THE ITALIAN COUNTESS.
‘How lovely!’ said a lady to a gentleman on the deck by her side, as they
were drinking in all the beauty of the scene as one of the fine ships of
the Orient Company dropped her anchor in the Bay of Naples. ‘And look
what a swarm of boats have come out to greet us!’
They were a swarm indeed, some of them with divers to exhibit their
prowess, some with fruit and flowers, some with the lava ornaments in the
manufacture of which the Neapolitans exhibit such exquisite skill, and
others with musicians—vocal and instrumental—keeping up for the time
quite a serenade. These Neapolitans gain but little, it is to be feared,
on such occasions, but the Neapolitans are a frugal people, and make a
little go a long way.
The lady was Rose, the gentleman by her side was her husband.
‘Yes; and see, one of the boats has a young girl who has come on deck
with flowers, which she is fastening in the gentlemen’s coats in hope of
a small fee. How pretty she looks!’
The girl approached Rose, to whom she offered a flower.
‘Why, it speaks the language of hope,’ said Rose. ‘I take it as a good
omen that here we shall find the Italian lady of whom we have come in
search.’
‘Let us hope that it may be so. We have no time to lose if we mean to go
on shore. The health officer has done his duty, and given leave for the
captain to land his passengers. Let us hasten to get on board the steam
launch. I see already they have got our luggage. Fortunately for me
there is not much of it.’
And in a few minutes they were at the custom-house. The only difficulty
was a small box of cigars, on which Wentworth had to pay a most
exorbitant duty.
At the end of the quay they found a crowd of coachmen waiting for hire,
shouting and gesticulating in the wildest manner. Rose was quite
frightened at their appearance, and with the noise they made. However,
they found one who did not charge more than double the ordinary fare to
drive them to the hotel. As they drove along they encountered, of
course, some of the awful drain smells for which the city has long been
famous.
‘I don’t wonder, now,’ said Rose, as they pulled up before a grand hotel,
‘at the saying, “See Naples and die.” How can people live where such
smells are met with everywhere? But if that Italian Countess is alive we
may find her. Perhaps she can help us to establish our boy’s claim.’
That same morning an Italian Countess came home from her daily drive in a
great state of trepidation. She had seen an English face that she
remembered but too well—it was that of Miss Howard, the celebrated
actress. She had ordered the coachman to keep the lady in sight; but
that was impossible, the crowd was too great, and she returned home not a
little agitated. Was it fancy or fact? was a question she could not
determine.
What could she do? Well, she drove off to the English Consul next day.
Perhaps he could tell her. Alas, he was in utter ignorance of the
matter.
There were the hotels; she would drive to them and make inquiries. There
were only a few of them, as a rule, patronized by the English. It would
be easy to make inquiries. She did so, but she could hear of no Miss
Howard at any of them. All day long she was driving up and down the
principal streets, but in vain. There is not much to see in Naples
itself, it is the country round that is the attraction, and Rose and her
husband were out all day long studying the remains of Pompeii, climbing
up Mount Vesuvius, sailing to Sorrento or Capri, exploring the ruins of
Baiæ, and the grave of Virgil. There was much to see, and they had no
intention to let the grass grow under their feet. Daily they returned at
a late hour to their hotel, charmed but wearied; and thus they had but
little time to spend in the streets, looking at the shops, or studying
the manners and customs of the people.
The Countess pondered over the matter deeply. She lived a retired life
herself; she had few friends; her establishment was on a very moderate
scale. There were those who said she was not a Countess, that her title
was merely an assumed one. This was unfair, as most of the ladies one
meets in Naples are Countesses, and the presumption therefore was in
favour of her ladyship’s claims. Countess or no Countess, she was in a
very troubled state. She had seen a face that reminded her of old times
in London—of her intrigue with Sir Watkin Strahan—of her worming herself
into the confidence of his lady—of her participation in the abduction of
the heir—in fact, of her revenge; and she sighed as she thought how
little good she had gained by it. Her ladyship’s maid was alarmed. What
had come to the Countess it was beyond her power to imagine.
