CAPRI AND TIBERIUS THE TYRANT
Lying between the classic capes of Misenum and Minerva, the island of
Capri appears like a couched lion, guarding the entrance of the Bay of
Naples; his majestic head being formed by the stupendous cliffs of the
Salto that face the sunrise, whilst his back and loins are represented by
the long broad slope which stretches from the summit of Monte Solaro to
the most westerly headland of Vitareta. Nor is it only as a guardian to
their Bay that Capri serves the Neapolitans, for it also presents them
with a gigantic natural barometer. In fine settled weather a soft haze
invariably lies over the sea, so that Capri is only faintly visible from
the shores of Parthenope, save at sunrise and sunset, when for a short
time the graceful form of the islet looms out clear-cut like a jagged
amethyst upon a sapphire bed; but before rain or storm it yields up its
inmost secrets to the public gaze of Naples. The northern Marina, the
towns of Capri and Ana-Capri, even the little terraced fields become
discernible to the naked eye: “It will be wet to-morrow” augur the
weather-wise of Naples, and the prediction is rarely falsified.
[Illustration: FARAGLIONI ROCKS, CAPRI]
It is an easy matter to cross from Sorrento to the island, whether it be
by the little steamer that plies daily between Naples and Capri, putting
in at Sorrento on its journeys backwards and forwards, or—far pleasanter
if somewhat slower way—by engaging a boat with four rowers, who on a calm
day ought to make the Marina of Capri in less than two hours. Nothing can
be more delightful or exhilarating than this old-fashioned method of
transit; and it gives also a feeling of superiority over less enterprising
persons who prefer the quicker passage on a smoky steamer, crammed with
tourists and attendant touts. It is the very morning for a row on the cool
glassy water, as we step joyfully into our boat with its four stalwart
Phrygian-capped sailors in attendance:
“Con questo zeffiro
Cosi soave,
Oh, com’ e bello
Star su la nave!
Mare si placido,
Vento si caro,
Scordar fa i triboli
Al marinaro.”
Bending with a will to their oars, our genial mariners quickly impel our
barque round the first jutting headland, so that the thickly populated
Piano di Sorrento is at once lost to view. Making good headway over the
clear water, it is not long before we find ourselves passing beneath the
wave-washed precipices of the Salto, and well within our time limit of two
hours we reach the roadstead of the Marina, to find ourselves in a bright
and busy world of traffic and pleasure. Between the houses coloured
coral-pink, white, blue, and yellow, and the pale green transparent water
lies a long stretch of beach covered with every sort of craft that sails
the Mediterranean, and with a motley crowd of fishermen, tourists and
noisy children; whilst the whole atmosphere rings with raucous voices
raised in giving directions, in quarrelling, or in addressing the many
perplexed strangers. We disembark, and cross the intervening beach with
its sea-weed veiled boulders and masses of tawny fishing nets; we reach
the village, and here we meet with our first disappointment in romantic
Capri. It was not so very many years ago, barely thirty in point of fact,
that this island was roadless, and in those primitive days the visitor was
met at the Marina Grande by tall strapping Capriote women, who were wont
to seize the traveller’s pieces of baggage as though they had been light
parcels, and to march up the old stone staircase poising these burdens on
their heads with the carriage of an empress. The stranger’s own entrance
into Capri was less dignified, for either he had to toil painfully in the
blazing sun up that steep picturesque flight of steps and reach the
plateau above, perspiring and probably out of temper; or else he was
compelled to bestride a miserable ass which a bare-footed damsel steered
upward by means of the quadruped’s tail. Nowadays, we are spared this
original and somewhat humiliating manner of arrival at our journey’s end.
There are little _carrozzelle_, drawn by clever black Abruzzi cobs
awaiting us, and even one or two hotel conveyances. We find ourselves
being driven rapidly up the excellent winding road constructed only a
quarter of a century ago, past the domed Church of San Costanzo, the
patron Saint of the Caprioti, past hedges of aloe and prickly pear, until
we gain the saddle of the island-mountain, where stands the small capital
perched upon a ledge that overlooks the Bay of Naples to the north, and to
the south the endless expanse of the unruffled Tyrrhene.
