THE BARBARITIES OF FERDINAND OF ARAGON
WITH CERTAIN OTHER SUBJECTS WHICH PRESENT THEMSELVES IN STROLLING
ROUND THE CITY
It is not possible to stroll along the sea-front much further than the
Castle of the Enchanted Egg, because the inclosures of the arsenal
occupy the foreshore. Thus the only course open is to turn inland,
and, retracing one's steps a little, to pass up beneath the shadow of
the great cliff of the Pizzofalcone into the Strada Santa Lucia, which
has always borne the fame of exhibiting at a glance more of the highly
coloured, if uncleanly, life of the poorer Neapolitans than any other
district of the city. I suspect its proximity to the hotels had
something to do with this high reputation, for crowded as the winding
roadway is at times with fishermen and peasant women, there is, I
maintain, incomparably more of uncivilised and ancient Naples to be
seen in the Strada de' Tribunali, or around Castel Capuano, than is
now presented to the eyes of the astonished visitor in Santa Lucia.
However, the wide pavement on the side of that highway which opens
towards the sea--for the famous creek is filled up now--is at all
times a standing-place for booths, chiefly for the sale of the "frutti
del mare," edible or not; and there one may see both young girls and
ancient hags proffering their wares with clamorous pertinacity, making
use of a vocabulary which is piquant, if not sweet, and soaring up
into howls such as only a Neapolitan throat can execute.
The charm of Santa Lucia is largely of the past. Naples is suffering a
change; and at this point one realises for the first time that the old
city of dirt and laughter is being swept and garnished. The "piano di
risanamento," that much-needed scheme of resanitation which was
conceived in Naples after the dread outbreak of cholera had scourged
the narrow alleys in a way to make the most careless people
think--that great conception of broad streets to be driven through the
crowded quarters, letting the sweet and healing sea air course to and
fro between the houses, has brought health and may bring cleanliness,
but it seems to be expelling gaiety and picturesqueness with the
mephitic vapours which have wrought such woe. Naples may be an idle
city still, but it is not so idle. It is disorderly and not too safe,
yet is more reputable than it was. The rake is contemplating better
things, and by-and-by may actually achieve them--an anticipation over
which good men must rejoice. But visitors who come to play may lament
the increase of seriousness and the vanishing faith that life begins
and ends with laughter.
A traveller approaching Naples from this side must needs be struck by
the narrowness of the close alleys which pierce the houses of Santa
Lucia. Standing in the middle of any one of these vicoli, a man might
almost touch both house-fronts, while the walls tower up so high on
either hand that only a mere strip of sky is visible, and that with
effort. No breeze but one which blew directly on the mouth of these
alleys could reach the windows of the dense population which inhabits
them. Disease stalks unimpeded, beyond the power of science to
restrain. The reason for building these lines of houses so close
together was, of course, to secure shade, that priceless blessing
throughout the burning dog days in southern Italy. No man can have
strolled about Italian towns even in fine spring weather without
feeling grateful for the shadows which fall on him from some
overhanging house-front. Under shelter from the sun the very smells
seem less; and in August scarce any price in health may appear too
high to pay for a patch of shade which lasts throughout the day.
The curved roadway of Santa Lucia mounts the hill on which the kings
of Anjou, having resolved to take up their residence in Naples rather
than in Palermo, which was the former capital of the Two Sicilies,
built their new castle--Castel Nuovo--still a fortress, though
untenable in modern war. This eminence lay outside the city then.
Centuries later the town had not absorbed it, and the castle on the
knoll remained surrounded by vineyards and the palaces of those
princes of the blood who were entitled to dwell in the immediate
neighbourhood of the King. Eastwards lay the city, much as one may see
it now, filling the hollow of the coast and stretching some way up a
hill.