‘Have you anything on your mind?’ said her old Italian priest as he sat
in the first-floor of one of the villas that looked over Naples on to its
lovely bay and the sea beyond, whilst Vesuvius on the left was
indicating, in its usual way, that it was suffering a good deal in its
inside. The old priest lunched with her ladyship every day.
‘Anything on my mind?’ said the lady. ‘Oh, dear father, no. Why talk to
me in this way this bright afternoon, when all nature seems so bright and
gay? Ah, it is a beautiful world when one is young—the terraces, the
gardens, the flowers, the blue sea, the old castle beneath, the streets
with the jewellers’ shops, the fine churches with their sacred services
and sacred paintings. How I love them all! I could not live away from
La Belle Naples. Oh, that I could stay here for ever!’
‘That were a foolish wish, daughter,’ said the holy man. ‘Naples is very
fine and its bay is beautiful, but you have something better to look at.
See, the crucifix! Behold Who bleeds and suffers there—Who founded the
Catholic Church of which I am a humble member, and in whose name I speak.
At one time, if I may believe what I hear, you were not quite so fond of
Naples as you seem to be now. I have heard that you went to the land of
the heretics—that Island of England which has so long denied the faith,
but which I am glad to find is abandoning its heresy, repenting of its
sin, and returning to the Holy See. When we see the sister of an English
Prime Minister find salvation in the bosom of the Holy Church, when our
sacred officials are run after in all the highest circles, when they
astonish all London by their works of charity and labours of love, by
their eloquence and learning and saintly lives; when these Islanders,
insolent and haughty as they are to one another, crowd as they do to
Rome, and prostrate themselves at Rome’s feet as they do, we know that
the end is near—that the time of the triumph of the one Catholic and
Universal Church, to whom St. Peter committed the care of the keys, is at
hand. Pray that that blessed time may soon arrive. I have been to St.
Paul’s—I know Westminster Abbey—it would rejoice my heart to hear that
once more there was performed in them the Holy Service of the Mass.’
‘Holy father, that is my daily prayer.’
‘I am glad to hear you say so. But tell me, when you were among the
heretics were you always a daughter of the Church?’
‘Always, holy father. I fulfilled my mission—you know what that was.’
‘I have heard something of it.’
‘I should think so,’ replied the lady with a smile. ‘I had money, and I
drew around me its worshippers. I was of an old Italian family, and
stood well in the upper London circles. I had beauty—smile not, holy
father, though you see me old and yellow and wrinkled—and beauty, as you
know, never spreads its net in vain. I believe, also, I had wit, and wit
goes far in that land of fogs and foxhunters, of prudish women and
milksops, of cant and humbug.’
‘Ah,’ said the monk, with a smile of approbation, ‘you seem not to have
liked those English—those heretics—those lunatic sightseers who, as they
never can be happy at home, come to us to forget their sorrows, and who
fancy that by doing so they are amusing themselves.’
‘Truly no, holy father. How could I? They do not even worship the
Virgin Mary!’
The holy father shook his head and sighed.
‘I think, daughter, you wished to have a chat with me. There was
something on your mind.’
‘Holy father, you are right; and as I cannot come to church to make
confession I have sent for you.’
