morning before daybreak they start off to try and capture Spring in its
flight, every evening they meet on the Piazza to rest, and often enough
do we assemble round our friend Il Cacciatore's table to partake of a
magnificent quail-pie, such as only he can put before us.
But although the ranks are thinned, the March of The Ten Thousand still
advances victoriously. Soon the larks sing over the frosty fields in the
distant North, soon the swallows twitter under the eaves of the far-off
little cottage, which has lain so long half-buried in snow, and the
quails sound their monotonous note in the spring evenings.
The shooting season is over, and the Capri dogs sit blankly upon the
Piazza, staring out over the gulf in the direction the bird flew when he
escaped out of their hands. Higher and higher the sacred fire flames
each morning upon the sun-god's altar down in Mitromania's grotto,
brighter and brighter the Faraglioni rocks gleam each evening with
purple and gold, with a still ruddier glow the wine-hue of the gulf
fascinates Il Cacciatore's retina. Silently the liberal dogs ponder over
the burning questions of the day, and, panting, the clericals listen
from their sunny church steps to the prophecies of the fires of _Il
purgatorio_, which the priests proclaim every Sunday inside the cool
Church. Public life ceases by degrees, and it seems as if a reaction
sets in after the excitement of the shooting season. The arrival of the
steamer is certainly still watched from the Piazza, and with one eye
open they look at the few strangers who wander up to the Piazza with
outspread sketching-umbrellas and easel and colour-box on a boy's head.
True, they still assemble in front of the closed door of the office to
await the opening of the post-bag, but interest in political life has
slackened, and their hope of letters has become a quiet resignation.
Inside the _Farmacia_ the drugs ferment in their pots, and in Don
Nicolino's Salone living frescoes of flies adorn the walls. About the
slopes of Monte Salaro the Scirocco hangs in heavy clouds, and an
irresistible drowsiness settles down upon the Piazza. Capri enters into
its summer torpor.
When it awakes the sun has subdued his fire, and the table stands ready
spread for the lords of creation to seat themselves and feast, and for
the dogs to gather up the fragments that remain. From the _pergola_
over their heads hang grapes in heavy clusters, and amidst the shade of
the orange-groves peep out juicy figs and red-cheeked peaches. Then
comes the Bacchanalia of the vintage, with song and jest and maiden's
bright eyes looking out from under huge baskets of grapes, and naked
feet freeing the slumbering butterfly of wine from its crushed
chrysalis.
Over the Piazza a cooling sea breeze blows now and again, and Capri
takes a refreshing bath of heavy autumnal rain to wash away the heat and
dust of summer. The dogs save themselves in time from the vivacity of
the unknown element, but millions of obscure lives are drowned in the
streams which force their way like a deluge over the bloody battle-field
of summer, whilst others find their Ararat amongst the brushes in Don
Nicolino's Salone.
The mist of unconsciousness is gradually lifted from the dogs' brains,
and waking dreams about activity and strength stare out from their
half-shut eyes. Don Nicolino smilingly dusts the halo of flies from his
portrait, and, deep in thought, Don Petruccio composes a new elixir of
life from summer's _mixtum compositum_. Fenocchio and Giovanni seat
themselves again in their corner to wash a little copper out of the
tourist stream, and with trembling legs the small donkeys once more
unload numbers of _forestieri_ in the Piazza. From Vesuvius the smoke
falls in long cloud-streamers over the gulf, and upon the wings of the
Tramontana (the north wind), Summer flies home again after her
wedding-trip to the North. In vain do the Capriotes spread their nets
once more round the shores of the island; in vain do the dogs lie in
wait amongst the rocks; in vain does Il Cacciatore sit in full armour on
the heights of Monte Solaro and shoot off his cartridges after the
fugitive--Summer passes by.
With drooping tails the dogs sit huddled together upon the stones of
their Piazza, thinking with sorrow of their departed summer idyll. From
snow-covered Apennines, Winter comes sailing in his foam-hidden
dragon-ship over the uneasy waters of the gulf. The storm thunders
amidst the ruins of the old watch-tower, whose alarm-bell[33] has been
silent for so long, and amongst the foaming breakers the mad Viking
boards Capri's cliffs. Strong as a whirlwind he cuts in pieces the
pergola garlands which were left hanging after Autumn's Bacchanalian
feast, and, brutal as a savage, he tears asunder the leaf-woven chiton
which clothed the Dryad of the grove.