The royal palace, which stands now upon the right, hiding the front of
the Castel Nuovo, is of course a modern building. It has no beauty,
and I have naught to say concerning it. The handsome piazza laid out
before the palace is a pleasant place to stroll in, especially on warm
evenings when the lights are glittering and there is music at
Gambrinus' Cafe at the corner. But it has no special interest, and I
go on therefore round the corner of the piazza past the halting-place
of tramcars, past the little garden of the palace and the colonnade of
the San Carlo Theatre, till I reach the Piazza del Municipio, where a
gateway in the long wall admits to the castle precinct. Admission is
free. The sentry at the gate merely nods when I declare my business to
be curiosity and nothing more, and leaves me to stroll unchecked up
the ascending causeway till I enter the quadrangle of the castle,
where a squad of soldiers are drilling awkwardly.
It is strange that many visitors to Naples omit this castle from the
sights they see. It is well to spend hours and days in the museum and
aquarium, or in wandering from church to church, spoilt as is almost
every one among those sacred buildings by the corrupt taste of the
eighteenth century, which daubed over noble gothic arches with
unmeaning Barocco ornament, and left Naples degraded among Italian
cities by the loss of almost all that was once done nobly within her
walls in stone or marble. But here is the very fount and centre of the
sovereignty of Naples, the home of all its kings since Manfred, the
Palace of Anjou and Aragon. In these walls their secrets were
deposited, and some to this day remain open to the curious. Here was
the chief theatre of their pomp, and here, on the knoll above the
shore among the olive groves and orchards that fringed the city walls,
unnumbered tragedies occurred.
The castle has two courtyards. The portal leading from the outer to
the inner is dignified by what is probably the finest piece of
building now left in Naples, the triumphal arch erected by Alfonso of
Aragon--first of the two kings who bore that name--to celebrate his
conquest of the city and the downfall of the last adherents of the
old House of Anjou. "Pious, merciful, unconquered": such were the
terms in which his character was described upon the arch beneath which
he rode in and out in triumph. Mercy was an attribute uncommon in his
family; of that all men can judge unto this day. Piety is estimated
differently from age to age. In monarchs, at least of mediaeval times,
it was a virtue of outward observance, and in this Alfonso did perhaps
excel. As for the third merit which he claimed, it is not on record
that anyone tried to conquer him, except the barons of the kingdom,
who were suppressed with a ruthless cruelty which forecast the tyranny
of his son and grandson, who wrought the deed of terror in the Church
of San Lionardo on the Chiaia.
The archway is chiefly the work of Pietro di Martino of Milan, though
it is said that Giuliano da Majano also laboured on it, if not others
also. It possesses a noble pair of bronze doors of even greater
interest than the archway; for not only is their workmanship extremely
fine, but also the figures possess the interest of portraiture. The
scenes depicted are the triumphs of King Ferdinand, second of the five
monarchs of Aragon, over his revolting barons. There is Ferdinand upon
his war-horse talking to the Duke of Taranto, his thin, cruel face
recognisable at a glance by the high nose which he derived from his
father, King Alfonso, builder of the arch. In the medallions of the
door the same sharp face appears; while his son, afterwards Alfonso
the Second, bears a shorter, thicker face, which is suggestive, though
very falsely, of more kindness.
Let us go into the castle and see what remains there to explain the
reputation of inhuman cruelty which history has conferred on these
kings. A small boy armed with keys is already hovering about
expectant; and though it is his purpose to show only the Chapel of
Santa Barbara, the slightest hint of a desire to see the subterranean
chamber will cause him to lead you through the sacristy, where he will
produce a couple of candle ends, and throw open a small doorway hidden
in the wall. A winding stair of perhaps twenty steps conducts to a
little chamber, faintly lighted by a deep-set window. At first the
room seems empty, but as one's eyes adjust themselves to the dim light
four coffins become visible, each lying on a shelf, two open and two
closed.
Surely, one thinks, this must be a place of private sepulture for the
Royal Family or for their servants, and the stair giving access from
the chapel was built for the convenience of mourners who wished to
stand beside their dead. But the boy, with a chuckle of amusement,
lifts the lid of one of the closed coffins. Within lies the mummy of a
man, fearfully distorted by his agony, his cramped hands clutched
desperately, as if fighting with all his strength against those who
held him down. His mouth is contorted, his whole body heaving with a
last struggle for life and breath. The man was strangled, there can be
no doubt of it; and there he lies to this hour, fully clothed in the
garments which he wore when he came down that little winding stair,
hose, buttons, and doublet still intact.