It is evident even to the most casual untrained eye, that this huge mass
of sea-girt rock whereon we stand must in remote ages have formed part of
the mainland opposite, until some fierce convulsion of nature, common
enough in this region that is ever changing its outward face through
subterranean forces, tore what is now Capri asunder from the Punta della
Campanella, and placed the sea as an eternal barrier between the riven
headlands of continent and new-formed island. The charm of this rocky
fragment, thus placed in mid ocean by volcanic action, was first
discovered by the great Emperor Augustus, who chancing to visit the island
for some obscure reason was greatly affected by the spectacle of a
withered ilex tree, that revived and burst into foliage at the auspicious
moment of his setting foot at the Marina. Flattered at the compliment paid
by Nature’s self to his august presence and drawing a happy omen from the
incident, the Emperor at once proposed to the people of Neapolis, who then
owned the island, that they should exchange barren Capreae for the larger
and more fertile imperial appanage of Aenaria (Ischia)—a bargain to which
the shrewd Neapolitans readily agreed. Here then in a spot at once so
salubrious and so convenient for the management of affairs of state, the
Emperor sought rest and relaxation at such times as he could escape the
cares of government. At his bidding villas and pleasaunces were
constructed; roads were carried by means of viaducts across the airy
plateau lying between the Salto and the Solaro; and the able bodied
inhabitants of the island were enrolled as a sort of honorary bodyguard
for the person of Augustus during his occasional visits. In this secluded,
yet accessible retreat, the ruler of the Roman world could easily lay his
finger, as it were, upon the beating pulse of his mighty empire, for
Capreae was at no great distance from Rome itself, and from the heights of
the island note could be made of the movements of the Imperial fleet lying
at Baiae or of the arrival of the corn ships from Egypt and Asia Minor.
But the name of the good Augustus is scarcely remembered in connection
with Capreae, which alone recalls its association with Tiberius the
Tyrant, who spent the last nine years of his reign upon the rocky islet
that was so beloved of his predecessor. To this spot “Timberio” (as the
natives invariably misname the Emperor) feeling the rapid approach of
senile decay, weary of the thankless task of ruling an ungrateful people,
sick of family dissensions and of court intrigue, at last came in the
cherished hope of spending the few remaining years of his life in cultured
leisure and in comparative solitude. An enthusiastic student of astronomy
and of its sister science, or rather pseudo-science, astrology, Tiberius
proposed to study the heavens in the company of chosen mathematicians and
soothsayers. Twelve buildings—palaces, villas, pavilions, call them what
you will—were now constructed for the special examination of the planets,
and in consequence the whole of the island, whose limited area after all
is exceeded by many an English park, was practically turned into one vast
maritime residence, for all the Imperial pleasure-houses seem to have been
connected with each other by means of viaducts or secret stair-ways. Yet
whilst immersed in astronomy and occultism, the aged Emperor contrived to
find time for the routine of public business, and, like Augustus, he was
still able to direct from his rocky retreat the policy of the Empire. The
reports of governors of provinces, for example, were received, read, and
commented upon by Tiberius in his Capriote home, and amongst these there
must have been included a certain official document from one Pontius
Pilatus, Procurator of Judaea, relating how a Jewish prophet from Nazareth
had been condemned, scourged and crucified by his orders at the special
request of the Jews themselves. How eloquent is this bald statement of a
simple fact, that here in this tiny barren islet was brought the casual
news of the death of Jesus Christ to the then ruler of the Roman world!
Surely an historical incident such as this is of more value than all the
hazy legends or pointless miracles of St Januarius or of San Costanzo,
upon which the imagination of the islanders has been fed for generations.
[Illustration: CAPRI FROM THE VILLA JOVIS]
Remnants of Tiberius’ palaces, all of which are said to have been razed to
the ground by order of the Roman Senate at his death, are scattered thick
as fallen leaves in Vallombrosa over the whole surface of the island, and
it is to the ruins of the Villa Jovis at its eastern crest that the
visitor will in all probability first direct his steps. The way thither
from the little city of Capri leads through narrow lanes along a stony but
populous hill-side, to which the flat-roofed dazzling white houses with
their small iron-barred windows lend an oriental aspect; an illusion that
is aided by the appearance of an occasional date-palm over-topping some
low wall, and by clumps or hedges of the prickly pear. This latter plant,
of Indian extraction as its name of _Ficus Indica_ betrays, grows in
profusion over the sun-baked rocky slopes of southern Italy, especially in
the neighbourhood of the sea. The peasants find it most useful, for it
makes impenetrable hedges, and its coarse pulpy leaves when pounded up
afford good provender for their goats and donkeys. The fruits of the
prickly pear, those quaint crimson or yellow knobs attached to the edges
of the leaves, are likewise gathered and eaten by the people, or else
cleaned of their protecting layers of spiny hairs and despatched in
baskets to Naples, where the cactus-fruit forms an important item of the
popular fare. The fruit itself has a lovely colour and a fragrant scent,
which give promise of a better flavour than it actually possesses, for it
is hopelessly insipid to the taste, although the Neapolitans declare that
the pulp, when mashed up into patties and iced, is very palatable.
