We have already given some insight into the workings of the Detective
Police system of London, and have found that it is solely employed
in bringing crime to justice. We have no political police, no police
over opinion. The most rabid demagogue can _say_ in this free
country what he chooses, provided it does not tend to incite others to
_do_ what is annoying to the lieges. He speaks not under the
terror of an organised spy system. He dreads not to discuss the affairs
of the nation at a tavern, lest the waiter should be a policeman in
disguise; he can converse familiarly with his guests at his own table
without suspecting that the interior of his own liveries consists of
a spy; when travelling, he has not the slightest fear of perpetual
imprisonment for declaring himself freely on the conduct of the powers
that be, because he knows that even if his fellow-passenger be a
Sergeant Myth or an Inspector Wield, no harm will come to him.
It is not so across the Channel. There, while the criminal police is
very defective, the police of politics is all powerful. In March last,
thirty thousand political malcontents were swept beyond the gates of
Paris in a single morning, before the rest of the people were up; and
nobody was any the wiser till the masterly feat had been performed; but
during the same month several single individuals were knocked down and
robbed--some in broad day, others at dusk--yet neither of the robbers
were taken. In Austria, in some of the German states, and in Italy,
political _espionage_ is carried to a point of refined ingenuity
of which no Englishman can form an idea. Mr. Tomkins goes, for
instance, to Naples; and--as the Emperor of Russia might have enlarged
on the happiness and prosperity of that city after his recent visit to
it, because the streets were cleared of beggars, the cabmen compelled
to dress in their best, and the fishermen to wear shoes--so in the
“Travels in Italy,” which Mr. Tomkins would undoubtedly publish, there
would be not a word about the police spy system; because he, innocent
man, was unable to detect in his table companions, in his courier, or
in his laundress, an agent of police. It is now our purpose to supply
from the authentic information of a resident in Naples, the hiatus to
be found in all the books of all the Mr. Tomkinses who have written
“Travels.”
The chief agent is the Commissary, who, says our friend, has a certain
district put under his care, and is thus made responsible for its
order and fidelity; he is a kind of nursing father, in short, to the
unhappy inhabitants, with power to ruin or destroy; for though he
nominally receives his orders from the Minister of Police, yet, as the
cant phrase is, his office is eminently “suggestive;” and whether a
suspicion is to be cleared up, an act of vengeance to be perpetrated,
or some object of interest or licentiousness to be attained, the
report of the Commissary supplies all the data for the operations at
head-quarters.
Immediately under his orders this General of Division has both regular
and irregular troops, the former being the Policemen of the City; the
latter simply Spies. When any long course of inquiry is to be carried
out, he employs deputies, who bring in their intelligence from time to
time; but if any immediate or important information is desired, the
Commissary undertakes that little bit of business himself--it is a
delicate _morçeau_ which this gourmand cannot resist, and away he
posts to enjoy the banquet.
Some years ago, there resided in the neighbourhood of Naples a
foreigner, whose health compelled him to seek a southern climate.
His tastes and occupations were literary, and his habits quiet; but
whether he had some secret enemy who had denounced him, or whether
the Government were afraid of him, because he read and wrote, I
know not; but one fine morning the little town was much agitated
by the appearance of a Commissary of Police and his attendant
“Sbirri.” Many were the conjectures--as is always the case under such
circumstances--as to what could be the object of this visitation. No
one took it to himself; but as in a church each good Christian lolls in
his corner and admires the applicability of the sermon to his neighbour
in the next pew; so every little townsman knew precisely the person who
merited the inspection of the Police. Don Roberto was sure that the
visit was meant for his mortal enemy, Don Giuseppe; whereas the master
of the favourite “Cantino” was equally sure that it must be for his
rival who sold such acid wine, and permitted scenes in his shop enough
to awaken the anger of the Saints. He always thought he was a Carbonaro!
The Commissary, on his arrival, sent for the Syndic.
“Pray, Signor Syndic,” he said, “is there a foreigner residing here,
called Don Ferdinand?” (every one is Don, in Naples.)
“Yes!” was the reply.
“And pray, Sir, what is the object of his residence here?”
“I understand, Signor Commissario, that he is in search of health and
amusement.”
“Ah! very good: health and amusement. And what may be his occupations?”
“They do say, Sir, that he is engaged much in reading and writing.”
“Reading and writing! Yet in search of health and amusement,” said the
official, opening his eyes. “That’s a curious combination; but tell me,
has Don Ferdinand any intercourse with the inhabitants? does he ever
invite any of them to dinner?”
“I must confess,” said the Syndic, “that he does.”
“Then it is true, that Don Ferdinand proposes toasts after dinner?”
“Well,” replied the Syndic, as if such an admission would be fraught
with danger. “I cannot deny it--he _does_ propose toasts.”