Each of the other coffins contains the body of a man slain in his
clothes, the head separated, and lying by the shoulders.
Who were these men, and how has it happened that they lie here all
together? What made mummies of them, and with what object were their
bodies preserved? The answer must be sought in history. The _Diario
Ferrarese_, printed by Muratori, tells us that "it was the constant
habit of King Ferdinand and King Alfonso, when their enemies, whether
barons or people, had fallen into their hands, to cut off their heads
and keep them salted in chambers underneath their palace." Not content
with having dismissed the spirits of their foes to another world,
these kingly Aragons must needs have, close by the scene of their
continual sports and labours, so many secret pleasure chambers into
which they could withdraw at leisure moments and gaze in rapture on
the very features of the enemy whose turbulence was stilled and whose
wits would never be turned against his king again. Doubtless these
visits renewed the joy of killing!
So in this chamber where King Alfonso or his father stood and gloated,
one may stand to-day and look down on the same bodies still unmoved--a
strange step back into the Middle Ages, and a more revealing glimpse
than any other known to me of what Naples was in old days, when its
kings--yes, even the best of them!--were tigers, and the seeds were
sown of that contempt for life which is to this hour a chief
difficulty of those who govern Naples. Who were these men? Surely, one
thinks, their rank and importance must be measured by the care with
which the King bestowed their bodies in such close neighbourhood to
the royal chapel and to his own apartments!
Probably we shall not miss the truth by very much if we conclude them
to be some among those barons of the kingdom who, incensed by the
harsh government of Ferdinand, and furious beyond all measure with his
more hateful son, gave rein to their old affection for the House of
Anjou, and conspired with the Pope to confer the realm on a prince of
that royal house. It seems strange that even under the afflictions of
the Aragon sovereignty men should have looked back on the days of
Anjou with affection. But the fact is that Alfonso, Duke of Calabria,
whose power as the eldest son of the aged King grew stronger daily,
was such a ruler as must needs rouse regrets for other days even in a
patient generation, much more in one so proud and turbulent as the
Neapolitans. Harshness and cruelty they understood; but Alfonso did
what no nation will endure. He took the women, even of the noblest
houses, at his will. Of this came unquenchable hatred, and in the end
the ruin of his house.
The conspiracy was a terrible one. Half the great officers of the
kingdom were involved in it, and King Ferdinand knew not where to look
for loyalty. The Prince of Salerno, Lord High Admiral of the realm,
and the Prince of Bisignano were among the leaders--members both of
that great family of San Severino, whose palace is known to every
visitor as the Church of the Gesu Nuovo. The Grand Constable, the
Grand Seneschal, the King's Secretary--there was no end to the men of
note and consequence who joined in the appeal to the Pope to dethrone
the tyrants of the House of Aragon, and give the kingdom to Rene of
Lorraine, last descendant of the ancient kings.
Ferdinand was a prince whose sagacity is extolled by all men. He was
wise as is the serpent. His statesmanship was of the type made widely
known twenty years later by Caesar Borgia, and in this emergency he
practised the same arts as enabled that accomplished dissimulator to
strangle his four chief enemies at once. The two occasions deserve
close study from those who would understand the statecraft of the
fifteenth century. Each was indeed a masterpiece of that art which
Machiavelli calls "virtu," and it is difficult to decide where to
award the palm.
Ferdinand negotiated. It was indeed his only course, for time must be
gained at any cost. This was in the regular routine of kings in
difficulty. De Comines, in a memorable passage, explains how useful it
is to send ambassadors to meet one's enemies; they see so much even
while they are treating. Ferdinand negotiated with such skill, such
open frankness and goodwill, showed such a broad and merciful spirit,
and was so ready to forgive, that the conspirators, who had waited in
vain for their new king, accepted the accord and returned sullenly to
their castles, doubting and fearing sorely.