But down in Mitromania's grotto the sacred fire flames as before upon
the old Persian god's altar, and tenderly the God of Day spreads his
shining shield over his beloved island and bids the barbarian from the
North go to sea again. So he departs, the rough stranger, his errand
unaccomplished, without having robbed a single rose from the maiden's
sun-warmed cheek, without having stolen a single golden fruit from the
everlasting green of the orange groves. And scarcely has he turned his
back before tiny fearless violets peep carefully out from among the
hillocks, and narcissus and rosemary clamber high up on the steep cliffs
to see whither the harsh Northerner has gone, and soon a whole flock of
flower children come and set themselves down to play at summer in the
grass.
Upon the Piazza the dogs sit as before in sunny contemplation. The cycle
of their life's emotions has been run through, and they begin to turn
over anew the blank pages of their history, page after page in unvarying
sequence. Day follows day and year follows year, and soon old age comes
and scatters some white almond blossom upon their heads. The buoyant
delights of the senses are benumbed, youth's far-flying thoughts have
broken their wings against the four walls of the Piazza, and like tame
ducks they go round and round their enclosed space, from Don Antonio's
wineshop to Felicello's donkey-stand, from Don Nicolino's Salone to Don
Petruccio's Farmacia. Now and again the free cry of the passing wild
geese high above in space reaches the Piazza, the early youthful courage
wakes anew, and they sluggishly tramp along towards the Anacapri road as
far as their heavy limbs can carry them. Now and again a faint echo from
some world's revolution trembles on their tympanums through Don
Peppino's post-office, and they look away in dreaming peace to the white
town of Naples, the noise of whose human life is lost amidst the murmur
of the waves, or away to the old revolutionist Vesuvius, whose
threatening wrath will never reach their Eden.
So they sit on their Piazza, staring out upon the river of time as it
flows past them. They still sit there staring for a few more years to
come, then they move no more--they have become hypnotised. The struggle
for existence has ceased, and imperceptibly they sink into Buddha's
Nirvana, unconscious, painless, inebriate with the sun.
[Footnote 26: I write here as I talk here--not Italian but Capri
dialect. The old Emperor, who lived on the island for eleven years, is
never called Tiberio here, but "Timberio."]
[Footnote 27: Our friend old Mr. X----, for fifteen years the delight
and ornament of the Piazza of Capri, always cheerful, always thirsty, a
great destroyer of quails and wine-bottles, now at last gone to rest in
the quiet little field outside the town of Capri, where the sombre green
of some laurel and cypress-trees stands out between the waving branches
of his favourite plant, the vine. Old Spadaro is still alive, and will
tell you all about his lamented master.]
[Footnote 28: Quail bishop. Capri no longer owns a bishop, but the quail
harvest still forms one--and perhaps the most important--item of the
island's revenue.]
[Footnote 29: Few strangers visit the grotto of Mitromania, the name of
which may be derived from _Magnum Mitrae Antrum_. It faces east, and the
first rays of the sun light up its mysterious gloom. One knows from
excavations made here that once upon a time the old, yet ever young,
sun-god was worshipped in this cave.]
[Footnote 30: Leopardi.]
[Footnote 31: Pumaroli-pomidoro, _i.e._ tomato, the Southern Italian's
favourite fruit, the most important ingredient in everything he eats,
sweetening the monotony of his macaroni.]
[Footnote 32: "Let us be off."]
[Footnote 33: The alarm-bell used to be rung from the old tower to warn
the shores of the gulf of the approach of pirates.]
ZOOLOGY
They say that love for mankind is the highest of all virtues. I admire
this love for mankind, and I know well that it only belongs to noble
minds. My soul is too small, my thought flies too near the earth ever to
reach so far, and I am obliged to acknowledge that the longer I live the
farther I depart from this high ideal. I should lie if I said that I
love mankind.
