If there is one place more than another for which I entertain a dislike
that is akin to hatred, it is for Naples in the summer time--that
wretched period when every one one knows is absent, all the large houses
are closed, the roads are knee-deep in dust, and even the noise of the
waves breaking upon the walls of the Castello del' Ovo seems unable to
alleviate the impression of heat and dryness which pervades everything.
It is the season when the hotels, usually so cool--one might almost say
frigid--have had time to grow hot throughout, and are in consequence
well-nigh unbearable; when the particular waiter who has attended to
your wants during each preceding visit, and who has come to know your
customs and to have survived his original impression that each
successive act on your part is only a more glaring proof of your insular
barbarity, is visiting his friends in the country, or whatever it is
that waiters do during the dull season when the tourists have departed
and their employers have no further use for them. It was at this
miserable period of the year that I descended upon Naples in search of
Monsieur Pharos.
Owing to a breakdown on the line between Spezia and Pisa, it was close
upon midnight before I reached my destination, and almost one o'clock
before I had transported my luggage from the railway station to my
hotel. By this time, as will be readily understood by all those who
have made the overland journey, I was in a condition bordering upon
madness. Ever since I had called upon Sir George Legrath, and had
obtained from him the address of the man from whom I hoped to learn the
whereabouts of Pharos, I had been living in a kind of stupor. It took
the form of a drowsiness that nothing would shake off, and yet, do what
I would, I could not sleep. Times out of number during that long journey
I had laid myself back in the railway carriage and closed my eyes in the
hope of obtaining some rest; but it was in vain. However artfully I
might woo the drowsy god, sleep would not visit my eyelids. The mocking
face of the man I had come to consider my evil angel was always before
me, and in the darkness of the night, when the train was rolling
southward, I could hear his voice in my ears telling me that this
hastily-conceived journey on my part had been all carefully thought out
and arranged by him beforehand, and that in seeking him in Naples I was
only advancing another step toward the fulfilment of my destiny.
On reaching my hotel I went straight to bed. Every bone in my body ached
with fatigue. Indeed, so weary was I that I could eat nothing and could
scarcely think coherently. The proprietor of the hotel was an old
friend, and for the reason that whenever I visited Naples I made it a
rule to insist upon occupying the same room, I did not experience the
same feeling of loneliness which usually assails one on retiring to rest
in a strange place. In my own mind I was convinced that as soon as my
head touched the pillow I should be asleep. But a bitter disappointment
was in store for me. I laid myself down with a sigh of satisfaction and
closed my eyes; but whether I missed the rocking of the train, or was
overtired, I can not say--at any rate, I was soon convinced of one
thing, and that was that the longer I lay there the more wakeful I
became. I tried another position, but with the same result. I turned my
pillow, only to make it the more uncomfortable. Every trick for the
production of sleep that I had ever heard of I put into execution, but
always with entire absence of success. At last, thoroughly awake and
still more thoroughly exasperated, I rose from my couch, and dressing
myself, opened the window of my room and stepped out on to the balcony.
It was a glorious night, such a one as is seldom, if ever, seen in
England. Overhead the moon sailed in a cloudless sky, revealing with her
exquisite light the city stretching away to right and left and the
expanse of harbour lying directly before me; Vesuvius standing out black
and awesome, and the dim outline of the hills toward Castellamare and
Sorrento beyond. For some reason my thoughts no longer centred
themselves on Pharos. I found the lovely face of his companion
continually rising before my eyes. There was the same expression of
hopelessness upon it that I remembered on the first occasion upon which
I had seen her; but there was this difference, that in some vague,
uncertain way she seemed now to be appealing to me to help her, to
rescue her from the life she was leading and from the man who had got
her, as he had done myself, so completely in his power. Her beauty
affected me as no other had ever done. I could still hear the soft
accents of her voice, and the echo of her wild, weird music, as plainly
as if I were still sitting listening to her in Lady Medenham's
drawing-room; and, strange to relate, it soothed me to think that it was
even possible we might be in the same town together.
For upward of an hour I remained in the balcony looking down at the
moonlit city and thinking of the change the last few days had brought
about in my life. When I once more sought my couch, scarcely five
minutes elapsed before I was wrapped in a heavy, dreamless sleep from
which I did not wake until well nigh nine o'clock. Much refreshed, I
dressed myself, and having swallowed a hasty breakfast, to which I
brought a better appetite than I had known for some days past, donned my
hat and left the hotel in search of Signor Angelotti, who, as the card
informed me, carried on his profession of a public letter-writer under
the arches of the San Carlo Theatre.
