you that they are young, that their temptations are
greater than those of any others, then reflect if you yourself have the
right to say any more to them. But if they answer you that the fault
lies with the models, then tell them to their faces that they lie. Then
tell them what road the greater part of the women models take--the
statistics are there and they cannot be contradicted. We know well that
many of these models have themselves to blame for their misfortunes, but
by far the greater part of them owe their fall to the misleading of an
artist.
And look here! Is he then quite wrong, that doctor who thinks that the
artist stands towards his woman model in the same position as the
physician towards his woman patient? Society demands, and is right in
demanding, a passionless eye from the physician, and between the
physician's respect for his profession and the temptation of the man,
honour has no choice. The present day ranks art higher than science, why
then is not the artist's respect for his profession great enough to
protect a woman model! Why are there no virtuous models? Is not the
model the unknown collaborator in the artist's creation, is she not,
even she, although unconsciously a humble servant in the temple of art,
in that temple where the ancients placed the statue of the chaste Pallas
Athene?
Yes, a clever writer may have a good deal more to say about this, and he
may also make use of that doctor's meditations if he thinks there is any
meaning in them, they have at least the merit of being founded upon
experience, experience of the art world of Paris as well as that of
Rome.[25]
But he must not forget that it is the spoiled children of our day that
he is daring to blame. Should his article be to the point he may be sure
he will be very severely censured by them; let him take it as praise for
_il n'y a que la verite qui blesse_! And besides, let him remember that
the world's blame is as little worth caring about as its praise.
[Footnote 24: The harbour of refuge for most of the shipwrecked ones who
still can and will work. The street scavengers of Paris are to a great
extent Italians.]
[Footnote 25: I was for ten years the confidant, the friend, and the
doctor to most of the poor Italians in Paris, the greater number of whom
are models. My experience during these years was a terrible one. Nine
years in Rome have made the evidence still more conclusive. Of English
models I know nothing and have nothing to say.]
THE DOGS IN CAPRI
AN INTERIOR
Like the ancient Romans, the Capri dogs devote the greater part of their
day to public life. The Piazza is their Forum, and it is there they
write their history. When Don Antonio opens the doors of his osteria,
and Don Nicolino, barber and bleeder, steps out of his "Salone," Capri
begins a new day. From all sides the dogs then come gravely walking
forth--the doctor's, the tobacconist's, the secretary's, Don
Archangelo's, Don Pietro's, etc. etc., and, after a greeting in
accordance with nature's prescribed ceremonial, they seat themselves
upon the Piazza to meditate. Don Antonio places a couple of chairs in
front of his cafe, and whilst some of them accept the invitation to lean
against them, others prefer the steps leading up to the Church, or that
comfortable corner by the Campanile, to whose clock generations have
listened with ever-increasing astonishment where, indomitable as the
sun, it presses forward on its own path, but alas! not that of the sun.
After a while the dogs from Hotel Pagano make their appearance. They get
up later than the others, for they eat a terribly solid dinner. They all
descend from the venerable old "Timberio"[26] Pagano, who walks a little
behind the rest of his family. Timberio has a cataract in one eye, but
the other eye looks out upon life with immovable calm. The Pagano
dog-family has always ranked amongst the very first in Capri, and now,
since one of their masters, Manfredo, was made Sindaco, they have still
further accentuated that reserved bearing which they always understood
how to maintain towards the lower orders. They usually form a "circle"
of themselves and some of the Liberal dogs in the Municipal Portico. The
Conservative dogs, who were beaten at the last election when the Liberal
candidate, Manfredo Pagano, became Sindaco, cluster together in a
hostile minority on the other side of the Piazza by the steps leading up
to the Church. Now and then they take a look inside the Church, and seat
themselves down by the door with the greatest decorum, like humble
publicans, whilst the Mass is said in the chancel or the _Figlie di
Maria_ intone the Litany with half-singing voices.
About ten o'clock appear Il Cacciatore's[27] two dogs, mother and son.
They go without hesitation straight into Don Antonio's wineshop. They
were born upon the island, but they have received an English education,
and they well know the taste of a leg of mutton or a piece of roast
beef. Don Antonio's dogs have also a certain idea of these things. After
several generations a vague Anglicism still survives amongst them from
the time when Don Antonio was steward on board an English steamboat, and
it is with a visible pride that they say to their Capri colleagues their
"Bow-wow-wow--how do you do, sir?" as any stranger approaches their
osteria. The German dogs never enter this place; in spite of all
Bismarck's efforts to win Don Antonio over to the triple alliance, they
are not well looked upon there, their permanent headquarters are still
at Morgano's "Zum Hiddigeigei," whence one can hear them barking and
yelping till late at night.
