ON SHORE
The arrival at Naples was much less terrible than many persons had
pictured it to Irma and Aunt Caroline. No one attempted to tear their
chatelaine bags from them; the officers of the _dogana_ were perfectly
civil; no one tried to abstract their trunks. It is true there was a
long and apparently needless delay before their trunks were examined and
marked, but they made light of this when once they were in the carriage
on their way to the hotel.
The busy streets through which they first passed were broad and clean.
Electric cars, hardly different from the American type, ran through
them. The men and women on the sidewalks stepped along briskly. Aunt
Caroline and Uncle Jim made constant contrasts between the Naples of the
present and the past.
"The cholera of '84 had one good result; it enabled the city fathers
here to do away with many old slums, and put these new streets in their
place."
Their way eventually led up a broad avenue that mounted to the heights
above the old city. Once or twice, at a turn of the road, they had a
view of the bay, and of Vesuvius in the distance.
"There, there, Irma," cried Uncle Jim, when they first saw the mountain.
"Let your heart beat as rapidly as it will; you now look on one of the
wonders of the world."
Their hotel was on ground so high that they entered it by a subway, and
thence by elevator to the summit of a rock whereon stood the hotel.
While Uncle Jim was securing rooms, the others, by a common impulse,
rushed out on a balcony, of which they had caught a glimpse.
"Yes, this is Naples!" exclaimed Aunt Caroline, looking down on the
lovely bay, clear and blue. "But," she continued, "Vesuvius is certainly
changed--I did not realize that losing the top would so alter him, or
her. What do you call volcanoes, Irma?"
"Them," responded Irma, and even Marion smiled at her promptness.
While they were still looking at the bay and the distant shores of
Sorrento and Amalfi, Irma suddenly felt two hands clasp themselves over
her eyes.
"Don't forget your friends just because you have a volcano to look at,"
and then, unclasping her hands from Irma's eyes, Muriel stepped in
front, where Irma could see her.
Muriel was one of those who had left the _Ariadne_ the night before, and
as she had not mentioned where she should stay in Naples, Irma and her
party were surprised to see her.
"Isn't it great that we should be here together?" continued Muriel,
after the others had said a word or two of greeting. "The only
disagreeable thing is that I am going on to-morrow, for our motor is
here, and mamma does not wish to wait longer in Naples."
So it happened that though they planned to spend part of the next
morning together, this was the last time that Muriel and Irma saw each
other for several weeks.
"It's well we didn't make plans over night," said Irma, when she joined
the others at _dejeuner_ on the morning of her arrival in Naples. "There
seems to be a fine mist in the air; and probably that means rain."
"Then we won't plan a long drive. You can come shopping with me, Irma,"
said Aunt Caroline. "I wish to look for coral."
"I did not know there was so much coral in the world," said Irma, after
they had been out some time. "Where do they get it?"
"From Japan and Sardinia and--oh--several other places."
"But why should it all come here?"
"Because in Naples they know how to cut coral and cameos better than
elsewhere in the world."
"It is beautiful, of course, and there are so many shades of pink, I
shall never know what is meant when any one calls a thing coral
colored."
"You must choose something for yourself," urged Aunt Caroline, "a little
souvenir of Naples;" and when Irma hesitated she selected for her a
string of pale red beads.
"The very light pink are the most valuable," said Aunt Caroline, "but I
will not suggest a change."
From the shops near the water front they drove over to the Galleria
Umberto I, a huge structure with a glass dome that gave plenty of light
to the shops in the arcades on the street level. Here Irma bought two or
three little gifts for some of her friends at home,--just whom does not
matter now.
The afternoon passed quickly, and Irma was pleased when Aunt Caroline
said it would be wiser to get afternoon tea in a restaurant down town.
Irma herself would have enjoyed the open-air restaurants which she had
noted as they drove around, but in the more conventional place that her
aunt chose, they managed to find a few novelties on the menu.
[Illustration: NAPLES. A STREET VIEW.]
Later, they took a drive through some narrow streets, where Irma saw
many of the peculiarities of Neapolitan street life, of which she had
read a little. There were whole families sitting in front of their
dwellings. In some cases mothers were combing the hair of little
children, or changing their clothes, or bending over what Irma called
"cooking-stands," for they certainly could hardly be considered stoves.