‘Yes; in the name of the Holy Father, and armed with his authority, I may
hear confession and grant, to the truly penitent, absolution. The
Apostle Peter had that power, he received it from the great Head of the
Church; and our Popes—His true followers—have ever used that power for
the cure of poor sinners, for the good of the Church, for the glory of
His Blessed Name. We humble ministers hear private confessions. It is a
sacred privilege, to be guarded jealously; but I know its value. I have
seen how the weak and erring mortal who has confessed to his priest has
had a heavy weight taken off his heart, has lost the cares and sorrows
which were darkening and shortening his days, has gained joy and gladness
as he thus realizes the Divine favour and feels certain that after the
pangs of death are over we shall rescue him from the pains of purgatory,
and he shall pass away to the mansions of the new Jerusalem, shall walk
its golden streets, shall drink of its surpassing joys, shall join in its
celestial harmonies, and take his stand with the great company of the
elect gathered by the labours of the Holy Catholic Church out of every
age and country under heaven. This is what we gain by means of the Mass,
and yet the heretics scoff at the service and audaciously assert—in this
respect only following the arch-heretic, Luther—that the Mass is simply a
means for getting money out of the pockets of the people.’
‘What awful blasphemy!’ said the lady with a shudder, at the same time
making the sign of the cross. ‘Glad indeed was I to leave that horrid
country. It is full of Free Catholics.’
‘Free Catholics!’ said the priest, in a tone of alarm. ‘What can they
be?’
‘Alas, holy father! they are everywhere—in Paris, in Brussels, in London.
They are only Catholics in form, but not in heart. In fact, they are no
better than Protestants.’
‘Not exactly—if they keep up the forms of the Holy Church they are better
than Protestants,’ said the priest, ‘who in denying the form deny the
faith, as the holy Apostle says, and are worse than infidels. But, my
daughter, time is wearing away.’
‘Ah, truly, holy father, it is luncheon-time. Already I hear by the gong
that it is served.’
The father knew the rules of the house, and timed his visit accordingly.
Soup, fowl, fish, with cut of roast lamb, a choice bottle of Italian
wine—it won’t bear transplanting, nor a sea voyage—a few grapes and green
figs, with a cigarette and a demitasse of coffee, were not to be
despised. He found alike his piety and his benevolence all the better
for such a feast. The Countess kept a cook and a butler, and they were
neither of them novices by any means. There has been good eating and
drinking on the shores of the Bay of Naples, at any rate since the time
of the Romans. Naples owes its fame, and probably its existence, to the
superlative loveliness of its situation. As old Sam Rogers sang:
‘Not a grove,
Citron or pine or cedar: not a grot
Seaward, and mantled with the gadding vine,
But breathes enchantment;’
and thus it was that the _bon vivants_ of the old world loved the
favoured spot—that Baiæ was the Brighton of the Romans. Between it and
Puteoli rolled the Lucrine Lake, over which skimmed the small yachts of
fashionable visitors, while around were the oyster-beds for the luxurious
tables of Rome. It was there Sergius Orata of blessed memory established
the fine oyster-beds which have ever since been a model for all
succeeding ages, and a name grateful in the ears of the epicure.
The lady and her guest had coffee served up in an adjoining apartment.
The lady lit up her cigarette, the gentleman did the same. It is
wonderful how tobacco quickens the conversational powers. High-born
dames, as well as Irish fish women, in this respect own the influence of
the seductive weed.
‘Ah, father,’ said the Countess, ‘you have known me long. I have
confidence in you.’
‘Yes; I have known madame long—friend of the good cause, a supporter of
the true Church—liberal with her money and her time, strict in the
observance of holy days. What would you, my daughter?’
‘Ah, father,’ said the lady with a sigh; ‘it was not always so—I have
lived.’
‘Yes; many of us who now pose as saints can say as much,’ said the holy
father. ‘What a blessed thing it is to be able to find out what is true
life, what are true joys—the ecstasy of being lost in the Divine Being,
of being waited on by angels, hasting to guide one the way to Paradise,
of appealing to the sweet Virgin Mary, of having her as an intercessor
night and day for our sins in the court of Heaven! Compared with these
things, what are the pleasures of sense and sin—which are soon vanished,
and always leave a sting behind?’
‘Oh yes, father; I can feel and realize all this, but I am not happy. I
am in great anxiety—I have a great weight on my mind. My medical man
tells me to avoid excitement, that I suffer from disease of the heart,
that any day I may have an attack which may be attended with fatal
consequences.’
