Pisa

After a glacial journey--those English! They will not even give us coal

for steam-heating--I arrived here. It is warmer, appreciably warmer. Yet

I leave to-morrow or next day. The streets of the town, the distant

beach of San Rossore and its pine trees--they are fraught with sad

memories; memories of an autumn month in the early nineties. A city of

ghosts....

The old hotel had put on a new face; freshly decorated, it wears none

the less a poverty-stricken air. My dinner was bad and insufficient. One

grows sick of those vile maccheroni made with war-time flour. The place

is full of rigid officers taking themselves seriously. Odd, how a

uniform can fill a simpleton with self-importance. What does Bacon say?

I forget. Something apposite--something about the connection between

military costumes and vanity. For the worst of this career is that it is

liable to transform even a sensible man into a fool. I never see these

sinister-clanking marionettes without feelings of distrust. They are the

outward symbol of an atavistic striving: the modern infâme. We have been

dying for sometime past from over-legislation. Now we are caught in the

noose. A bureaucracy is bad enough. A bureaucracy can at least be

bribed. Militarism dries up even that little fount of the imagination.

Another twenty years of this, and we may be living in caves again; they

came near it, at the end of the Thirty Years' War. Such a cataclysm as

ours may account for the extinction of the great Cro-Magnon

civilization--as fine a race, physically, as has yet appeared on earth;

they too may have been afflicted with the plague of nationalism, unless,

as is quite likely, that horrid work was accomplished by a microbe of

some kind....

In the hour of evening, under a wintry sky amid whose darkly massed

vapours a young moon is peering down upon this maddened world, I wander

alone through deserted roadways towards that old solitary brick-tower.

Here I stand, and watch the Arno rolling its sullen waves. In Pisa, at

such an hour, the Arno is the emblem of Despair. Swollen with melted

snow from the mountains, it has gnawed its miserable clay banks and now

creeps along, leaden and inert, half solid, like a torrent of liquid

mud--irresolute whether to be earth or water; whether to stagnate here

for ever at my feet, or crawl onward yet another sluggish league into

the sea. So may Lethe look, or Styx: the nightmare of a flood.

There is dreary monotony in all Italian rivers, once they have reached

the plain. They are livelier in their upper reaches. At Florence--where

those citron-tinted houses are mirrored in the stream--you may study the

Arno in all its ever-changing moods. Seldom is its colour quite the

same. The hue of café-au-lait in full spate, it shifts at other times

between apple-green and jade, between celadon and chrysolite and

eau-de-Nil. In the weariness of summer the tints are prone to fade

altogether out of the waves. They grow bleached, devitalized; they are

spent, withering away like grass that has lain in the sun. [4] Yet with

every thunder-storm on yonder hills the colour-sprite leaps back into

the waters.

Your Florentine of the humbler sort loves to dawdle along the bank on a

bright afternoon, watching the play of the river and drawing a kind of

philosophic contentment out of its cool aquatic humours. Presently he

reaches that bridge--the jewellers' bridge. He thinks he must buy a

ring. Be sure the stone will reflect his Arno in one of its moods. I

will wager he selects a translucent chrysoprase set in silver, a cheap

and stubborn gem whose frigidly uncompromising hue appeals in mysterious

fashion to his own temperament.

Whoever suffers from insomnia will find himself puzzling at night over

questions which have no particular concern for him at other times. And

one seems to be more wide awake, during those moments, than by day. Yet

the promptings of the brain, which then appear so lucid, so novel and

convincing, will seldom bear examination in the light of the sun. To

test the truth of this, one has only to jot down one's thoughts at the

time, and peruse them after breakfast. How trite they read, those

brilliant imaginings!

For reasons which I cannot fathom, I pondered last night upon the

subject of heredity; a subject that had a certain fascination for me in

my biological days. The lacunae of science! We weigh the distant stars

and count up their ingredients. Yet here is a phenomenon which lies

under our very hand and to which is devoted the most passionate study:

what have we learnt of its laws? Be that as it may, there occurred to me

last night a new idea. It consisted in putting together two facts which

have struck me separately on many occasions, but never conjointly. Taken

together, I said to myself, and granted that both are correct, they may

help to elucidate a dark problem of national psychology.

The first one I state rather tentatively, having hardly sufficient

material to go upon. It is this. You will find it more common in Italy

than in England for the male offspring of a family to resemble the

father and the female the mother. I cannot suggest a reason for this. I

have observed the fact--that is all.

Let me say, in parenthesis, that it is well to confine oneself to adults

in such researches. Childhood and youth is a period of changing lights

and half-tones and temperamental interplay. Characteristics of body and

mind are held, as it were, in solution. We think a child takes after its

mother because of this or that feature. If we wait for twenty-five

years, we see the true state of affairs; the hair has grown dark like

the father's, the nose, the most telling item of the face, has also

approximated to his type, likewise the character--in fact the offspring

is clearly built on paternal lines. And vice-versa. To study children

for these purposes would be waste of time.