"Let no man think that present kindnesses lead to the forgetting of
past injuries," says Machiavelli, laying bare the roots of human
nature in his incisive way. To do them justice, the barons supposed no
such thing. The Prince of Salerno was missing one fine morning. On the
gateway of his palace was a card, on which were inscribed the mystic
words--"Passero vecchio non entra in caggiola" (An old sparrow does
not go into the cage). He is said to have got out of the city
disguised as a muleteer. Other sparrows were less prudent or more
unfortunate. The cage doors were wide open, and the King and Duke sat
piping so prettily that any bird might have thought it safe to flutter
in. Towards the Count of Sarno Ferdinand showed particular affection.
His son Marco Coppola was betrothed to the daughter of the Duke of
Amalfi, the King's nephew. The wedding was at hand. It must be held in
the Royal Palace, in Castel Nuovo, if only to mark the royal favour.
There were great festivities. The pomp of the Court was boundless. But
the wedding garments which the King was preparing were not of this
world. Midway in the feastings and the music, when all men were
confident and careless, the stroke fell. How, one wonders, did
Ferdinand and Alfonso look at that moment when, sitting at the head of
the tables, gazing down upon their guests, bridegroom and bride and
relatives trusting in the royal honour, they gave the signal and
called in the soldiers who turned that feast to terror? How did the
guests look when the guard went round arresting every man of mark or
consequence within the hall? Surely since Belshazzar was King in
Babylon no feast has been broken up more awfully!
The craft and treachery of this great stroke fixed once for all the
reputation of Ferdinand and Alfonso. The nice taste of Renaissance
Italy revolted, giving voice to loud condemnation. King and Prince,
surprised at the outcry, paused, and held back the secret executioner.
It would be safer to have a show of justice; so a court was nominated,
the prisoners were tried, and when they had been despatched from the
world in this unexceptionable manner, one by one the other dukes and
barons were caught and led into the secret pleasure chambers, whence
they never more emerged. The Prince of Bisignano, the Duke of Melfi,
the Duke of Nardo, counts and knights innumerable disappeared. Their
children and their wives were treated in like manner. Few escaped; but
for many a day Neapolitans told the tale how Bandella Gaetano,
Princess of Bisignano, a woman of high courage and resource, fled with
her young children to the Church of San Lionardo in the Chiaia; and
there, profiting by the old fame of the saint as the guardian of
fugitives, bribed a boatman to take her on to Terracina, and so sought
refuge with the Colonnas. Ferdinand would have given much to stamp
out the brood; and had he been able to turn the pages of the book of
fate he would have given even more.
What happened to the prisoners was never known. For some time the
fiction was kept up that they were alive, and food was even sent daily
to their cells, set down perhaps beside the salted bodies in mockery.
But the executioner was seen wearing a gold chain which had belonged
to the Prince of Bisignano; and ere long it was known that every one
was dead.
There is no doubt that in these awful days the Church of San Lionardo
was filled with fugitives. It was there that Alfonso wrought that
nameless deed of terror which dwelt so heavily upon his conscience as
to destroy his nerves and send him fleeing from the kingdom. We have
seen what things his conscience would endure; perhaps it is as well we
remain in ignorance of what it would not. But if we argue from the
known to the unknown we may form a surmise of the nature of that act
which is enough to banish sleep, and may well make us grateful that
the walls of that old sanctuary which concealed so terrible a secret
stand no longer on the smiling shore which is the chosen parade of
Neapolitan society of our own day.