A long up-hill ramble over rough paths leads eventually to the Villa of
Jupiter, perched on the Salto—the _Saltus Caprearum_, the “Wild Goats’
Leap,” of the ancients. There is little of interest to be seen in the
existing portions of Tiberius’ chief villa, for the building has been
despoiled centuries ago of its rich marbles, its slabs of _giallo_ and
_verde antico_, its pillars of red porphyry and _serpentino_, some
fragments of which may be found imbedded in the pavement of the
mosque-like little Duomo of Capri. But it is evident from the immense
extent of its substructures, now used for humble enough purposes, that the
Villa Jovis must have been a palace of remarkable size. A hermit who
offers sour wine, a fat middle-aged woman, a figure of fun in her gay
be-ribboned dress who begins languidly dancing a _tarantella_, and a
vulgar pestilent guide who produces a spy-glass usually haunt these
caverns on the look-out for any chance visitor. Buy them off, O stranger!
with _soldi_, is our advice, for you cannot otherwise escape their
importunities, and then mounting to the highest point, peer down into the
clear depths of the water nearly a thousand feet below. For it was here,
if we can credit serious Roman historians, that the Imperial tyrant, half
crazy with terror and ever thirsting for human blood, was wont to hurl the
objects of his hate into the sea; “from this eminence,” Suetonius gravely
tells us, “after the application of long drawn-out and exquisite tortures,
Tiberius used to order his executioners to fling their victims before his
eyes into the water, where boats full of mariners, stationed below, were
waiting in readiness to beat the bruised bodies with oars, in case any
spark of life might yet be left in them.” The terrible legend fits in
aptly with the appearance of this forbidding dizzy precipice, especially
on a dark stormy afternoon, when the dull roar of the waves dashing
against the cliffs below, mounts upward to the Villa Jovis like the angry
bellowing of some insatiable sea-monster.
It was whilst brooding here after the death of Sejanus in Rome, that the
Emperor, not daring to move beyond the walls of his palace, shunning the
society of all save his familiar friends and attendants, and with his face
disfigured by an eruption of the skin of which he was painfully sensitive,
that there took place an incident (which may or may not be true) mentioned
by Suetonius. In the privacy of this villa Tiberius was one day surprised
by an ingenious Capriote fisherman, who in ignorance or defiance of the
Emperor’s wishes had managed to scale with his naked feet the steep cliffs
from the sea below, in order to present a fine mullet for the imperial
table, and of course to earn a high reward for his “gift.” Terrified at
the mere notion of anybody being able thus to penetrate into his most
secret domain, the irate Emperor at once gave orders for the intruder’s
face to be scrubbed with the mullet he had brought, a sentence that the
imperial minions performed without delay. The intrepid fisherman might
have congratulated himself on so mild a punishment for having disturbed a
tyrant’s repose, had he not been possessed of an unusually strong sense of
humour. For at the close of the mullet-scrubbing episode, the foolish
fellow remarked by way of a jest to the officer on duty, that he was
thankful he had not also offered the emperor a large crab which he had
likewise brought in his basket. This imprudent speech was immediately
reported to Tiberius, who thereupon commanded the man’s face to be
lacerated with the aforesaid crab’s claws; but whether this pleasing
incident ended with a cold plunge from the Salto, the Roman historian does
not relate.
Other tales of Timberio’s vices and cruelties have been handed down from
generation to generation, so that the dark deeds committed at the Salto
have almost passed into a local article of faith; and such being the case,
it would seem almost a pity to pronounce these picturesque horrors untrue
or exaggerated. Nevertheless, of recent years there has arisen amongst
scholars a certain degree of scepticism as regards these highly coloured
anecdotes of Roman historians known to be prejudiced. The Emperor was
nearly seventy years old at the time he came to reside in Capreae, and
until that date his life had been orderly and above reproach; it is not
likely therefore, argue these modern writers, that Tiberius should
suddenly, at so extreme an age, have flung himself into a whirl of vices
and crimes that he had hitherto shunned. The thing is of course possible,
but it sounds improbable. That he was moody and morose; that he loved
solitude and hated formal society in the spot he had especially chosen as
the retreat of his declining years; that he practised certain of the
mystic arts, as well as studied astronomy, are all likely enough
conjectures; and these circumstances probably formed the foundation for
the extravagant legends which now surround the Emperor’s memory. Very
shocking and reprehensible were the doings at Villa Jovis, if they really
occurred there, but to try and dispute their authenticity would be a task
quite outside the scope of this work.(10)
If, despite the negative theories held to-day concerning the private life
and character of the second Emperor of Rome during his residence on
Capreae, the traveller be still inclined to trace the sites of the
remaining eleven Imperial villas, he will find little difficulty in
meeting with numberless Roman remains scattered over all parts of the
island. On the beach, for example, a little to the west of the Marina
Grande, are clearly visible the sunken foundations of the great
sea-palace, which in the Roman manner jutted into the water and ranked
probably second in size to the Villa Jovis. The neighbourhood of Ana-Capri
also, and in fact the whole western portion of the island, is likewise
plentifully besprinkled with ancient ruins, one of which is still known by
the suggestive title of Timberino. But most people will prefer to explore
the unrivalled natural beauties of Capri, rather than to make themselves
acquainted with its archaeological points of interest.