‘Oh, dear madame, calm yourself. You look well—madame speaks and walks
well. There is assuredly little serious to contemplate. These doctors,
who are they?—ignorant quacks who, for their own selfish ends, make us
believe that we are on the way to death when in reality we are in the
enjoyment of health and strength. Remember how, in a cholera year, Death
met the Devil as he was on his way to Vienna. “I shall slay twenty
thousand people,” said Death. In a day or two they met again. “Ah!”
said the Devil, “only ten thousand died of cholera.” “Ah,” said Death,
“that is true.” “How, then,” asked the Devil, “did you make up your
number?” “Easy enough,” was the reply; “ten thousand were killed by the
cholera and the other ten died of fright!” Ah, these doctors, they do a
lot of mischief! They are also, I fear, men of science—that is, men of
no religion. It is dangerous for one’s soul to have them about us. It
is the priest, your ladyship, who is the true friend of all in sickness
or adversity, or doubt or sorrow.’
‘Oh, father, I believe you. And now to business.’
‘With all my heart.’
‘There is no one who is likely to overhear us?’
‘None. The house is silent as the grave,’ of which it really reminded
one with its funereal embellishments, its ghastly pictures of saints and
martyrs—the work of old masters they said, horrible to look on—and
crucifixes of every kind. In some parts of Italy this show is supposed
to indicate the possession of true piety, and that, like charity, covers
a multitude of sins.
‘Well, father, let me state a case in which I am interested.’
‘I am all attention.’
‘In the fair city of Florence there was a girl, fair in person, a fine
figure, a sunny face, a gift of song. She was the child of pious parents
in the neighbouring mountains. The father was an officer in the Pope’s
army. When all Europe dashed its armies, not in vain, against the holy
rock of St. Peter’s, the father died as a brave man should. The mother
lived on on her small estate on the mountains. The girl loved the city,
and the museums, and the gardens, and the picture galleries. She would
not go back to the solitude of her country home; in fact, she ran away,
and one morning she met an English milor. He was rich, he was handsome,
he was well-born; he told her he loved her to distraction—she would
always be happy with him. In a foolish hour the silly girl went on board
milor’s yacht, that was lying in the bay—just as the yachts of milors lie
there to-day.’
‘Ah! that was bad,’ said the priest.
‘Yes, it was indeed, holy father,’ continued the lady. ‘The girl
remained there; she believed in the milor; she learnt his language; she
amused his idle hours. He did not know his own mind; she did not know
hers, and both thought they were happy.’
‘It was bad,’ said the priest. ‘Evil came of it. You need tell me no
more. Evil always comes of such liaisons. Where the Church does not
bless, the great enemy of souls, like a roaring lion, comes in.’
‘But there is a good deal more to be told.’
‘Proceed, madam, I am all attention.’
‘The milor was lost sight of. The lady appears in London. Socially, she
had kept her reputation untouched; she assumed an Italian title of
nobility. There are only too many in London, especially among rich
parvenues, who throw open their doors to anyone with a foreign title,
whether real or assumed.’
‘So I have heard, madam.’
‘The Italian lady in this way made many acquaintances and some
friendships. Amongst the latter was a lady in weak health, and in great
trouble of body and mind. The Italian lady was interested in her; she
seemed so sad and sorrowful—almost as sad and sorrowful as herself. The
lady had many confidences to make. She was the wife of the rich milor;
she was about to present him with a child—a son and heir it was to be
hoped. She dreaded the event, she was so weak and sad.’
‘“What will you?” said the Italian lady to the English one. “That you
come and stay with me—that you be my companion and friend. Everything
shall be placed in your hands.” The Italian lady was delighted. In the
first place it would give her an opportunity to meet her English milor
again; perhaps to regain her old authority over him. Alas! she was
mistaken.’
‘And it was quite as well, too,’ said the priest. ‘Her better part was
that of a penitent; it was only thus the ministers of the Church could
absolve her of her sin.’