“What are they?” asked the great official, sharply.
“His usual practice is, first, to propose the health of our Sovereign
Lord the King, and then the health of _his_ Sovereign Lady, the
Queen.”
Not without disappointment at having made out nothing serious against
Don Ferdinand, our Commissary dismissed the Syndic, merely observing
that he had taken note of all his answers, and should draw up his
report therefrom, and present it to the Minister of Police.
After that, the Commissary of the Police came twice to my friend’s
residence, and put a number of searching questions to his porter.
Nothing, however, came of these investigations; first, because there
was nothing really alarming in the fact of a man reading and writing,
and giving toasts; and, secondly, and perhaps more strongly, because
Don Ferdinand was an Englishman; for there is a prestige attaching
to the very name of an Englishman which attracts to him the respect
of the people and a cautious deferential treatment on the part of
the Governments. It is felt, that, however distant he may be from
his native land, he is not beyond its protective power, and that
any injustice done to him will be resented as an injustice done
to the nation. It is this conviction which has been his security
in circumstances where I have known the subjects of other States
arrested, imprisoned, or sent out of the country, without receiving the
protection of their Governments.
The Commissary is eminently a night-bird; sometimes you see him
with “measured step and slow,” followed by his Myrmidons, stealing
along under the dark shadows of the houses, like a cat treading;
or, perchance, you are returning home through the silent streets,
carelessly and thoughtlessly, when, at some dark corner, you find
yourself confronted by this spectre. He listens for and pauses at every
foot-fall, waits about in entries, stops at doors, watches the lights
in houses, and, like a true inductive philosopher, from such simple
facts--as seeing two or three lights, more or less, or a larger group
of heads than usual, infers conspiracies most dreadful and dangerous
to the State. Presently a Commissary is seen bustling along with his
attendants, with a quick and eager step. He is not on a mission of
inspection--oh, no--that cheerful promptitude indicates that game’s
a-foot, and that something is to be done. And now he stops before a
house and knocks aloud--“Who is there?”--demands some one from within.
“Open in the name of the law!” is the reply. What consternation do
these words create; lights are gleaming and people are hurrying
backwards and forwards, but the knocking continues and becomes louder,
and the door is opened, and the unfortunate master of the house is
dragged from his bed to be plunged into the dungeons of the Vicaria.
His neighbour, luckier than he, had timely notice of the honour
intended him by the Commissary; and, escaping over the roof of his
house, was enabled to get on board some friendly vessel. Their crime
you ask? That of hundreds of others who are eating the bread of penury
in exile, or pining in loathsome dungeons--they had taken part in the
movements which preceded the publication of the “Constitution” (yet an
article of that “Constitution” says, that “a veil of oblivion shall
rest upon the past”). They had, in short, assisted in the development
of a Constitution which I saw the Majesty of Naples swear on the
Gospels to observe.
I know no better type than certain noxious insects for the myrmidons
of the Commissary--the Police Spies of the South of Italy. Their
multitude, their ubiquity, their unwearied perseverance, their
sharp sting, make them worse than the whole insect tribe united,
and infinitely more dangerous. You may crush the wasp, or smoke the
mosquito, or brush away the ant, and get some intervals of repose
in spite of renewed attacks; they give you, too, some warning
signs of their approach--but the Police Spy is invisible and never
out of hearing; whether you are relaxing in frank and thoughtless
merriment, or abandoning yourself to the sweet and delicious dreams
of friendship; in the market or the street--the drawing-room--the
café--or the church--there he is: “A chiel’s amang ye taking notes,
and ’faith he’ll prent it!” They reconnoitre the ground in various
detachments for the Commissary, and report the movements, words, and
almost thoughts, of the “suspected,” or of whomsoever they please to
place upon that fatal list. They assume no distinctive dress--make no
sign; they walk in darkness, and move like the pestilence, yet they
are as real existences, and follow as precise a trade, as the vendor
of maccaroni. These spies are not sent forth at random, like gleaners
in a wheat-field, to pick up whatever they can; but they are selected
with caution, and assigned a position for which their talents or rank
best fit them. Thus it happens that every grade of society has its
appropriate and peculiar spies. Some are appointed to watch over the
upper classes; some over the _canaglia_; some over the clergy;
all watch each other. Enter a drawing-room, and rustling in satin, and
distributing the courtesies and refinements of the _galleria_
(drawing-room), you may behold a Government Spy. Beauty and refinement
unite to lament the fate of the poor Marchese Maroni, who was arrested
yesterday; nay, two crystal drops confirm the grief of the sympathising
syren--“It was so hard a case. There was really nothing that could be
proved against his Eccellenza. Alas! who is safe under the existing
order of things--is there no hope--will there never be any change?”