First and foremost of the many wonders that Capri has to show must be
ranked the Grotta Azzurra. The pleasantest way of reaching this
world-famous cavern is by small boat from the Marina, rather than by the
daily steamer from Naples; and a perfectly calm and bright morning must be
selected for the expedition, for if the surface of the sea appears in the
least degree ruffled by northerly winds, it becomes impossible for any
craft to make the low entrance of the grotto. Capriote boatmen are as a
rule intelligent and pleasant to deal with, and not a few of the denizens
of the Marina own to some knowledge of English, or rather of American,
since several of the inhabitants are the sons of emigrants who have
settled in the cities of the United States or the Argentine, but whose
love for their island home is still so strong that they contrive to send
their children back to Capri, in order that they may retain their Italian
citizenship and be ready to serve their expected term of years in the
Army.
Past the gay-coloured shipping of the noisy Marina, past the wave-washed
halls of Tiberius’ _palazzo a mare_, our boat swiftly glides over the
pellucid expanse until it reaches those vast towering cliffs of limestone
that spring almost perpendicular from the waters’ edge to the plateau of
Ana-Capri, fully a thousand feet above our heads. Clumps of palmetto, of
cytizus, and of various hardy shrubs manage to sprout and to exist in the
crannies of this sheer wall of rock; and on some of the larger ledges, far
out of reach of a despoiling human hand, we see masses of the odorous
narcissus, though whence they draw their sustenance it is hard to tell. At
length we reach the entrance of the Grotto, and here, at a signal from our
boatman, we crouch down low in the body of the boat, whilst our rower,
skilfully taking advantage of a gentle surging wave, guides our craft with
his hands through an opening in the sheer wall, so low that the gunwales
grate against the rocky surface of the natural arch. At once we find
ourselves in a scene of mystical beauty, in an extravagant voluptuous
dream of loveliness, such as the Arabian Nights alone could dare to
suggest. Above us, around us, behind us, before us lies a luminous azure
atmosphere, which produces the effect of a gigantic molten sapphire, whose
secret blue fires we have actually tracked to their lurking-place in the
very heart of the gem. Against the all-pervading shimmering light our own
forms stand out distinct of an intense and velvety blackness, yet the
blades of the oars that cleave the melted sapphire of the water, the tips
of our fingers that dabble in the celestial liquid, appear as if coated
with tiny globules of silver. Our boatman’s son, a picturesque lad of
fifteen or there-abouts, has, we notice, been engaged in hastily casting
off his scanty attire; for a moment his slight graceful figure is outlined
against the blue light like some antique bronze of Pompeii or Herculaneum,
and then there is a splash as the youthful form, diving into the pool, is
instantaneously changed by the genius of the place into a
silver-glistening sea-god, the very image of the fisherman Glaucus sung of
old by Ovid, who became an Immortal and dwelt ever afterwards, according
to the ancient myth, in an azure palace beneath the sea. As the stripling
rises to the surface all glittering to breathe the air, his head turns
from frosted silver to ebon blackness, as does likewise his hand, raised
from the water to clasp the boat’s prow. Slowly we are propelled round the
lofty domed cavern, and are shown the little beach at its further
extremity with its mysterious and unexplored flight of stone steps, down
which, so our mariner informs us, the wicked Timberio used to descend from
his villa at Damecuta, hundreds of feet overhead, to take a plunge in
these enchanted waters. The Emperor and his friends may or may not have
gambolled in this jewelled bath; but certain it is that Tiberius knew of
the existence of this unique cavern; and equally certain that an artistic
but demented potentate of our own days was so smitten with the idea of
owning a secret staircase descending to a blue grotto, that he must needs
construct within the walls of a fantastic castle in the highlands of
Bavaria an artificial counterpart of the Grotta Azzurra, with metal swans
moved by clockwork swimming thereon!