The second observation I regard as axiomatic. It is this. You will

nowhere find an adult offspring which reproduces in any marked degree

the physical features of one parent displaying in any marked degree the

mental features of the other. That man whose external build and

complexion is entirely modelled upon that of his hard materialistic

father and who yet possesses all the artistic idealism of his maternal

parent--such creatures do not exist in nature, though you may encounter

them as often as you please in the pages of novelists.

Let me insert another parenthesis to observe that I am speaking of the

broad mass, the average, in a general way. For it stands to reason that

the offspring may be vaguely intermediate between two parents, may

resemble one or both in certain particulars and not in others, may hark

back to ancestral types or bear no appreciable likeness to any one

discoverable. It is a theme admitting of endless combinations and

permutations. Or again, in reference to the first proposition, it would

be easy for any traveller in this country to point out, for example, a

woman who portrays the qualities of her father in the clearest manner. I

know a dozen such cases. Hundreds of them would not make them otherwise

than what I think they are--rarer here than in England.

Granting that both these propositions are correct, what should we expect

to find? That in Italy the male type of character and temperament is

more constant, more intimately associated with the male type of feature;

and the same with the female. In other words, that the categories into

which their men and women fall are fewer and more clearly defined, by

reason of the fact that their mental and moral sex-characteristics are

more closely correlated with their physical sex-characteristics. That

the Englishman, on the other hand, male or female, does not fall so

easily into categories; he is complex and difficult to "place," the

psychological sex-boundaries being more hazily demarcated. There is

iridescence and ambiguity here, whereas Italians of either sex, once the

rainbow period of youth is over, are relatively unambiguous; easily

"placed."

Is this what we find? I think so.

Speculations....

I never pass through Pisa without calling to mind certain rat-hunts in

company with J. O. M., who was carried out of the train at this very

station, dead, because he refused to follow my advice. He was my

neighbour at one time; he lived near the river Mole in relative

seclusion; coursing rats with Dandie Dinmonts was the only form of

exercise which entailed no strain on his weakened constitution. How he

loved it!

This O---- was a man of mystery and violence, who threw himself into

every kind of human activity with superhuman, Satanic, zest; traveller,

sportsman, financier, mining expert, lover of wine and women, of books

and prints; one of the founders, I believe, of the Rhodesia Company;

faultlessly dressed, infernally rich and, when he chose--which was

fairly often--preposterously brutal. Neither manner nor face were

winning. He was swarthy almost to blackness, quite un-English in looks,

with rather long hair, a most menacing moustache and the fiercest eyes

imaginable; a king of the gipsies, so far as features went. Something

sinister hung about his personality. A predatory type, unquestionably;

never so happy as when pitting his wits or strength against others,

tracking down this or that--by choice, living creatures. He had taken

life by the throat, and excesses of various kinds having shattered his

frame, there was an end, for the time being, of deer-stalking and

tigers; it was a tame period of rat-hunts with those terriers whose

murderous energies were a pis aller, yielding a sort of vicarious

pleasure. The neighbourhood was depopulated of such beasts, purchased at

fancy prices; when a sufficient quantity (say, half a hundred) had been

collected together, I used to receive a telegram containing the single

word "rats." Then the pony was saddled, and I rode down for the grand

field day.

We once gave the hugest of these destroyed rodents, I remember, to an

amiable old sow, a friend of the family. What was she going to do? She

ate it, as you would eat a pear. She engulfed the corpse methodically,

beginning at the head, working her way through breast and entrails while

her chops dripped with gore, and ending with the tail, which gave some

little trouble to masticate, on account of its length and tenuity.

Altogether, decidedly good sport....

Then O---- disappeared from my ken. Years went by. Improving health, in

the course of time, tempted him back into his former habits; he built

himself a shooting lodge in the Alps. We were neighbours again, having

no ridge worth mentioning save the Schadona pass between us. I joined

him once or twice--chamois, instead of rats. This place was constructed

on a pretentious scale, and he must have paid fantastic sums for the

transport of material to that remote region (you could watch the chamois

from the very windows) and for the rights over all the country round

about. [5] O---- told me that the superstitious Catholic peasants raised

every kind of difficulty and objection to his life there; it was a

regular conspiracy. I suggested a more friendly demeanour, especially

towards their priests. That was not his way. He merely said: "I'll be

even with them. Mark my words."....

There followed another long interval, during which he vanished

completely. Then, one April afternoon on the Posilipo, a sailor climbed

up with a note from him. The Consul-General said I lived here. If so,

would I come to Bertolini's hotel at once? He was seriously ill.