"I wonder what they are cooking," she said, "in those queer copper
kettles or pans. I should not know what to call them."
"Snail soup, perhaps," replied Aunt Caroline, "or more probably
macaroni."
The word "macaroni" seemed to catch their coachman's ear, and turning
toward them, he said some words in Italian so rapidly that Aunt Caroline
hardly understood, and then, urging his horse, drove straight on.
"He said something about 'old men,' and 'eating macaroni,' but I have no
idea what he really means, and I do not like the region where he is
taking us."
Finally, after many windings, they passed up a street on which the
houses were poor, but of a rather better type than those they had seen a
short time earlier.
"There must be an institution near by," said Aunt Caroline, after they
had met, one after the other, several old men wearing a blue uniform.
This conjecture proved correct, for at the end of the street they came
upon a large building, evidently a home for old men.
"Why is the driver so anxious to have us go inside? We really must make
him understand. No, no. No, no!" continued Aunt Caroline, and finally,
by repeating "No, no," and using gesticulations more emphatic than his
own, she made him turn about. But he still continued his pantomime of
carrying his hand to his mouth, as if in the act of eating. This he
varied by occasionally pointing toward the windows of the houses he was
passing, where, as their eyes followed the direction of his finger, Irma
and Aunt Caroline saw other blue-coated old men eating at tables close
to the window.
"I begin to understand," said Aunt Caroline, "he wished us to give these
old men money that they could eat macaroni for us. Now we will let him
do what he will. He has some plan."
A moment later he had driven them to an open space at the junction of
two streets, where a man was cooking macaroni in a large copper vessel.
Two or three little boys who had been following the carriage now stepped
up beside the horses, and they, too, made the gesture in imitation of
eating, at the same time crying, "_Soldi, soldi_."
"Oh, yes, I recall it all now," said Aunt Caroline, laughing. "It was
the same when we were here before." Then she threw some coppers to the
little boys, who immediately handed them over to the man at the cooking
stall. He, in his turn, gave each a heaped-up plate of macaroni cooked
with tomato.
"It would be worth three times the price, though I don't know just what
you gave them, Aunt Caroline, to see those boys eat such a quantity, and
it all disappeared in an instant."
"It is one of the accomplishments of the Neapolitan street boy to devour
at lightning speed great plates of macaroni, in return for the _soldi_
of the stranger. Their manner of conveying the macaroni to their mouths
with the sole use of their fingers is indeed a regular circus trick."
"If the same boys repeat the trick many times a day, I should think they
might have indigestion."
"They are willing to suffer, for they love macaroni. The poorest
Neapolitans eat much uncooked food, not only fruits, but fish and raw
vegetables. But the macaroni with _pomo d'oro_ is a real delicacy. Some
of those old men would probably have done the trick as adroitly as the
boys."
The driver, smiling broadly on account of his success, as he turned
about drove again through squalid narrow streets. Those in the carriage
could here look through open doors into the one untidy room, the _basso_
that formed the abiding place often for a large family.
"In warm weather the men of the family usually sleep in the street,"
said Aunt Caroline, "and when you see the dark, windowless room that is
the only home that many thousands can call their own, you cannot wonder
that day and night so many Neapolitans prefer the streets."
Sometimes a wretched beggar would run after the carriage. "We must make
it a rule in Italy to take no notice of these poor creatures.
Fortunately, I am told, they are far less numerous than they used to be,
and the only way to stop begging is for each to refuse alms. Gradually
they are finding other ways of helping the poor here."
"I feel sorrier for the horses here than for the people," responded
Irma. "There are so many of them, and most look half starved, as well as
ill treated."
"The cruelty of the cab men of Naples is known the world over. Cabs are
cheap, and every one drives, and the cabmen not only snap their long
whips freely, but use them viciously, if so inclined. But some one I was
talking with says that a S. P. C. A. has been started here, and already
has accomplished much good."
"But the donkeys here seem much better cared for. I have noticed
several that look almost fat, and they have pompons of bright wool, and
some metal decorations shining on their harness, and altogether they are
quite gay."