The morning passes in calm _dolce far niente_ as a preparation for the
exertions of the day. Seldom has anything happened since they met here
yesterday, seldom is there the slightest indication that the day which
now begins will bring in its train any change in the imperturbable
harmony of their _status quo_. An Arcadian peace reigns over their whole
being, a contemplative calm is stamped upon their faces. And yet this
peace hovers over a volcano, like the summer which brightens the slopes
of Vesuvius away on the far horizon. Now and then the thunder growls
from the depths of Timberio Pagano's broad breast when Hotel Quisisana's
shaggy black guardian goes too near him. Seated on each side of the
_farmacia_ door the two doctors' four-footed assistants stick out their
tongues at each other on the sly, and often enough do the dogs of Don
Nicolino and Don Chichillo (the new barber) fall upon each other, so
that tufts of hair fly around. Animosity, however, soon sinks down
again, and, calm as the rippling waves against the old Emperor's bath
palace below, the hours glide away in rhythmical monotony.
They watch the girls as they stride past with mighty _Tufa_-stones on
their well-poised heads, like the Caryatides of the Erechtheum; they
watch the Marina fishermen bringing up for sale in baskets the night's
haul of golden _Triglie_ and great _Scurmi_, of bright-coloured mussels
from some rocky reef, or perhaps a coral-spun old Roman amphora dragged
up by the deep _Palamido_ nets from out of its thousand-years-old
hiding-place at the bottom of the sea.
Sometimes the longing for activity awakes, and they slowly cross the
Piazza to the corner of the Anacapri road to gaze dreamily upon the
bustling life in front of the stables, where cavalcades of _forestieri_
are waiting impatiently whilst saddles are laid upon the donkeys'
bleeding backs, and rusty bits are stuffed into their sore mouths.
_Aaaaah! Aaaaah! Avanti!!_ Off, little donkeys, for Monte Solaro, one
hour and a half's stiff climbing with the happy tourists! Yes, the road
is beautiful, winding up along the side of the mountain, clad with
myrtle and broom. The view widens more and more--_Aaaaaah! Aaaaaaaah!!_
one more climb, and the vineyards and olive woods lie deep under your
feet, and over your head rise steep cliffs as wild in their mighty
desolation as the Via Mala of the Alps; and Barbarossa's half-crumbling
castle riveted fast upon the edge of the precipice. Beyond gleams the
gulf girdled by the immortal beauty of the shore, and from Posilipo's
pine-crowned cape, island after island floats away towards the blue
distance of the Mediterranean--_wunderbar! kolossal!!_
Under the saddle it burns like fire, and the mouth is so sore with the
incessant tugging at the heavy bridle; but courage, little donkey! up
above upon the heights lives Padre Anselmo in his hermit chapel, and he
has good wine for thirsty throats!
Other dogs who do not get so far as the donkey-stand lean thoughtfully
against the parapet of the Piazza, where some lounging sailors look out
over the gulf. The eyes wander far over the gleaming line of Naples, and
the mighty silhouette of Vesuvius, or follow absently the direction of
some outstretched hand pointing towards Capo Sorrento, whence can be
seen the steamboat on its way to Capri. And here come the two blind old
men, Fenocchio and Giovanni, groping their way across the Piazza to
their usual corner at the edge of the path, where the hum of thousands
of gay tourists has rustled by them, where they have sat for so many
years with their old fisher-caps in outstretched hands, and their vacant
eyes staring into their eternal night of gleaming sunshine: "_Date u
soldo Eccellenza al povero cieco! La Madonna vi accompagna!_"
Up on the Piazza the dogs are beginning to awake, and in scattered
groups they wander across to the parapet to stare at the steamboat which
glides past in the blue water on its way to the Grotto. It is time to
start down to the Marina to greet the arriving strangers. Quisisana's,
Pagano's, and Hotel de France's dogs solemnly escort their respective
porters to the arched entrance of the Piazza with its Bourbon
coat-of-arms still enthroned above it. Small ready-saddled donkeys also
clatter patiently down the old stairway to the Marina, and with loud
cracks of the whip Felicello's coachmen rattle down the new
carriage-road. From the Piazza above, they watch the steamer anchoring
outside the harbour, and the small boats landing the passengers. A faint
interest lights up the passive faces of the lookers-on when the first
strangers reach the Piazza. But alas! always the same invariable types,
always the same colossal matron on the same slender little donkey,
always the same correct "misses" in Felicello's landau, always the same
fiery-red noisy Germans, wrangling over prices with the girls who have
dragged their boxes up the heights to the town. Seldom are there any
dogs amongst the arrivals, seldom does any occasion whatever arise for
interference in one way or another--passivity, nothing but passivity!