Our genial boatman beguiles the time of our returning by a long story,
told him in his boyhood by his old grandfather, of how two English
_Signori_ had managed to rediscover the entrance to the Blue Grotto, which
had been lost since the days of the Emperor Timberio, and how in
expectation of the Englishmen’s reward a plucky sailor, named Ferrara, had
made his way all round the island in a cask, trying to force an entrance
into every possible cavern, until at last he hit upon the mouth of the
Grotta Azzurra itself, and thus gained the prize. But as a matter of fact
the existence of the Grotto was never wholly forgotten, for its beauties
were certainly known to the old Italian chronicler Capaccio. Yet doubtless
during the long period of the Napoleonic wars, when Capri from its
strategic position became a choice bone of contention between French,
English and Neapolitan forces, there were few if any persons who possessed
the courage or curiosity to visit the cavern; with the result that its
_exact_ locality became temporarily lost. It was known, however, to exist
somewhere at the base of the great northern cliff, so that only a very
small portion of the coast-line had to be explored, before its tiny
inconspicuous entrance could be rediscovered. A far more exciting event
than the refinding of the Blue Grotto was the genuine discovery of the
beautiful Grotta Verde on the southern side of the island by two
Englishmen, Mr Reid and Mr Lacaita, in the summer of 1848. This grotto,
esteemed the second in importance of the many caves that Capri boasts,
consists of a huge natural archway formed in the cliffs wherein the water
and rocks appear of an emerald hue, contrasting strangely with the opaque
blue of the sea beyond, and suggesting in its dual colouring the
marvellous combination of dark blue and iridescent green in the peacock’s
tail.
[Illustration: IN THE BLUE GROTTO, CAPRI]
Capri is a pleasant enough place of residence for a short time,
particularly if one invests in a pair of the rope-soled shoes affected by
the people, which enables the wearer to follow with greater ease the rough
stony tracks, often at a dizzy height above the sea, that form the only
walks in the eastern portion of Capri, except the villa-lined Tragara road
leading to the Guardiola, now become the fashionable promenade of the many
foreign residents upon the island. There are some delightfully peaceful
nooks to be sought near the water’s edge, not far from the Faraglioni,
that picturesque trio of rocks lying off the south-eastern corner of
Capri. Here we can find a sheltered corner, unfrequented alike by the
pestering native or by the ubiquitous tourist; perchance the deserted hall
of some maritime villa, for the caverns near the Piccola Marina abound in
traces of Roman architecture. In such a retreat, with a book on one’s
knees and with one’s own thoughts for sole company, how fascinating it is
to lie
“... on Capri’s rocks, close to their snowy streak
Of ambient foam, and watch the restless sea
Tossing and tumbling to Eternity,
Feeling its salt kiss fall upon the cheek.”
But to those who prefer to take long tramps afield rather than to linger
in meditation on the sunny beaches near the Piccola Marina, there is
always the ascent to Ana-Capri by the broad smooth winding road that
affords a fresh view of the Bay of Naples at every one of its many twists
and turnings. Over a ravine filled with masses of ilex and myrtle; past
the fragment of the pirate Barbarossa’s aerial castle, perched on a rocky
pinnacle and looking like some fantastic creation of Gustave Doré’s brush;
the broad ribband of road leads across the steep northern flank of Monte
Solaro, until it ends at Ana-Capri with its white houses nestling round a
domed church. It is an easy ascent, taking no great space of time, yet
strange to relate, well within living memory the only approach to this
hill-set village was by means of the interminable stone staircase with
some five hundred steps that connected it with the Marina Grande below. A
charming writer on Neapolitan life and character thus shrewdly sums up the
general opinion concerning this altered aspect of conditions with regard
to Ana-Capri, now brought at last into close touch with modern
civilization and its accruing benefits:
“Before the culminating point is reached, the road crosses the old
staircase, which has unfortunately been almost completely destroyed by the
huge masses of rock dislodged from the cliff above by the workmen. It
makes one sad to look at it, and almost regret that the new road ever was
constructed. Were every invective that has been vented on those same steps
turned into a paving-stone, there would be more than sufficient to pave
the streets of Naples anew; were every drop of sweat that has fallen upon
them collected, there would be enough water to flood them. And yet now
that this dreadful staircase has been superseded by a good macadamised
road, every one seems to regret the change. Says the heavily laden
_contadina_: ‘The old way was the shortest;’ says the artist: ‘It was
infinitely more picturesque; that new parapet wall is a dreadful
eye-sore;’ says the archaeologist: ‘It had the merit of antiquity; it is
not everywhere that one can tread in the footprints of a hundred
generations.’ Even those whose every step in the olden time was
accompanied by a malediction, can remember how good a glass of very