‘Milor had lost all interest in the Italian woman who had given up to him
her youth, her love, her innocence, and her life. Milor felt no pleasure
at once more recognising her as established in his grand house in town as
the friend and companion of his wife.’
‘Was this madame, this Italian Countess, this friend of yours, very much
distressed, was she broken-hearted?’ asked the priest with a quiet smile.
‘Not exactly. Her idea was to take a grand revenge.’
‘Ah! that is more the way of Italians. But what was that revenge? Did
she stab the milor? did she poison his wife?’
‘Neither the one nor the other. As one of the household—as its mistress
as it were for the time being—she saw how she could revenge herself in a
better way.’
‘Revenge! Ah, that is sinful, I fear,’ said the priest. ‘“Vengeance is
mine, saith the Lord.” Hear David, “O Lord, to whom vengeance belongeth,
show Thyself.” Ah, it may be sweet for a time,’ said the priest, as he
shook his head.
‘Holy father,’ replied the lady, ‘you are right, as you always are. We
women have not men’s heads, we have only hearts, and those hearts often
fill us with bad passions.’
‘I fear that is too true,’ said the priest. ‘But pray proceed with your
narrative.’
‘Well, her plans were artfully laid. The servants were her creatures.
The medical man was her dupe. She had sole command of the mansion. The
poor dying wife had begged her to take the trouble off her hands. Milor
fancied she was his slave; he in reality was her dupe. She made him
believe that his child was dead. She did more, she paid some women to
take care of a child which she pretended, with strict injunctions to
secrecy, was the heir. Gold did it all. At that time the lady had
plenty of gold.’
‘Which might have been better spent in the service of the Holy Catholic
Church, which needs the treasures of the faithful, and gives them
interest for the money, which will yield rich fruit through the countless
ages of eternity.’
‘Ah, my friend did not think of such things. She was in the world and of
it. There, in that island of heretics, she had given up her religious
observances, and had almost lost her religious faith. Oh, how much
better it is for the woman to stop in the land where the poetry of youth
ripens and matures, till in her old age she has all the ardour and the
blessedness of a devotee.’
‘You speak truly and well,’ said the priest, with an approving smile; and
though he did not often smile, his smile, when it did appear on his
marble face, was encouraging.
‘My father,’ said the penitent, weeping, ‘I can keep up the deception no
longer—I speak of myself!’
‘I thought as much,’ he replied. ‘I am afraid you have done a great
wrong. But what has become of the child?’
‘I know not; and the father is dead.’
‘Oh,’ said the priest, ‘you should have brought him to Italy and placed
him in the school of the Monastery of St. Joseph.’
‘Yes, holy father, I ought to have brought him up in the true faith. I
hear his father is dead; I hear they believe there is no heir; I hear the
brother and his family are now in possession of the estate. I know all
about them. They are of the Low Church school which hates our faith,
abuses its priests, and even the Holy Father—’
‘Hush!’ said the priest, ‘do not sully your lips with the foolishness and
wickedness of these poor Protestants. I have heard them talk their
blasphemies in Naples, and even at Rome itself. It is the holy
Inquisition that we need to put a stop to such vile calumnies.’
‘I had my revenge; but I know not what became of the boy. If we could
gain his rights we could make a Catholic of him. I am no longer a
penitent, holy father. I feel as if I had been a mighty instrument in
paving the way for the return of the true religion to that unhappy land.
Here,’ placing in the priest’s hand a handsome casket, ‘are the documents
which will establish his claim. You go to London. You will see the
lawyer of the family; he cannot deny the claim. Oh, I feel so joyful!
I’ve gained my revenge! and is it not a sanctified one, as it is for the
good of the Church?’
‘Daughter,’ said the priest, ‘I would fain say in the language of the
Holy Book, “Many daughters have done well, but thou hast surpassed them
all.” Still, it seems to me so marvellous, I can scarcely understand
it.’