Neighbours once more!

I left then and there, and was appalled at the change in him. His skin

was drawn tight as parchment over a face the colour of earth, there was

no flesh on his hands, the voice was gone, though fire still gleamed

viciously in the hollows of his eyes. That raven-black hair was streaked

with grey and longer than ever, which gave him an incongruously devout

appearance. He had taken pitiful pains to look fresh and appetizing.

So we sat down to dinner on Bertolini's terrace, in the light of a full

moon. O---- ate nothing whatever.

He arrived from Egypt some time ago, on his way to England. The doctor

had forbidden further travelling or any other exertion on account of

various internal complications; among other things, his heart, he told

me, was as large as a child's head.

"I hope you can stand this food," he whispered, or rather croaked. "For

God's sake, order anything you fancy. As for me, I can't even eat like

you people. Asses' milk is what I get, and slops. Done for, this time.

I'm a dying man; anybody can see that. A dying man----"

"Something," I said, "is happening to that moon."

It was in eclipse. Half the bright surface had been ominously obscured

since we took our seats. O---- scowled at the satellite, and went on:

"But I won't be carried out of this dirty hole (Bertolini's)--not feet

first. Would you mind my gasping another day or two at your place? Rolfe

has told me about it."

We moved him, with infinite trouble. The journey woke his dormant

capacities for invective. He cursed at the way they jolted him about; he

cursed himself into a collapse that day, and we thought it was all over.

Then he rallied, and became more abusive than before. Nothing was right.

Stairs being forbidden, the whole lower floor of the house was placed at

his disposal; the establishment was dislocated, convulsed; and still he

swore. He swore at me for the better part of a week; at the servants,

and even at the good doctor Malbranc, who came every morning in a

specially hired steam-launch to make that examination which always ended

in his saying to me: "You must humour him. Heart-patients are apt to be

irritable." Irritable was a mild term for this particular patient. His

appetite, meanwhile, began to improve.

It was soon evident that my cook had not the common sense to prepare his

invalid dishes; a second one was engaged. Then, my gardener and

sailor-boy being manifest idiots, it became necessary to procure an

extra porter to fetch the numberless odd things he needed from town

every day, and every hour of the day. I wrote to the messenger people to

send the most capable lad on their books; we would engage him by the

week, at twice his ordinary pay. He arrived; a limp and lean nonentity,

with a face like a boiled codfish.

This miserable youth promptly became the object of O----'s bitterest

execration. I soon learnt to dread those conferences, those terrific

scenes which I was forced to witness in my capacity of interpreter.

O---- revelled in them with exceeding gusto. He used to gird his loins

for the effort of vituperation; I think he regarded the performance as a

legitimate kind of exercise--his last remaining one. As soon as the boy

returned from town and presented himself with his purchases, O---- would

glare at him for two or three minutes with such virulence, such

concentration of hatred and loathing, such a blaze of malignity in his

black eyes, that one fully expected to see the victim wither away; all

this in dead silence. Then he would address me in his usual whisper,

quite calmly, as though referring to the weather:

"Would you mind telling that double-distilled abortion that if he goes

on making such a face I shall have to shoot him. Tell him, will you;

there's a good fellow."

And I had to "humour" him.

"The gentleman"--I would say--"begs you will try to assume another

expression of countenance," or words to that effect; whereto he would

tearfully reply something about the will of God and the workmanship of

his father and mother, honest folks, both of them. I was then obliged to

add gravely:

"You had better try, all the same, or he may shoot you. He has a

revolver in his pocket, and a shooting licence from your government."

This generally led to the production of a most ghastly smile, calculated

to convey an ingratiating impression.

"Look at him," O---- would continue. "He is almost too good to be shot.

And now let's see. What does he call these things? Ask him, will you?"

"Asparagus."

"Tell him that when I order asparagus I mean asparagus and not

walking-sticks. Tell him that if he brings me such objects again, I'll

ram the whole bundle up--down his throat. What does he expect me to do

with them, eh? You might ask him, will you? And, God! what's this? Tell

him (accellerando) that when I send a prescription to be made up at the

Royal Pharmacy----"

"He explained about that. He went to the other place because he wanted

to hurry up."

"To hurry up? Tell him to hurry up and get to blazes. Oh, tell him----"

"You'll curse yourself into another collapse, at this rate."

To the doctor's intense surprise, he lingered on; he actually grew

stronger. Although never seeming to gain an ounce in weight, he could

eat a formidable breakfast and used to insist, to my horror and shame,

in importing his own wine, which he accused my German maid Bertha of

drinking on the sly. Callers cheered him up--Rolfe the Consul, Dr. Dohrn

of the Aquarium, and old Marquis Valiante, that perfect botanist--all of

them dead now! After a month and a half of painful experiences, we at

last learnt to handle him. The household machinery worked smoothly.