But I love animals, oppressed, despised animals, and I do not care when
people laugh at me because I say that I feel happier with them than with
the majority of people I come across.
When one has spoken with a human being for half an hour, one has, as a
rule, had quite enough, isn't it so? I, at least, then usually feel
inclined to slip away, and I am always astonished that he with whom I
have been speaking has not tried to escape long before. But I am never
bored in the society of a friendly dog, even if I do not know him or he
me. Often when I meet a dog walking along by himself, I stop and ask him
where he is going and have a little chat with him; and even if no
further conversation takes place, it does me good to look at him and try
to enter into the thoughts which are working in his mind. Dogs have this
immense advantage over man that they cannot dissimulate, and
Talleyrand's paradox that speech has been given us in order to conceal
our thoughts, cannot at all be applied to dogs.
I can sit half the day in a field watching the grazing cattle; and to
observe the physiognomy of a little donkey is one of the keenest
pleasures of a psychologist. But it is specially when donkeys are free
that they are most interesting, a tied-up donkey is not nearly so
communicative as when she is loose and at liberty, and that after all is
not much to be wondered at.
At Ischia I lived for a long time almost exclusively with a donkey. It
was Fate which brought us together. I lived in a little boat-house down
at the Marina, and the donkey lived next door to me. I had quite lost my
sleep up in the stifling rooms of the hotel, and had gladly accepted my
friend Antonio's invitation to live down at the Marina in his cool
boat-house, while he was out fishing in the bay of Gaeta. I fared
exceedingly well in there amongst the pots and fishing-nets; and astride
on the keel of an old upturned boat I wrote long love-letters to the
sea. And when evening came and it began to grow dusk in the boat-house,
I went to bed in my hammock, with a sail for a covering and the memory
of a happy day for a pillow. I fell asleep with the waves and I woke
with the day. Each morning came my neighbour, the old donkey, and stuck
in her solemn head through the open door, looking steadfastly at me. I
always wondered why she stood there so still and did nothing but stare
at me, and I could not hit upon any other explanation than that she
thought I was nice to look at. I lay there half awake looking at her--I
thought that she too was nice to look at. She resembled an old family
portrait as she stood there with her gray head framed by the doorway
against the blue background of a summer's morning. Out there it grew
lighter and lighter, and the clear surface of the sea began to glitter.
Then came a ray of sunlight dancing right into my eyes, and I sprang up
and greeted the gulf. I had nothing whatever to do all day, but the poor
donkey was supposed to be at work the whole forenoon up in Casamicciola.
There grew, however, such a sympathy between us that I found a
substitute for her, and then we wandered carelessly about all day long,
like true vagabonds wherever the road led us. Sometimes it was I who
went first with the donkey trotting quietly at my heels, sometimes it
was she who had got a fixed determination of her own, and then I
naturally followed her. I studied the whole time with great attention
the interesting personality I had so unexpectedly come across, and it
was long since I had found myself in such congenial company. I might
have much more to say about all this, but these psychological researches
may prove far too serious a topic for many of my readers, and I
therefore believe I had better stop here.
And the birds, who can ever tire of them? Hour after hour I can sit on a
mossy stone and listen to what a dear little bird has to say--I, who can
never keep my thoughts together when some one is talking to me. But have
you noticed how sweet a little bird is to look at when he sings his
song, and now and again bends his graceful head, as if to listen for
some one to answer far away in the forest? In the late summer, when the
bird-mother has to teach her children to talk--do not believe it is
only a matter of instinct, even they have to take lessons in learning
their singing language--have you watched these lessons when the mother
from her swinging-chair lectures about something or other, and the
summer-old little ones stammer after her with their clear child-voices?