In all the years which have elapsed since Don Pedro de Toledo laid the
foundation of the magnificent thoroughfare which to-day bears his name,
I very much doubt if a man has made his way along it on a more curious
errand than I did that day. To begin with, I had yet to discover what
connection Angelotti could have with Monsieur Pharos, and then to find
out how far it was in his power to help me. Would he forsake his
business and lead me direct to the Egyptian's abode, or would he deny
any knowledge of the person in question and send me unsatisfied away?
Upon these points I resolved to satisfy myself without delay.
Of all the characteristic spots of Naples surely the point at which the
Via Roma joins the Piazza San Ferdinando, in which is situated the
theatre for which I was making, is the most remarkable. Here one is
permitted an opportunity of studying the life of the city under the most
favourable auspices. My mind, however, on this occasion was too much
occupied wondering what the upshot of my errand would be to have any
time to spare for the busy scene around me. Reaching the theatre I took
the card from my pocket and once more examined it. It was plain and
straightforward, like Sir George Legrath's own life, and, as I have
already said, warned me that I must look for this mysterious Angelotti,
who carried on the trade of a public letter-writer under the arches of
the famous theatre. As I glanced at the words "Public Letter-writer"
another scene rose before my mind's eye.
Several years before I had visited Naples with a number of friends,
among whom was a young American lady whose vivacity and capacity for fun
made her the life and soul of the party. On one occasion nothing would
please her but to stop in the street and engage one of these public
scribes to indite a letter for her to an acquaintance in New York. I can
see the old man's amusement now, and the pretty, bright face of the girl
as she endeavoured to make him understand, in broken Italian, what she
desired him to say. That afternoon, I remember, we went to Capri and
were late in reaching home, for which we should in all probability have
received a wigging from the elder members of the party, who had remained
behind, but for the fact that two important engagements, long hoped for,
were announced as resulting from the excursion. I could not help
contrasting the enjoyment with which I had made a bet of gloves with the
young American, that she would not employ the letter-writer as narrated
above, with my feelings as I searched for Angelotti now. Approaching the
first table I inquired of the man behind it whether he could inform me
where I should be most likely to find the individual I wanted.
"Angelotti, did you say, signore?" the fellow replied, shaking his head
"I know no one of that name among the writers here." Then, turning to a
man seated a little distance from him, he questioned him, with the same
result.
It began to look as if Legrath must have made some mistake, and that
the individual in whose custody reposed the secret of Pharos's address
was as difficult to find as his master himself. But, unsuccessful as my
first inquiry had been, I was not destined to be disappointed in the
end. A tall, swarthy youth, of the true Neapolitan loafer type, who had
been leaning against a wall close by smoking a cigarette and taking a
mild interest in our conversation, now removed his back from its
resting-place and approached us.
"Ten thousand pardons, Excellenza," he said, "but you mentioned the name
of one Angelotti, a public letter-writer. I am acquainted with him, and
with the signore's permission will conduct him to that person."
"You are sure you know him?" I replied, turning upon him sharply, for I
had had dealings with Neapolitan loafers before, and I did not
altogether like the look of this fellow.
"Since he is my uncle, Excellenza, it may be supposed that I do," he
answered.
Having said this he inhaled a considerable quantity of smoke and blew it
slowly out again, watching me all the time. I do not know any being in
the world who can be so servile, and at the same time so insolent at a
moment's notice, as a youth of the Neapolitan lower classes. This fellow
was an excellent specimen of his tribe.
"Since you know Angelotti, perhaps you will be good enough to tell me
his address?" I said at last. "I have no doubt I shall then be able to
find him for myself."
Seeing the advantage he held, and scenting employment of not too severe
a kind, the young man made a gesture with his hands as if to signify
that while he was perfectly willing to oblige me in so small a matter,
business was business, and he must profit by his opportunity. He would
be perfectly willing, he said, to act as my guide; but it must be
remembered that it would occupy some considerable portion of his
valuable time, and this would have to be paid for at a corresponding
rate.
When I had agreed to his terms he bade me follow him, and leaving the
precincts of the theatre struck out in the direction of the Strada di
Chiaia. Whatever his other deficiencies may have been, he was certainly
a good walker, and I very soon found that it took me all my time to keep
up with him. Reaching the end of the street he turned sharply to the
right, crossed the road, and a few seconds later dived into an alley. Of
all the filthy places of Naples, that in which I now found myself was
undoubtedly the dirtiest. As usual, the houses were many stories high;
but the road was so narrow, and the balconies projected so far from the
windows that an active man might have leaped from side to side with
perfect safety. For the most part the houses consisted of small shops,
though here and there the heavily-barred lower windows and carved
doorways proclaimed them private residences. Halfway down this
objectionable thoroughfare a still smaller and dirtier one led off to
the right, and into this my guide turned, bidding me follow him. Just as
I was beginning to wonder whether I should ever find my way out alive,
the youth came to a standstill before a small shop, in which a number of
second-hand musical instruments were displayed for sale.