inferior wine tasted on reaching Ana-Capri.”(11)
But whether Ana-Capri has or has not been really benefited by the Italian
Government’s finely engineered road, there can be no doubt that the
primitive charm of the island, which in by-gone days constituted one of
its chief attractions, has greatly declined with the wholesale
introduction of modern conventions and improvements. With the sudden
influx of wealthy strangers, Anglo-Saxon, German, French and Russian, it
is not surprising to learn that the islanders have become somewhat
demoralized under the changed conditions of life, and that not a small
proportion of them have grown venal and grasping. The happy old days when
artists and inn-keepers, peasants and such chance visitors as loved the
simple unsophisticated life, hob-nobbed together on terms of equality are
gone for ever. Fashion, that merciless deity, has annexed the Insula
Caprearum to her ever-growing dominions;—there are smart villas on the
Tragara road and even at Ana-Capri; there are British tea-rooms and
Teutonic _Bierhälle_ in the town. At the present time the tourists and
foreign residents form the chief source of wealth to the islanders, now
that the quails have more or less deserted these shores. Instead of
awaiting in due season with nets ready prepared the advent of the plump
little feathered immigrants from the African coast, the modern Caprioti
are continually on the look-out for the steamers that bear hundreds of
money-spending tourists to the Marina, and these they proceed to enmesh
with proffered offers of service. And, speaking of the quails, in the days
before breech-loading guns and reckless extermination had injured this
valuable source of revenue, the arrival of the birds winging their way
northward was the signal for every sportsman on the island to hasten to
collect the annual harvest of game. High poles, supporting nets twenty
feet broad and sixty feet long, were erected on the grassy slopes of the
Solaro or in the plateau of the Tragara, towards which, by dint of
judicious scaring and shouting from expectant watchers stationed at
various points, the flight of the on-rushing birds was directed. Dashing
themselves with force against this wall of netting, the poor quails fell
stunned to the ground, where they were easily taken by hand, whilst scores
of guns were levelled ready to bring down such birds as had escaped the
snare prepared for them. From the thousands of quails thus captured the
islanders were enabled to pay their taxes to the Bourbon Government, as
well as to provide the income of their Bishop—for in those distant days a
prelate dwelt at Capri—who in allusion to his chief source of income was
jocularly known at the Roman court as “Il Vescovo delle Quaglie.”
From Ana-Capri to the western shore extends the most fertile stretch of
land in the island: a broad slope set with vineyards and groves of
silver-grey olives, that are interspersed here and there with clumps of
almond and plum trees. Fine oil is yielded by the _poderi_ of Ana-Capri
and Damecuta, whilst the grapes produce the highly prized red and white
Capri vintages, choice wine of which the casual traveller rarely tastes a
good sample, for it is usually doctored and “improved” for purposes of
keeping by the wine-merchants of Naples. Thus the rasping red liquid that
appears on the table of a London restaurant, and the scented
strong-tasting white stuff that is sold in the hotels of the island itself
or of Naples under the name of Capri, have little in common with the pure
unadulterated product of these sunny breezy vineyards. But besides wine
and oil, the island is likewise celebrated for its beautiful and varied
flora, and it is amongst the olive groves and lanes of the western side of
the island that the wild flowers can be found in the greatest profusion.
Amongst the tender green shoots of the young springing corn are set
myriads of brilliant hued anemones, purple, scarlet, and white with a
crimson centre; and even in January can be found in warm sheltered nooks
the pretty mauve wind-flower, one of the earliest of spring blossoms in
Italy. The grassy pathways that intersect the various holdings are gay
with rosy-tipped daisies, white “star-of-Bethlehem,” dark purple
grape-hyacinth, and the tiny strong-scented marigold, that seems to bloom
the whole twelve-month round. Amongst the loose stone-work of the walled
lanes, where beryl-backed lizards peep in and out of every crevice, can be
found fragrant violets and the delicate fumitory with its pink waxy bells.
In moist places flourish patches of the wild arum or of the stately great
celandine, the “swallow-wort” of old-fashioned herbalists, who believed
that the swallow made use of the thick yellow juice that runs in the veins
of this plant to anoint the eyes of her fledgelings! And with the
disappearance of the anemones as the season advances, their place is taken
by blood-red poppies, by golden hawkweeds and by masses of tall
magenta-coloured blooms of the wild gladiolus, the “Jacob’s Ladder” of our
own English gardens. Strange enough amongst these familiar homely flowers
appear the sub-tropical clumps of prickly pear, and the hedges of aloe
which here and there have thrown up a gigantic spike of blossom eight or
ten feet in height, a triumphal favour of Nature that the plant itself
must pay for by its subsequent death.