And when the birds are silent, I have only to look down among the grass
and moss to light on other acquaintances to keep me company. Over waving
grass and corn flies a dragon-fly on wings of sun-glitter and fairy-web,
and deep down in the path, which winds between the mighty grass stems, a
little ant struggles on with a dry fir-needle on her back. Rough is the
road, now it goes up-hill and now it goes down-hill, now she pushes the
heavy load like a sledge before her, now she carries it upon her slender
shoulders. She pulls so hard up-hill that her whole little body
stiffens, she rolls down the steep slopes with her burden clasped
tightly in her arms; but she never lets go, and onward it goes, for the
ant is in a hurry to get home. Soon the dew will fall, and then it is
unsafe to be out in the trackless forest, and best to be home in peace
after the day's work is ended. Now the road becomes mountainous and
steep, and suddenly a mighty rock rises in front of her--what the name
of that rock is the ant knows well enough; I know nothing, and to me it
looks like an ordinary pebble. The ant stops short and ponders awhile,
then she gives a signal with her antennae, which I am too stupid to
understand but which others at once respond to, for from behind a dry
leaf I see two other ants approach to the rescue. I watch how they hold
a council of war, and how the new arrivals with great concern pull the
log to try how heavy it is. Suddenly they stand quite still and
listen--an ant-patrol marches by a little way off, and I see how a
couple of ants are told off to lend assistance. Then they all take hold
together, and like sailors they haul up the log with a long slow pull.
I understand it is to repair the havoc made by an earthquake that the
log is to be used--how many hard-working lives were perhaps crushed
under the ruins of the fallen houses, and what evil power was it that
destroyed what so much patient labour built up? I dare not ask, for who
knows if it were not a passing man who amused himself by knocking down
the ant-hill with his stick!
And all the other tiny creatures, whose name I do not know, but into
whose small world I look with joy, they also are fellow-citizens in
Creation's great society, and probably they fulfil their public duties
far better than I fulfil mine!
And besides, when thus lying down and staring into the grass, one ends
by becoming so very small oneself.
And at last it seems to me as if I were nothing but an ant myself,
struggling on with my heavy load through the trackless forest. Now it
goes up-hill and now it goes down-hill. But the thing is not to let go.
And if there is some one to help to give a pull where the hill seems too
steep and the load too heavy, all goes well enough.
But suddenly Fate comes passing by and knocks down all that has been
built up with so much hard labour.
The ant struggles on with her heavy load deep in the trackless forest.
The way is long, and there is still some time before the day's work is
over and the dew falls.
But high overhead flies the dream on wings of sun-glitter and fairy-web.
HYPOCHONDRIA
The study of micro-organisms has directed medical science into new
channels, and thrown open a hitherto undreamt-of world for eager
investigators. The list of recent discoveries in bacteriology is already
a long one. Koch's researches in cholera and tuberculosis, and Pasteur's
method of vaccination against hydrophobia, are but links in the chain
which one day shall fetter the hydra-headed dragon of disease. Less
known, but hardly less important, are the very latest studies of
hypochondria, which have led to the discovery that this evil also
belongs to infectious diseases.
Struck by the constant disorder of thought and sensibility which
characterise the hypochondriac, the doctors have up till now placed this
malady amongst the nervous diseases, and it is in the central organs of
the nervous system, more especially the brain, that its seat and origin
have been determined. We finally know that hypochondria is an infectious
disease, caused by a microbe which has been isolated, and named
_Bacillus niger_ (A. M.).
It is after all astonishing that this discovery has escaped so many
investigators ever since Burton, whose _Anatomy of Melancholy_ still
remains unparalleled--it is astonishing when one considers the many
analogies which connect this so-called nervous disease with some of the
best-known bacterial diseases, such as hydrophobia, tuberculosis, and
cholera. As in hydrophobia, so in hypochondria the virus spreads over
the nervous system, produces constant and well-known disorders in the
brain, and ends here also by paralysis, paralysis of the affected
individual's intellectual and moral functions, and, at last, mental
death. As in hydrophobia, one also notices by the bacillus niger
infection cramp in certain groups of muscles--that of the muscles of
laughter being, for instance, very common. This cramp, _risus
sardonicus_, is excessively painful, and its prognostic signification is
a bad one, for it is a characteristic of absolutely incurable cases
(Heine).
The tendency to bite, which characterises hydrophobia, is also
encountered in certain forms of hypochondria (Schopenhauer). As a rule
the affected individual is, however, inoffensive and resigned
(Leopardi).