"This, Excellenza, is the residence of the most illustrious Angelotti,"
he said, with a wave of his hand toward the shop in question.
"But I understand that he was a letter-writer," I answered, believing
for the moment that the youth had tricked me.
"And it was quite true," he replied. "Until a month ago the Signor
Angelotti had his table at the theatre; but his cousin is dead, and now
he sells the most beautiful violins in all Italy."
As he said this the young man lifted his hand and gently waved it in the
air, as if it were impossible for him to find words sufficiently
expressive to describe the excellence of the wares I should find within.
It is probable he considered me an intending purchaser, and I do not
doubt he had made up his mind, in the event of business ensuing, to
return a little later in order to demand from his avuncular relative a
commission upon the transaction. Rewarding him for the trouble he had
taken, I bade him be off about his business and entered the shop. It was
a dismal little place and filthy to an indescribable degree. The walls
were hung with musical instruments, the ceiling with rows of dried
herbs, and in a corner, seated at a table busily engaged upon some
literary composition, a little old man, with sharp, twinkling eyes and
snow-white hair. On seeing me he rose from his chair and came forward to
greet me, pen in hand.
"I am looking for the Signor Angelotti," I said, by way of introducing
myself, "whom I was told I should find among the public letter-writers
at the Theatre San Carlo."
"Angelotti is my name," he answered, "and for many years I received my
clients at the place you mention; but my cousin died, and though I would
willingly have gone on writing my little letters--for I may tell you,
Excellenza, that writing letters for other people is a pleasurable
employment--business is business, however, and here was this shop to be
attended to. So away went letter-writing, and now, as you see, I sell
violins and mandolins, of which I can show you the very best assortment
in all Naples."
As he said this he put his little sparrow-like head on one side and
looked at me in such a comical fashion that I could scarcely refrain
from laughing. I had no desire, however, to offend the little man, for I
did not know how useful he might prove himself to me.
"Doubtless you miss your old employment," I said, "particularly as it
seems to have afforded you so much interest. It was not in connection
with your talents in that direction, however, that I have called upon
you. I have come all the way from England to ask you a question."
On hearing this he nodded his head more vigorously than before.
"A great country," he answered with enthusiasm. "I have written many
letters for my clients to relatives there. There is a place called
Saffron Hill. Oh, Excellenza, you would scarcely believe what stories I
could tell you about the letters I have written to people there. But I
am interrupting you. I am an old man, and I have seen very many things,
so it is only natural I should like to talk about them."
"Very natural, indeed," I answered; "but in this instance all I have
come to ask of you is an address. I want you to find a person for me who
left England a few days since."
"And came to Naples? A countryman, perhaps?"
"No, he is no countryman of mine, nor do I even know that he came to
Naples; but I was told by some one in England, from whom I made
inquiries, that if I came here and asked for one Angelotti, a public
letter-writer, I should, in all probability, be able to learn his
whereabouts."
As if convinced of the importance of the part he was to play in the
affair, the old man laid his pen carefully down upon the table, and then
stood before me with his hands placed together, finger-tip to
finger-tip.
"If your Excellency would condescend to mention the individual's name,"
he said softly, "it is just possible I might be able to give him the
information he seeks."
"The name of the person I want to find is Pharos," I replied. "He is
sometimes called Pharos the Egyptian."
Had I stated that I was in search of the Author of all Evil, the placid
Angelotti could scarcely have betrayed more surprise. He took a step
from me and for a moment gazed at me in amazement. Then the expression
gradually faded from his face, leaving it as devoid of emotion as
before.
"Pharos?" he repeated. "For the moment it does not strike me that I know
the individual."
I should have believed that he really had not the power to help me had I
not noticed the look which had come into his face when I mentioned that
fatal name.
"You do not know him?" I said. "Surely you must be making some mistake.
Think again, Signor Angelotti. See, here is the card I spoke of. It has
your name and address upon it, and it was given me by Sir George
Legrath, the head of the Egyptian Museum in London, of whom I think you
must at least have heard."
He shook his head after he had examined the card.
"It is my name, sure enough," he said, handing it back to me, "but I can
not understand why you should have supposed that I know anything of the
person you are seeking. However, if you will write your name and address
upon the card, and will leave it with me, I will make inquiries, and,
should I discover anything, will at once communicate with your
Excellency. I can do no more."
I saw then that my suppositions were correct, and that the old fellow
was not as ignorant as he desired me to believe. I accordingly wrote my
name, with that of the hotel at which I was staying, at the top of the
card, and handed it to him, and then, seeing that there was nothing
further to be done, bade him good-morning, and left the shop.