Now the hotel bells ring for luncheon, and they one and all wander home.
The processes of digestion are carried out, according to correct
physiological laws undisturbed by any brain-work, and the afternoon is
passed in a siesta on some loggia, whilst the sun's rays slowly climb
the Anacapri cliff, and long shadows begin to glide down Monte Solaro's
slopes towards the town. The air is cool and refreshing, and they
prepare to resume public business on the Piazza. The second event of the
day is about to happen. The post arrives. Don Peppino (post-master)
solemnly shuts his office-door, and the loiterers wait with interest
whilst the post-bag is being opened inside. Always the same
disappointment--no letters for them, all the letters and newspapers are
for the strangers in the hotels! Sometimes they get hold of a _Corriere
di Napoli_ or a _Pungolo_, and then they disappear into some corner by
themselves to make people believe that they can read; but after they
have devoured the whole newspaper they are none the wiser for it. So
they become drowsy again and wander a few times round the Piazza, past
Don Antonio's _osteria_ with the faded photographs and dried-up biscuits
in the window, and a few unconscious philosophers meditating inside;
past Il Salone, where the flies keep watch over Don Nicolino's dreams;
past La Farmacia, where the morphia of idleness soothes Don Petruccio's
ideas to rest; past the stables where the donkeys are pushed into their
dark holes after the strangers have returned from their expedition. They
look out over the gulf where Ischia blushes in fading sunlight, while
dark-blue twilight falls around Vesuvius. The day's session draws to an
end and the Piazza is becoming deserted. Up in the Campanile there
suddenly breaks out a terrible row amongst the cogs and wheels, and at
last the old machinery loses its temper altogether, and, getting hold of
a rusty hammer, begins to beat with all its might on some unwilling
bells: "_Ventiquattro ore_," yawns Don Nicolino, shutting up his Salone;
"_Ventiquattro ore_," say the flies, and go to sleep amongst the brushes
and combs; "_Ventiquattro ore_," say the dogs, and go home with the
feeling of having performed their duty to gather strength for the next
day's toils by twelve or fourteen hours' dreamless sleep.
Then the church bells ring out the Ave Maria, and the day sinks into the
sea.
So passes day after day, each like the other, as are the beads of the
rosaries which glide between the fingers of the _Figlie di Maria_ inside
the Church. Each morning collects the citizens for social duty on the
Piazza--each evening the campanile exhorts them to go to rest.
Under the walls of the houses the shadows begin to grow smaller and
smaller, and the paving-stones of the Piazza get hotter and hotter in
the sun-bath. Uneasy dreams begin to disturb the peace of the siesta,
and Capri is seized with an irresistible desire to scratch itself. Don
Antonio spreads the awning before his wineshop, and the questions of the
day are oftener and oftener dealt with under its protecting shade. They
linger later on the Piazza in the warm evenings, and with nose in the
air they sit for long hours on the parapet looking out over the gulf
towards Vesuvius, whose mighty smoke-cloud slowly spreads over the
mainland--the wind is south, all is as it should be! And, with
apprehensive thoughts of fatigues to come, they troop home to their
much-needed repose.
The Piazza is quite empty, now and then a short bark is heard from some
wineshop, or a howling "_Potz Donner Wetter!_" from Hiddigeigei's
beer-house, then everything is still, and only the old watchman in the
Campanile counts over the hours of the night in a sonorous brazen voice
to keep himself awake. Still for a while the white town gleams out
amongst the cliffs, then it becomes quite dark and Capri's isle sinks
into the gloom of night.
But lo! already climbs the moon over Sorrento's mountain, and the veil
of twilight glides down Monte Solaro's heights, over shimmering olive
woods, over orange and myrtle groves, and vanishes amid the waves of the
gulf. Night dreams a beautiful dream, and mysteriously the siren's
moonlit island rises out of the dark sea. A gentle south wind breathes
over the water, murmurs amidst the half-slumbering waves, flies
fragrantly over orange-trees in blossom, and playfully rocks the tender
vine branches. Jubilant voices call out from the sea, louder and louder
they sound in the stillness of the night, and the wanderer on Monte
Solaro hears the rustling of wings in the moonlit space above.