"Those queer-shaped bits of metal," said her aunt, "are devices,
sometimes pagan, and sometimes Christian, that the superstitious Italian
wishes his animals to wear to guard against the evil eye or other ills.
But here we are at the hotel."
"Where do you suppose we have been?" asked Uncle Jim, greeting Irma and
her aunt, as they entered their sitting-room. "And what will you give
for what I have for you?"
"Letters, letters! Give them to us quickly."
"Yes, letters. I found them at our bankers, and also obliged him to
honor my letter of credit, but just now I dare say you would rather have
the letters than the money."
The letters, written so soon after their departure, contained little
news. Yet Irma found hers particularly cheering, because they brought
her so closely in touch with the family at home.
"Napoleon," her mother wrote, "was very low spirited the day you left
home, but with the fickleness of his kind, he now wags his tail
hopefully as if he expected you to-morrow. Mahala's grief is mitigated
by her expectation of post cards from strange places, and Tessie is
wondering about presents. The boys, I am sorry to say, do not let your
absence weigh upon them. Baseball is now the one important thing."
Then followed some directions about taking care of herself, and making
the most of her opportunities.
A short letter from Lucy gave her school news, but Irma sighed, because
there was no word from Gertrude.
That evening, as Irma sat on the balcony after dinner, Marion came near
her.
"You were very good to go with Uncle Jim for our letters. It makes home
seem so much nearer, to know that letters can reach me."
"Yes," said Marion, "I suppose so."
"Was there good news in yours, too?" continued Irma, after a moment of
silence.
Without answering, Marion walked forward to the edge of the balcony.
"Shall I ever learn to practice what mother always preaches," thought
Irma, conscience-stricken lest she had disturbed Marion, "not to ask
direct personal questions?"
Marion continued to walk up and down with his hands in his pockets. Then
he stopped directly in front of Irma. "Tell me what was in your
letters," he said abruptly. "I had none."
So surprised was Irma by Marion's interest, that at first she could
hardly reply.
"Yes," he continued, dropping into a chair beside her, "I should like to
hear about some one else's relations."
Then Irma found her voice, and prefacing her remarks with, "There really
was not much news in the letters I had to-day," she soon found herself
telling Marion all about home, about her father and mother, about Tessie
and the boys and Mahala, and last, but not least, about Nap.
Marion listened attentively, occasionally making some comment that
showed he was really interested in what Irma said.
Then, after perhaps half an hour, he rose as abruptly as he had sat
down, and with a hasty "good night," went indoors.
"Yet after all I have told him, he didn't say a word about his own
family. How queer he is!" thought Irma.
"As we have been better than most travellers in going to morning
service," said Uncle Jim, on Sunday, "we will do as they do by driving
this afternoon. I, for one, wish to see the Cathedral, and there are
other churches worth visiting."
Toward the middle of the afternoon, therefore, the four travellers set
forth for the Cathedral dedicated to San Gennaro (St. Januarius), the
patron saint of Naples. In a cross street, on their way, their carriage
drew up to let a funeral procession pass.
It was a typically Neapolitan procession, yet uncommonly gorgeous, with
its white, open-sided hearse, showing a coffin covered with beautiful
flowers. The hearse was drawn by eight horses, their heads decorated
with yellow, and saddlecloths trimmed with gilt. Close to the horses
were a number of priests carrying lighted candles, and after them two or
three carriages heaped with wreaths.
Irma's attention, however, was most attracted by a dozen weird-looking
men in long, loose garments, with dominoes over their faces, with holes
cut out for eyes, that made them almost ghostly.
"Who are they?" she whispered to Aunt Caroline.
"Professional mourners, my dear, and those men in uniform in the last
carriages are probably family servants."
"Oh, yes," interposed Marion, "that is the way the Romans did. It's one
of their old customs handed down--to have a whole retinue of retainers
in the funeral procession."
As they turned into the broad street toward the Cathedral, the sidewalks
were thronged, and in the distance they heard the music of a band.
Aunt Caroline translated briefly the succession of rapid sentences with
which the driver answered her.