But beware--fall not into the meshes, though they may be woven of
silk; be silent or indifferent; the very lips which pronounced these
commiserations, are those which a few hours ago denounced the subject
of them to the Government. You adjourn, at the close of the Opera,
to a café; you are accompanied by several friends, and feel disposed
to relax over a glass of iced punch--’tis so hot--and then from one
topic of conversation you range to another, as if you were breathing
the air of liberty. But who is that sleek old gentleman opposite,
whose keen and cunning eye glances occasionally at you from above his
paper? He has been seated there, I know not how long, spelling rather
than reading yesterday’s paper; yet he has a benevolent expression of
countenance; perhaps he is infirm, poor fellow, or is looking for an
advertisement; perhaps some article has deeply interested him. Phaugh!
waste not your compassion or your speculation upon him--he is a Spy! he
has been taking notes, and woe be to you if you have been betrayed into
any thoughtless expression of opinion; for every word is registered.
What corner of the city, or the country, what class of society is
free from this pest! Nor is all this merely imaginary. I paint from
the life, and could adduce instances of betrayal in the belle of high
society, or in the shopman at the counter, in the caburan who takes
your paltry _buonamancia_, or the friend you have cherished in
your bosom.
For even private friendship is not held sacred. There was living in
Naples, upwards of a year since, a Count Montinona, who appeared to
have no particular object in view except the pursuit of pleasure. For
many years he had lavished his bounty and his friendship on another,
who was at length discovered to have made somewhat free with the
Count’s property; accusations ensued, and, though compassion and a
certain lingering recollection of the past did not permit the Count to
cast the villain entirely off; yet he so far restricted his intimacy as
to put it out of his power to rob him--“he was poor, and the temptation
had been too great!” But what ensued?--This man denounced his friend as
having concealed arms, and as entertaining free and dangerous opinions.
Straightway the Count was arrested--his house and papers were examined,
though nothing could be found to implicate him or to prove the charge;
yet for many, many months he pined away in prison. I never heard when
he was released, or if he is yet at liberty. All that time the informer
ranged about at his own sweet will, to entrap as many new jail victims
as he could make.
The effect of the Spy System on the national character is exceedingly
demoralising. There is no country in Europe where the low, secret
vices, as opposed to those of a bolder, opener, and more ferocious
character, exist so strongly as in the South of Italy. There, the
result of that timidity and want of faith in what is good, and just,
and true, which has been engendered by intrigue, is practised in its
most comprehensive sense. The Secret Police system is one of the very
many causes of this. To appreciate this thoroughly, you must regard
it as being not merely a political institution, but as having now
become national; people have followed the example which has been set
them, and have all become spies--spies on each other’s actions, words,
and thoughts. Sometimes this habit is pursued to the extent only of
simple curiosity, watching, investigating, and reporting the commonest
trifles. Sometimes it is a little more malignant, and engages, almost
as a pastime, in embroiling individuals or families. Sometimes it
pushes further, and furnishes denunciations to the Priest, the Bishop,
the Intendente, or the Minister. I have seen it under all its phases,
and the effect has been to produce a want of faith in all that is high,
generous and noble, and to form a low national character.
It is more ridiculous and annoying than can well be imagined, to get
behind the scenes of Italian life, and listen to the daily gossip:--How
such an one “_ha fatto un’ ricorso_” against this or that person.
How Don So and So has written certain letters to the Intendente,
containing charges against another Don, and has forged two signatures.
How So and So has been to the bishop and laid a long list of crimes at
the door of some luckless priest. Then watch the tempest of official
papers which fly through the air; some contain inquiries into the
truth of the statements, addressed to the judge or the syndic; some
are orders to a dozen unfortunate wights to present themselves at the
Intendenza; while others contain ghostly reproofs from the bishop, or
orders to suspend a priest at his reverence’s will and pleasure, and
rusticate him in some monastery. Every denunciation is received and
inquired into.
I remember an instance of two men who kept a whole district in
inquietude during one winter. Both had received some private
offence, and straightway each shrank into a corner and wove his
envenomed meshes; charges were devised and letters written to the
Intendente, accusing some score of their friends of Carbonarism or
constitutionalism; then came the usual dispatches to the judge and
other authorities to inquire into the truth of the statements. The
judge, it happened, was friendly with the unfortunate denounced, and
drew up therefore a favourable report, but had he been less honest or
less amicable, these poor fellows might have swelled the number of
those who now pine in the prisons of the Vicaria.
Indeed, the influence of the Police Spy System (united with other
causes), has been such as to convert the whole nation into spies upon
each other. As suspicion and want of confidence universally prevail,
so there is a deficiency of truthfulness. This cannot be more strongly
proved than by the admission of the Italians themselves who, when
wishing to conciliate your belief, tell you that they speak “_la
parola Inglese_,”--on the word of an Englishman.