There are two chapels in the castle, one opening from the other; but
both lost whatever beauty they once had by the deplorable passion for
Barocco, which wrought such evil in Naples. Two great beauties still
remain, though not inside the chapels. One is the doorway, a lovely
work of Giuliano da Majano, mercifully left untouched, I know not by
what happy chance; the other is a winding staircase behind the choir,
consisting of a hundred and fifty-eight steps, each formed of a
single block of travertine, and so arranged that their inward edges
form a perfect cylinder. There is no end to the scenes of history and
tragedy which are recalled by these old walls and chambers, in which
the hottest passions of life in Naples have spent themselves so often,
even from the first coming of Charles of Anjou down to the creation of
the Parthenopean Republic, when Nelson received the surrender of the
Revolutionists, driven to despair by the arrival of his fleet. But
these are tales which visitors must find out for themselves. If they
will not go to Castel Nuovo on the inducement which I have given them,
neither will they if I should write a volume.
[Illustration: NAPLES--OLD TOWN]
When I emerge from the old palace fortress I hesitate, being, in
truth, half inclined to turn directly to the Carmine, the strongest
point of interest in Naples. But a man will fail to comprehend the
relation of the Carmine to ancient Naples if he goes to it by the
broad street along the quays which lay outside the mediaeval city. It
is better to plunge into the maze of narrow ways which still, unto
this hour, retain the general aspect of the city wherein Boccaccio
rambled, picking up in I know not what haunt of roysterers those sad
tales which beguile one yet in the pages of the _Decameron_. Who has
not read of the nocturnal adventures of Andreuccio, who came from Pisa
to Naples to buy horses with twenty gold florins in his pocket? Who
would not wish to see the very lanes through which he wandered naked
in the night? Who has not felt the charm of that naive irresponsibility
which pervades the tales of Naples in old days? Does it still exist?
Are the narrow lanes athrob even now on summer nights with the
thrumming of the lute, with the patter of girls' feet, made musical
by wafts of song blown down from lofty windows?
"Flower of the rose,
If I've been merry, what matter who knows?"
Well, let us go and see; and first we will turn up the Toledo, now
rechristened "Via Roma," that long straight street which the Viceroy
Don Pietro di Toledo made without the city wall, and which is still
the chief artery of life and fashion.
The narrow vista, made picturesque by hanging balconies and green
shutters, is bathed in sunshine--not the fierce glare which even in
early summer brings out the awnings used to convert the footways into
shaded corridors, but the pleasant golden glow of an April Eastertide,
carrying with it the reek of violets and early roses. It is no wonder
that the street is odorous of flowers; for at any corner a few soldi
will buy them by the handful, fresh and dewy, redolent of summer,
though indeed summer never flees far from this sunny coast, and even
in midwinter she will slip back for a while, bringing golden days. It
is on the stroke of noon, noon of Holy Thursday, and in another hour
the roadway will be closed to vehicles. For on this day, by custom old
enough to be respectable, the Neapolitans go on foot to visit the
sepulchres of Christ in the churches, combining this exercise of
devotion with the more worldly solaces of friendship and social
intercourse. There was a time when princesses came down and mingled
with the throng, the royal ladies of the House of Bourbon going to and
fro on foot; while the rustling of their long dresses of black silk
gave the ceremony its picturesque title of "Lu Struscio." There being
no princesses in Naples now, the old ceremony has lost some of its
attractions for the nobly born; but it is still honoured, and already
the carriages are growing thin, while in every part of the long street
men armed with long brooms are reducing the whole width to the same
state of cleanliness as the footpaths. With the disappearance of the
vetturino a blessed peace steals down upon the air. This is, I should
suppose, the one day in the year on which a man can hear himself speak
in the Via Roma. But Naples, passionate for noise, is never long
without it. Fast as the vetturini go the hawkers come, hoarse and
raucous; men with strings of chestnuts, boys holding tiny Java
sparrows on their finger-tips, women thrusting at you trays of
"pastiere," without which no good citizen of Naples would dream of
passing Easter, any more than he would go through Christmas without
"capitoni." It is rarely wise to apply to local delicacies any other
test than that of sight. The women push past me with their trays,
knowing well that their market does not lie among the strangers.
Meantime the Via Santa Brigida, which crosses the Via Roma, has broken
out into a jungle of standing booths, on which are displayed proudly
cheap playthings for the children, sweetmeats and other paschal joys,
mingled with combs, shirtings, and suchlike useful articles, to which
attention is drawn by huge placards.