"He says there was a special service in the Cathedral to-day. But the
music goes the other way, and we cannot see the procession."
Inside the church, persons of all ages and conditions were walking
about, boys and girls, young men and women, some of whom carried a baby
in arms, bent old men and women, too, and as there was no service then,
when acquaintances met, they stopped for a chat, as if on a street
corner.
"The Cathedral," explained Aunt Caroline, "is dedicated to St.
Januarius, Naples's patron saint, Bishop of Beneventum, whom Diocletian
put to death. Some of his blood, gathered up by a Christian woman, is
preserved in a vessel in his chapel here. The precious relic is locked
up in boxes within boxes, but twice a year it is brought out with great
ceremony. If the blood liquefies quickly, the superstitious people
believe it a favorable omen for the city; if it does not, they are
downcast at the prospect of great misfortunes for the next six months."
At this moment a sacristan swinging his keys offered to lead them to the
Chapel of St. Januarius, and there they saw the tabernacle with the
relics, and the silver bust of the saint and of thirty other saints.
Though the Chapel contained some fine paintings by Domenichino, its
decorations were rather more florid than beautiful.
The crypt under the church was much more interesting, with its great
bronze doors, and marble columns from a Temple of Apollo that once stood
near the site.
But neither Marion nor Irma cared to linger long in the Cathedral.
"Don't sigh," protested Uncle Jim, as Irma took her place in the
carriage. "This is but the first of scores of churches you'll have to
visit in Italy. Luckily Naples has fewer noteworthy pictures than Rome
or Florence, and your aunt cannot help dealing leniently with us here."
"The only church I wish to see in Naples," said Irma, "is the one where
Conradin is buried."
Marion looked up quickly. "Is Conradin one of your heroes, too?"
"His whole story is so sad," replied Irma, "that I have always been
interested in it. Though he was only seventeen when he died, if he had
lived to be old enough, he would probably have become a real hero."
"Can't a boy of seventeen be a real hero?" asked Marion anxiously.
"I did not mean that he couldn't."
"But you said----" began Marion.
"Stop, children. You'll find yourselves quarrelling," interposed Aunt
Caroline. Then she spoke a word or two to the coachman.
"I have asked him," she said, "to drive us to the Conradin monument."
Within the church all admired the beautiful reliefs from Thorwaldsen's
designs, and the statue itself realized all Irma's ideals of a hero. In
the Piazza del Mercato, they saw two fountains marking the spot where
Conradin and Frederic of Baden were beheaded, by order of Charles of
Anjou.
On their way home, as their carriage skirted the poorer section, where
goats and fowls wandered about as freely as the children who were
playing with them, Uncle Jim told amusing stories of goats he had seen
going intelligently from door to door to be milked by regular customers,
in some cases even walking up several pairs of stairs to the right
apartment.
"I have read those very stories myself," said Irma, "so if you wish to
astonish me, please think of something new."
That evening as she sat on the balcony, Marion approached Irma with an
expression even more serious than usual.
"What is your idea of a hero?" he asked abruptly, as he slipped into the
chair beside her.
"Why, the same as everybody's," responded Irma, after a moment's
hesitation. "A man who does a brave thing, without fear of danger, and
without thinking what he will gain from it."
"Can't a boy be a hero?"
"Yes, indeed--and a girl also," she replied.
"But I noticed to-day that you said Conradin, if he had lived, might
have been a hero, but he was seventeen--just my age."
"I was not thinking especially of his age," said Irma. "I only meant
that thus far Conradin had had no chance to show what great things he
could do. But he might have had chances had he lived longer."
"Oh! Then a hero must do great things."
For the moment Irma was puzzled, not understanding the drift of Marion's
questions. Fortunately she was saved the need of replying by the
appearance of Aunt Caroline, and at the same moment Marion, rising from
his chair, walked off without another word.
Together Aunt Caroline and Irma stood for a few minutes, looking from
the bay, where almost opposite them Vesuvius loomed up against the dull
sky, toward the city at their feet, with its square roofs and occasional
towers, with here and there a few palm trees giving a tropical touch.
The long white road wound like a thread up the hill, and for a moment
Irma felt a returning throb of homesickness. She realized how far she
was from home.