From Ana-Capri we ascend to the peak of the lofty Solaro, by no means an
arduous climb from this point, for we have but to follow a narrow
goat-track leading across slopes covered with coarse grass and some low
thickets of stunted lentisk and myrtle. The rosemary too grows plentifully
on the dry wind-swept soil, and the soft sea breeze wafts its refreshing
scent to our nostrils. There is a pretty legend of the people which
relates the cause of this plant obtaining its perfume of unearthly
sweetness:—how the Madonna one day hung the swaddling clothes of the
Infant Christ to dry upon a common pot-herb in the garden at Nazareth—the
rosemary is freely used in Italian cookery, and its taste is as unpleasant
as its scent is delicious—whereupon the humble plant thus honoured was
ever afterwards endowed with the delicate odour that is so highly prized.
And beyond this, the rosemary was likewise permitted to put forth masses
of flowers of the Madonna’s own colour of blue, concerning which a
tradition—Celtic, not Italian—avers that on Christmas morning upon every
plant of rosemary will be found by those who care to seek them expanded
blooms in honour of St Joseph, the Virgin and the Holy Child. Reaching the
crest of the Solaro, we are well rewarded for our climb over the stony
slopes by a wide-spreading view. Owing to the central position of the
island, we can from its airy summit, some sixteen hundred feet above
sea-level, command a glorious panorama of the three bays of the Neapolitan
Riviera, each teeming with a thousand associations of classical or modern
history. Upon those dancing waters of the Bay of Naples appeared in the
dim ages of the heroic world the Trojan galleys that were bearing the
founder of the Roman race towards the beach by Cumae yonder, where dwelt
the venerable Sibyl; the fleets of ancient Rome and Carthage, the
war-ships of the great Emperor Charles V., the pirate galleys of the
Soldan’s vassals, the men-of-war of Nelson have all rode and fought upon
the bosom of the bay beneath us. What a marvellous perspective of the
whole naval history of the Mediterranean does a survey of the Bay of
Naples suggest!
Exquisite and inspiring as is the view on a clear cloudless day, with the
keen _tramontana_ off the distant Abruzzi flecking the azure waves with
streaks of creamy foam and driving the white-sailed feluccas merrily
towards the open sea, the landscape is even more impressive in dull
lowering weather, when the inky clouds that envelop the sky give promise
of the approaching hurricane. At such times a striking phenomenon, said to
be peculiar to the Parthenopean shores, may be observed. From out the
purple threatening masses that fill the heavens there suddenly falls a
shaft of rosy light, as though directed by some vast celestial lens fixed
aloft in the sky, upon a small portion of the opposite shore. The plateau
of Sorrento with its many white hamlets first becomes illuminated; then
the light rapidly passes towards Vesuvius, which is instantly revealed
with marvellous clearness, whilst Sorrento returns to its former dark
brooding shadows. For some moments we watch the circlet of towns that
fringe the base of the burning mountain and Camaldoli erect on its wooded
height, and then our gaze is diverted towards Naples, so clearly revealed
that one can almost fancy it possible to detect the carriages driving
along the white line of the Caracciolo. From the city this weird
fairy-like light glides swiftly towards the headland of Posilipo and the
great sombre mass of Ischia, and then finally seems to vanish altogether
in the leaden-hued expanse of the watery horizon. Storm, rain, wind, hail
and thunder will certainly follow the appearance of this fantastic
rose-coloured glow, and the visitor to Capri may in consequence be
compelled to remain willy-nilly upon the island until such time as
communication with Naples shall be once more restored, for rough weather
on Capri means complete isolation from the mainland and the outside world.
A spell of four or five days without a letter or a newspaper may in
certain cases be restful and even beneficial, but it can also be highly
inconvenient.