The cholera characteristic, _Stadium algidum_, is also to be found in
bacillus niger infection--a Stadium algidum when the soul slowly grows
cold, and at last reaches the zero of insensibility (Tiberius).
The curious, and, up till now, unexplained immunity which protects
certain individuals from cholera, appears again in hypochondria--so,
for instance, have idiots shown themselves absolutely refractory, _i.e._
not receptive of the bacillus niger infection. The explanation of the
relative rarity of hypochondria is probably to be found in this
fact. . . .
In analogy with what experimental pathology has taught us about the
microbes of cholera and tuberculosis, the bacillus niger does not seem
to thrive on animals, though several exceptions to this rule are to be
found, and as the tuberculosis bacillus is exceedingly common amongst
cows, so may be pointed out the great diffusion of bacillus niger
infection amongst old donkeys (Rosina). I do not believe, though, that
here, as with the cows, one can speak of spontaneous infection--the
virus has, in the case of the old donkey, more probably been introduced
into the blood through a flogged back. Dogs seem, after a long contact
with infected individuals, to be receptive of contagion (Puck).
Bacillus niger originates in the heart--there is no doubt about
that--the disorders of the brain are secondary. The explanation why the
seat of the evil has been supposed to be the brain is natural enough,
because as a rule it is only since the infection has spread to the brain
that the malady can be diagnosed. So long as bacillus niger has only
attacked the heart, the diagnosis is much more difficult. The nature of
the evil can, however, here, as in certain forms of tuberculosis, be
easily enough detected at the back of the eyes. This is probably in
relation with the morbid alteration of the organ of sight, which
characterises the bacillus niger infection--_the patient sees life as it
is_; when, on the contrary, as is well known, in the normal eye the
vision of the outer world is reflected through certain media, illusions
and never-dying hope, before it is transferred through the optic nerve
to the brain.
As with microbes of the before-mentioned diseases, bacillus niger is
also exceedingly tenacious of life. Its virulence can be temporarily
reduced by alcohol, ink, and music. As for alcohol, its effect is
indubitable, but unfortunately of very short duration. The microbe very
soon--indeed, already the next morning, according to all
experimentalists--regains its full vigour, and its temporary inactivity
seems rather to have increased its virulence instead of decreasing it.
Like most of the other antimicrobic agents, alcohol is in itself a
deadly poison, and its application in the treatment of the disease is
therefore very limited. It is to be used with the greatest precaution,
for there are numerous instances of the individual having followed his
microbe to the grave.
May I here mention _en passant_ a harmless old quack remedy--the common
practice of smoking out the microbe. The home of the tobacco-plant is
the same land where the poppy of oblivion blossoms, the silent shores
between which flows the stream of Lethe. The fragrance of its leaf has
deadened the microbe in more than one diseased brain, the clouds from an
old pipe have hidden the reality from more than one sorrowful eye. (Do
you remember Rodolphe in Henri Murger's _Vie de Boheme_?)
Ink as a bactericide is less known, but worth consideration. I know of a
case, to which I shall return later, where a momentary amelioration was
produced by an ink-cure. Contrary to alcohol, this specific can be used
without any danger whatever to the individual himself--the danger being
limited to his surroundings. The microbe is dipped in the ink-stand, and
fixed on paper to dry. It maintains, however, its virulence long enough,
and can, transplanted in a fertile soil, regain its vigour and grow.
The preparation must, therefore, be strictly locked up in the
writing-desk, which now and then must be disinfected, the surest
disinfectant being here, as always, fire.
As for music, this treatment was known even in the childhood of science;
it was already highly esteemed by the ancients--hypochondria is, as is
well known, one of the oldest of all diseases; it resounds already in
the choruses of Sophocles and Euripides. The new world of bacteriology
was then undreamt of, but the discoveries of thousands of years have
done no more than verify the experience of the ancients. Music still
remains the greatest consoler of sorrow-stricken man. Still to-day Saul
seeks relief for his sombre soul from David's harp, still to-day does
Orpheus conquer the shades of Hades by the sound of his lute; still
to-day the song calls out for the Eurydice of our longing.
* * * * *