‘The mystery is being cleared up. I saw an English actress in the street
yesterday, who I believe can help us in the matter. But in the meanwhile
let us see these documents. We shall have done a great work for the
Church if we can take these documents, find the child, establish his
claims in a court of law, and secure him as a true son of the Church.
Ah, that will be grand!’ said the Countess joyfully. ‘I gain a son for
the Church.’
‘Heaven will reward you, daughter,’ said the priest; ‘but hasten and
fetch the casket.’
The Countess left the room to find it. In a little while she returned
with it in her hands.
‘There it is,’ said she, as she handed it to the priest.
‘What a lovely casket!’ said the priest.
‘Ah, one thinks of what it contains,’ said the lady; ‘a title—an estate—a
life, which will all be handed over to the Church.’
With a trembling hand the priest opened it; the Countess in an equally
excited state looking on.
In the casket was an official-looking wrapper.
‘It is all right,’ said the Countess; ‘break the seal and master its
contents.’
‘All in good time,’ said the priest. ‘Don’t agitate yourself; be calm.’
‘I am,’ said the Countess; ‘but delay not. Secure the prize; the hour
has come.’
Suddenly the priest turned red and white. ‘In the name of the Holy
Father,’ he said, ‘what have we here?’
‘Why, documents of the highest importance.’
‘Nothing of the kind,’ exclaimed the priest in a rage. ‘Nothing but an
old English newspaper,’ as he threw it on the ground, with something that
sounded like a rather expressive Italian oath.
The lady shrieked and nearly fainted away, only she thought better of it.
The situation, it occurred to her, would be neither interesting nor
picturesque. Alas! she had no help for it. That English maid-servant,
of whom she fancied she had made a dupe, was more than a match for her
after all, and had tampered with the documents she had carefully sealed
and religiously guarded these many years.
All she could do was weep, and weep she did, till she nearly wept herself
to death, failing of her long-treasured scheme of revenge. Of her
servant she had lost all trace. To find her was out of the question; her
only hope was in Miss Howard.
But they never met. The Countess and the priest could do nothing; and
Rose and her husband soon tired of the fruitless search and returned, to
remember in after years the delights of the Bay of Naples—‘the most
beautiful spot in the world,’ writes George Eliot. Everything takes us
back to the past. It was in the bay that pious Æneas landed. Caligula,
and Nero, and Tiberius, all loved the spot. The grotto of the Sybil was
near, too; the tomb of Virgil is yet shown in that neighbourhood. Capua,
famed for its luxury and ease, was not far off. No wonder the world
flocks to the Bay of Naples. I stay at the Hotel de Vesuve, kept by Mr.
Mella, well-known to English members of the Coaching Club, and where I
find excellent accommodation. And he tells me 80,000 visitors pass
through his hotel in the course of a year. It is a classical education
to stop in Naples for a while. I love it best in the summer, when you
can revel on green figs, and apricots, and peaches, and oranges for a
song. In the winter there are fogs and snow at times. But there is this
drawback in the summer, and that is its intense heat, which drives
everyone away. From the deck of the steamer the view is charming, as
Naples with its terraces, and castles, and hills rises before you; and at
night, when all is still, and the gas-lamps glitter all round the bay for
miles, it looks like fairyland.
In Naples itself there is little to see, with the exception of the
museum, which, when Garibaldi was Dictator, was thrown open to the
public, and in which some, or rather all, the most precious works of art
discovered in Pompeii are preserved. It is not enough to go to
Pompeii—you must visit the museum in Naples as well. But the brasses and
the marbles in the museum are especially fine, such as the Farnese Bull,
and the Farnese Hercules, and the Roman Emperors. In the churches there
is little to see, and nothing to admire. There are showy shops in the
Toledo, and at the end, as you enter, an arcade as handsome as is to be
found anywhere in Europe. There are good public gardens where you may
hear excellent music on a summer night, and no city has better tramcars,
and more civil drivers and conductors. I have no fault to find with the
cabs, except that their drivers never leave you alone, and lie in wait
for you at your going out and coming in. It is in its crowded and
bustling streets that the charm of Naples consists. Surely there never
was a people who lived so much in the open air, and drank so much water
flavoured with lemon. The Neapolitans are a sober people, and
industrious as well. They are fearfully taxed, and, with their scanty
wages, how they manage to make both ends meet is a mystery. They are
much given to sleep in the summertime anywhere, on the broad street or
the sea-wall; and of a Sunday afternoon they are much given to crowd into
some rickety old cart, and tear along as fast and far as the horse can
go.