A final and excruciating interview ended in the dismissal of the

errand-boy, and I personally selected another one--a pretty little

rascal to whom he took a great fancy, over-tipping him scandalously. He

needed absolute rest; he got it; and I think was fairly happy or at

least tranquil (when not writhing in agony) at the end of that period. I

can still see him in the sunny garden, his clothes hanging about an

emaciated body--a skeleton in a deck-chair, a death's head among the

roses. Humiliated in this inactivity, he used to lie dumb for long

hours, watching the butterflies or gazing wistfully towards those

distant southern mountains which I proposed to visit later in the

season. Once a spark of that old throttling instinct flared up. It was

when a kestrel dashed overhead, bearing in its talons a captured lizard

whose tail fluttered in the air: the poor beast never made a faster

journey in its life. "Ha!" said O----. "That's sport."

At other times he related, always in that hoarse whisper, anecdotes of

his life, a life of reckless adventure, of fortunes made and fortunes

lost; or spoke of his old passion for art and books. He seemed to have

known, at one time or another, every artist and connoisseur on either

side of the Atlantic; he told me it had cost about £10,000 to acquire

his unique knowledge and taste in the matter of mezzotints, and that he

was concerned about the fate of his "Daphnis and Chloe" collection which

contained, he said, a copy of every edition in every language--all

except the unique Elizabethan version in the Huth library (now British

Museum). I happened to have one of the few modern reprints of that

stupid and ungainly book: would he accept it? Not likely! He was after

originals.

One day he suddenly announced:

"I am leaving you my small library of erotic literature, five or six

hundred pieces, worth a couple of thousand, I should say. Some wonderful

old French stuff, and as many Rops as you like, and Persian and Chinese

things--I can see you gloating over them! Don't thank me. And now I'm

off to England."

"To England?"

The doctor peremptorily forbade the journey; if he must go, let him wait

another couple of weeks and gain some more strength. But O---- was

obdurate; buoyed up, I imagine, with the prospect of movement and of

causing some little trouble at home. As the weather had grown unusually

hot, I booked at his own suggestion a luxurious cabin on a home-bound

liner and engaged a valet for the journey. On my handing him the

tickets, he said he had just changed his mind; he would travel overland;

there were some copper mines in Etruria of which he was director; he

meant to have a look at them en route and "give those people Hell" for

something or other. I tried to dissuade him, and all in vain. Finally I

said:

"You'll die, if you travel by land in this heat."

So he did. They carried him out of the train in the early days of June,

here at Pisa, feet first....

I never learnt the fate of that library of erotic literature. But his

will contained one singular provision: the body was to be cremated and

its ashes scattered among the hills of his Alpine property. This was his

idea of "being even" with the superstitious peasantry, who would

thenceforward never have ventured out of doors after dark, for fear of

encountering his ghost. He would harass them eternally! It was no bad

notion of revenge. A sandy-haired gentleman came from Austria to Italy

to convey this handful of potential horrors to the mountains, but the

customs officials at Ala refused to allow it to enter the country and it

ultimately came to rest in England.

Another queer thing happened. Since his arrival from Egypt, O---- had

never been able to make up his mind to pay any of his innumerable bills;

the creditors, aware of the man's wealth and position, not pressing for

a settlement. I rather think that this procrastination, this reluctance

to disburse ready money, is a symptom of his particular state of

ill-health; I have observed it with several heart-patients (and others

as well); however that may be, it became a source of real vexation to

me, for hardly was the news of his death made public before I began to

be deluged with outstanding accounts from every quarter--tradespeople,

hotel keepers, professional men, etc. I finally sent the documents with

a pressing note to his representatives who, after some demur, paid up,

English-fashion, in full. Then a noteworthy change came over the faces

of men. Everybody beamed upon me in the streets, and there arrived

multitudinous little gifts at my house--choice wines, tie-pins, game,

cigars, ebony walking-sticks, confectionery, baskets of red mullets, old

prints, Capodimonte ware, candied fruits, amber mouthpieces,

maraschino--all from donors who plainly desired to remain anonymous.

Such things were dropped from the clouds, so to speak, on my doorstep:

an enigmatic but not unpleasant state of affairs. Gradually it dawned

upon me, it was forced upon me, that I had worked a miracle. These good

people, thinking that their demands upon O----'s executors would be cut

down, Italian-fashion, by at least fifty per cent, had anticipated that

eventuality by demanding twice or thrice as much as was really due to

them. And they got it! No wonder men smiled, when the benefactor of the

human race walked abroad.