Fortunately, the road home was easier to find than I had expected it
would be, and it was not very long before I was once more in the Piazza
S. Ferdinando.
I was still thinking of the curious interview through which I had just
passed when, as I crossed the road, I was suddenly recalled to the
reality of the moment by a loud voice adjuring me, in scarcely
complimentary terms, to get out of the way, unless I desired to be run
over. I turned my head in time to see a handsome carriage, drawn by a
pair of horses, coming swiftly toward me. With a spring I gained the
pavement, and then turned to take stock of it. It was not, however, at
the carriage I gazed, but at its occupant. For, lying back upon her
cushions, and looking even more beautiful than when I had seen her last,
was Pharos's companion, the Fraeulein Valerie de Vocsqal. That she saw
and recognised me was shown by the expression on her face and the way in
which she threw up her right hand. I almost fancied I could hear the cry
of amazement that escaped her lips. Then the carriage disappeared in the
crowd of traffic and she was gone again. For some moments I stood on the
pavement looking after her as if rooted to the spot. It was only when I
had recovered myself sufficiently to resume my walk that I could put two
and two together and understand what significance this meeting had for
me. If she were in Naples, it was well-nigh certain that Pharos must be
there too; and if he were there, then I hoped it would be in my power to
find him and acquaint him with the determination I had arrived at
concerning him. That he desired to avoid me I could well understand, and
the very fact that his companion showed so much astonishment at seeing
me seemed to point to the same conclusion. Poor blind worm that I was, I
hugged this conceit to my heart, and the more I did so the more resolved
I became in my own mind that, when I _did_ meet him, I would show no
mercy. Debating with myself in this fashion, I made my way along the
Strada S. Carlo and so by a short cut to my hotel.
As I have already remarked, there is nothing drearier in the world than
a foreign hotel out of the season. In this particular instance I seemed
to have the entire building to myself. The long corridors were innocent
of the step of a stranger foot, and when I sat down to lunch in the
great dining-hall, I had not only the room, but the entire staff, or
what was left of it, to wait upon me.
I had just finished my meal, and was wondering in what manner I could
spend the afternoon, when a waiter approached and placed a note beside
my plate. Had I never seen the writer, I should have been able to guess
his profession by his penmanship. The caligraphy displayed upon the
envelope was too perfect not to be professional, and, as I looked at it,
it seemed to me I could see the queer, sparrow-like head of the writer
bending over it and smell the odour of the dried herbs and the still
drier violins hanging up in that quaint old shop to which I had paid a
visit that morning. On the top was my name and address in my own
writing, and below it the direction furnished me by Sir George Legrath.
Seeing that there was nothing new on that side, I took it to the window,
and, turning it over, read as follows:
"If Mr. Forrester desires to meet the person of whom he spoke this
morning he should be in the Temple of Mercury at Pompeii this afternoon
at four o'clock. Provided he brings no one with him, he will be
permitted the interview he seeks."
There was no signature, and nothing but the penmanship to show from whom
it emanated; that it was genuine, however, I did not for a moment doubt.
I looked at my watch, and finding that as yet it was scarcely half past
one, tried to make up my mind whether I should go by train or drive. The
afternoon would be hot, I was very well aware, and so would a long drive
in an open carriage be; but the train would be hotter still. Eventually
I decided for the road, and immediately despatched a waiter in search of
a conveyance. Of the carriage and horses there is nothing to be said,
and save the view, which is always beautiful, but little in favour of
the drive. It was a quarter to four when I alighted at the entrance to
the ruins, and by that time I was covered from head to foot with a
coating of that indescribable dust so peculiar to Naples.
Informing the cabman that I should return to the city by train, I paid
the admission fee and, declining the services of a guide, entered the
grounds, keeping my eyes wide open, as you may suppose, for the man I
had come to meet. Entering the ruins proper by the Marine Gate, I made
my way direct to the _rendezvous_ named upon the card, and, surely,
never in the history of that ancient place had a man passed along its
streets on a stranger mission. I need not have hurried, however, for on
reaching the Forum, whence a full view of the Temple can be obtained, I
found that I had the place to myself. Having satisfied myself on this
point, I sat down on a block of stone and collected my thoughts in
preparation for the coming interview. Times out of number I consulted my
watch; and when the hands pointed to four o'clock I felt as if the
quarter of an hour I had spent there had in reality been an hour. It was
a breathless afternoon; beyond the city the blue hills seemed to float
and quiver in mid-air. A lark was trilling in the sky above me, and so
still was it that the rumbling of a wagon on the white road half a mile
or so away could be distinctly heard.
"My dear Mr. Forrester, allow me to wish you a very good afternoon; I
need scarcely say how delighted I am to meet you!" said a voice behind
me; and, turning, I found myself face to face with Pharos.