There is very little beauty among the common people, and you have plenty
of scope for observation, as women dress their back hair in the broad
streets, and the babies are washed in the same public manner. Nor can
you wonder that this is so, as you contemplate the dingy streets and high
houses, divided by narrow lanes, just like Yarmouth Rows, where no fresh
air can enter, no ray of sunlight can shine. What strikes a stranger
especially is the awful noise. There is an everlasting clatter of wheels
and cracking of whips, and braying of donkeys—and in Naples they bray
louder than anywhere else; and how the hawkers shout! and they are
numerous, and seem to supply everyone. It is amusing to see them
transacting business. The customer is high up in the balcony, suspended
in mid air. She needs a bit of fish, and she lets down a basket to the
hawker below. That gives rise to a good deal of talk, as the Neapolitans
are a much-gesticulating people. If a bargain is struck, the basket is
hauled up with the fish inside.
An old French writer complained of the English people that they were very
ignorant, as they never spoke French. In a similar spirit the ignorance
of the Neapolitans struck me. None of them could speak a word of
English.
There are others who call it the City of Flowers. This is nothing but a
mistake. But the cactus grows everywhere, and thus, wherever you go—on
the rail, or by the villa, or the flat-roomed cabin where the poor
peasant lives—you have a good display of green; and in the public gardens
the palm-tree grows luxuriantly, and you are reminded of the tropics at
every step; and thus the hot hours glide peacefully on, while the
retailers of lemon and water do a roaring trade, and the ragged who have
no money curl themselves in the dark arches, met with at every corner,
and sleep the sleep of the just. All Naples is asleep in the middle of
the day, and even the policeman nods. Happily he has little to do, as,
ignorant and priest-ridden as the people may be, they never get drunk.
At night the city is gay, as families, old and young, rush off to the
music-hall, or to hear the bands play, or to navigate the peaceful waters
by the light of Chinese lanterns. I suppose they fancy they cool
themselves. The fact is, Naples is always hot in summer. All day long
the burning sun bakes up the streets and the shops, and the old bits of
rocks, all built over; and the heat seems to me to radiate from them all
night long. If it were not for the tramcars, which are numerous and
cheap, and the conductors of which are uncommonly civil and well-behaved,
locomotion would be impossible. There are no flags more trying than
those of Naples, and as the cabs drive all over the road you are never
safe. People who are deaf, who are old and infirm, are in constant
danger, in spite of the thundering crack of the cabman’s whip, or the
ear-splitting note of the conductor’s horn. Motion seems to begin about
five, and still the tumult rages as I retire to rest.
After all, the chief fault I find with the people is the way they work
their horses and donkeys. The latter, at any rate, have a hard time of
it, as they drag the heavy load on a cart of two long poles with beams
laid across of the most primitive order. I fancy the old country cart
remains as it was in the time of the Romans. Sometimes a horse or mule
or bullock is harnessed on one side; but the patient ass, who does the
chief of the work, no one seems to pity.
On a hot day it also stirs my indignation to see a horse dragging a cart
with fourteen or fifteen strapping men inside, and on a Sunday everyone
seems to drive, and as fast as he can. The swell and the costermonger
all tear along at a frightful pace, and thus secure—what in England some
good people are trying to insure—a pleasant Sunday afternoon.