* * * * * *
Comparatively few persons are aware that in the history of Capri is to be
found a page, not a particularly glorious one perhaps, of the annals of
our own nation. In the spring of 1806, the year after Trafalgar, whilst
our fleet was blockading Naples on behalf of its worthless monarch, King
Ferdinand, then skulking in cowardly ease at Palermo, Admiral Sir Sidney
Smith, the hero of Acre, managed to capture the island after a sharp
struggle with the French troops then holding it in the name of Joachim
Murat, King of Naples and brother-in-law of the great Napoleon. Sir Hudson
(then Colonel) Lowe—afterwards famous as the Governor of St Helena during
Buonaparte’s captivity—was now put in command of the newly conquered
island with some 1500 English and Maltese troops at his disposal. Lowe and
his second in command, Major Hamill, at once set to work to put the place
into a strong state of defence, and so satisfied were they with their work
of fortification, that Lowe in his confidence nick-named the islet “Little
Gibraltar.” For more than two years the Union Jack floated in triumph from
the fort-crowned heights of Capri, much to the annoyance of the monarch on
the mainland, who finally determined at all costs to recapture the
stronghold facing his capital. Fancying himself perfectly secure in his
“Little Gibraltar,” now deemed impregnable by a combination of art and
nature against any hostile descent, Lowe made light of any possible
expedition from Naples, and when Neapolitan warships actually appeared as
though making to land troops at the Marinas on either side of the saddle
of the island, the British commandant was delighted at the ease with which
these attempts were repelled. But whilst the garrison was busied in
thwarting the movements on the Marinas, which in reality only constituted
a feint on Murat’s part, transports were engaged in disembarking at the
low cliffs of Orico, the western extremity of the island, boat-loads of
men, who quickly swarmed up the terraced slopes towards Ana-Capri and
surprised its garrison. On the following day, October 6th 1808, in spite
of Lowe’s efforts, Ana-Capri with its eight hundred men surrendered to the
French and Neapolitan troops led by General Lamarque, who at once set up a
battery on the crest of the Solaro, so as to command the town of Capri and
the English head-quarters, fixed at the Convent of the Certosa that lies
between the Tragara Road and the southern shore. The eastern half of the
island still of course remained in the hands of the British; and failing
to reduce the town itself and the Convent of the Certosa by bombardment
from above, General Lamarque decided upon taking the place by storm, so as
to forestall the arrival of the English fleet, which was hourly expected
to come to the rescue of the beleaguered garrison. As we have already
mentioned, there was no road existing upon the whole island in those days
a hundred years ago, so that in order to attack the capital, the French
general had to march his victorious troops by the precipitous flight of
stone steps down to the Marina Grande and then try to carry the position
from below. Before however the Frenchmen, now further aided by supplies
sent by Murat’s order from Sorrento, could arrange for the projected
assault upon the town, the delayed British fleet suddenly appeared in the
offing, evidently with the intention of bearing down upon the island. But
on this occasion the luck was all on the side of the French, for scarcely
had the eagerly expected ships hove in sight, than the besieged garrison
had the mortification to see their hopes of succour overthrown by the
uprising of one of those sudden squalls, so common on the Mediterranean,
which drove the warships southward. More than one assault was repulsed
with heavy loss by the small English garrison, which had already been
deprived of half its numbers at Ana-Capri, including the gallant Major
Hamill, whose death is commemorated in a marble tablet set in the little
piazza of the town. But with the retirement of the relieving fleet and the
continuance of foul weather, Colonel Lowe deemed it useless to resist
further, and like a sensible man decided to capitulate on the best terms
he could obtain. In return for his immediate surrender of Capri the
British commandant accordingly stipulated that his garrison should be
allowed to embark and sail for Sicily unmolested, and that the persons and
property of the islanders, who seem to have appreciated the British
occupation, should be respected. But Lamarque, on communicating Colonel
Lowe’s request to King Murat, received peremptory orders to demand an
unconditional surrender, whereupon an aide-de-camp of the King’s, a
certain Colonel Manches, was sent to interview Lowe with the royal letter
in his pocket. Had the missive been delivered to him, the British Governor
would in all probability have decided to fight to the bitter end rather
than to submit to such severe and humiliating conditions. Happily so
terrible a catastrophe, which must have involved heavy loss of life on
both sides, followed by a sack of the town, was unexpectedly, averted at
the last moment, for whilst Manches was actually advancing with a flag of
truce, the approach of the British fleet was again signalled from the
look-out on the hill now called the Telegrafo. Before the Governor could
be made aware of this piece of news, Colonel Manches, cunningly keeping
his master’s imperious letter in his pocket, told Colonel Lowe that King
Murat was ready to accept the terms of surrender offered. The weather
being propitious, the British fleet would have been able this time to
reach the island, but its nearer approach was prevented by Colonel Lowe
himself, who sent to acquaint the Admiral, much to his chagrin, of the
compact already concluded with the besiegers, a compact which, as Hudson
Lowe himself very properly pointed out, was binding upon the British
Government. On October 26th, three weeks from the date of the first
attack, the English troops embarked for Sicily, and the island was
formally handed over to the French and Neapolitan forces, who held it
undisturbed until the close of the Napoleonic Wars.
[Illustration: A GATEWAY. CAPRI]