When Capri awakes the next morning, every one knows that the wild geese
have passed. Spring has come, and the shooting season has begun! From
early morning the Piazza is full of dogs. The quiet of everyday life has
departed, a certain energy animates their dull features, and the
reflection of an idea lights up the contemplative gloom of their eyes.
In front of Maria Vacca's butcher-shop hangs a dead quail, and outside
Don Antonio's _osteria_ stand guns in long rows, and upon the chairs lie
great game-bags and powder-horns. Il Cacciatore has been in the wineshop
since sunrise, in colossal shooting-boots with cartridge-belt round his
waist. Woe to the quail which may now appear in Maria Vacca's shop! It
vanishes at once into Il Cacciatore's game-bag. Inside the Municipal
Portico a younger generation listens to old Timberio Pagano's shooting
stories of the days of his youth, when many thousand quails were caught
in a day, and up on the Church steps the clericals think sadly of that
period of vanished splendour when Capri had its own Bishop, whose
maintenance was paid by the quail harvest--"_Vescovo delle quaglie_"[28]
as he was called in Rome. Excitement increases as the hours pass, and
when at last the Campanile's bells announce that the first day's
shooting is over, each one goes to his home to gather strength for the
next day's exertions. Once again darkness falls upon the island, and
Capri sleeps the sleep of the just.
On tired wings swarms of birds fly over the sea. Thousands have fallen
on Africa's coasts, where they assembled for their long journey,
thousands have sunk exhausted amidst the waves, thousands will die on
the rocky island which glimmers from afar in the darkness. Sheltered by
the last hour of gloom they approach the island and silently swoop down
upon its steep coast, upon the heights by Villa di Tiberio, where the
hermit watches behind his snares; amongst the cliffs of Mitromania and
the Piccola Marina, where nets are spread to catch their wings; upon the
headlands of Limbo and Punta di Carena, where the Capri dogs, stealthy
as cats, sneak round after their prey. When day dawns over Monte
Solaro, and its first rays stream even as they did two thousand years
ago in sacred fire upon the old sun-god's crumbling altar in the grotto
of Mitromania,[29] hundreds of birds, quails, wood-pigeons, larks,
thrushes, flutter in the nets around, and hundreds of others bleed to
death amongst the cliffs--but what cares the sun for that! What matters
it to the sun that the darkness he disperses conceals a multitude of
worn-out birds from rapacious eyes, that to-day death stalks from cliff
to cliff along the track shown by his gleaming light:
"So che Natura e sorda,
Che miserar non sa;
Che non del Ben sollecita
Fu, ma dell 'esser solo."[30]
Upon the heights of Monte Solaro sits Il Cacciatore, armed to the teeth,
looking with the eye of a conqueror over the field of battle below. The
day has been a hot one, Il Cacciatore has fired some hundred shots in
different directions. At his feet lie his two dogs, mother and son, and
behind him sits Spadaro with an extra gun in his hands and an enormous
game-bag over his shoulder. Now and then mother and son give little
yelps and wag their tails, following in their dreams an escaping bird,
now and then Il Cacciatore's hand fumbles after his trusty gun to bring
down an imaginary quail or pigeon, now and then Spadaro seems to stuff
some new booty into his vast bag. Deeper and deeper grows the silence
over Monte Solaro. Down at their feet the three rocks of Faraglione
shine in purple and gold, and the glow of the sinking sun falls on the
waves of the gulf. From the town of Capri hotel bells ring for dinner.
A fragrant hallucination of quail-pie tickles Il Cacciatore's nostrils,
and from under his half-shut eyelids the whole gulf assumes a
tantalising resemblance to a sea of pure _Capri rosso_--that purple hue
which already old Homer likened to red wine--whilst Spadaro's more
modest imagination hears the macaroni splutter and boil in the murmur of
the waves against the cliff below, and sees the purple glow of the
evening sun pour masses of "pumaroli"[31] sauce over it.
Suddenly Il Cacciatore rubs his eyes and looks dreamily around, and
Spadaro investigates with amazement the bag, where only a single little
lark, which was on its way to give spring concerts in the north, sleeps
his last sleep. _Hallo! Spadaro! Andiamonci!_[32] The dogs wake up by
degrees, and the caravan starts slowly on its way towards Capri. Tired
by the day's toil, at last they reach the Piazza and its friendly
wineshop, where Il Cacciatore sits down to rest whilst Spadaro and the
dogs carry home the lark in triumph.