OCCASIONE!
FERMATEVI! TASTATE! GIUDICATE!
while the seething crowd which hustles round the stalls is animated by
any but a feeling of devotion.
So the throng gathers, till by-and-by the Via Roma is a sea of moving
heads. The church doors stand wide open, of itself an unusual sight in
Naples, where the churches are closed at noon, and reopen only for an
hour in the evening. Their doorways are curtained heavily in black,
and beneath the hanging folds a ceaseless stream of people are passing
in and out, pressing forward to where the recumbent figure of our Lord
lies at the foot of a blazing trophy of flowers and wax lights,
kissing the contorted limbs fervently, then hurrying away. A large
proportion of these devotees are dressed in black, especially the
older women, but among them are many who seem more anxious to display
their bright spring toilettes, and the crowded street assumes the
aspect of a drawing-room, in which greetings and laughing salutations
fly freely on all hands. It is all picturesque enough, and a relic of
old life in Naples which is worth seeing.
In the absence of the usual street noises, in the solemn trappings of
the churches, and yet more in the tramp of crowds so largely clad in
mourning, there is not wanting a suggestion of funeral pomp; and as I
stand apart and watch the throng go by, there comes into my mind the
memory of a solemn procession which once came down this famous
highway, bearing to the grave the body of a lad whom the city, by the
strangest freak, had raised in one day from the lowest to the highest
station, and cast down as suddenly into a bloody grave, one who had
enough heroism in his ignorant mind to resent oppression, and
might--who knows?--have proved an earlier Garibaldi, had he been
supported by the nobles. It was Mas'aniello who was thus borne dead
down the slope of the Toledo, honoured by the weeping people who were
little likely to find another leader bold enough to head them,
honoured even by the Church, which rarely refuses outward show of
honour to the men she has destroyed. First came a hundred boys of the
conservatorio of Loreto, then all the brothers of the monasteries, to
the number of four hundred, and then the body of the fisherman
dictator, wrapped in a white shroud folded so that all might see the
head--I hope it had not that hideous look of death and anguish from
which one shrinks on seeing the wooden model in the museum of San
Martino! After the bier walked great crowds of Mas'aniello's
followers, those ragamuffin soldiers who but a few days earlier had
stormed down this street in triumph, sacking and destroying where they
pleased. Now they walked mournfully and slow, as well they might, for
liberty lay upon the bier they followed, and the Spanish tyranny was
about to close over them again. Behind them trailed their flags, and
they marched to the soft beat of muted drums all hung with crape. But
last of all came those who made this great procession memorable beyond
all others. The soldiers were followed by a countless throng of women
of the people. Out of every lane and alley of the swarming city they
had come to bid farewell to their defender, to the one man who in many
generations had dared to show them that they were not worms. Many of
them carried lighted candles, weeping bitterly as they went slowly by;
while others sang in tearful voices the "Santissimo Rosario," in trust
that the brave soul of the departed might find peace.
[Illustration: BAY OF NAPLES FROM SAN MARTINO]
So through this outskirt of the city the funeral train of Mas'aniello
came from the Carmine and went back to that centre of the life and
tragedy of Naples. We too will go there presently, and then will talk
the more about Mas'aniello. But first we must walk through the ancient
city, and that is now quite close at hand. I have traversed almost
half the length of the Toledo--the ancient name comes more readily
than the modern--passing by the little Largo della Carita, where in
the shadow of the tramcars green bays hang around the tablet that
protests against forgetfulness of Felice Cavallotti. I am in sight of
the Piazza Dante, and a little more would show me the red walls of the
museum, when I halt beneath the vast and heavy front of the Palazzo
Maddaloni, and turning round into the shadow of the Strada Quercia, I
see the fine courtyard and loggia of the palace, eloquent of pomps and
ceremonies which find no match in the Naples of to-day. Some hundred
and fifty yards beyond the palace the old line of the city walls
crossed the street at right angles. There is not a sign of walls or
towers now. The ancient quadrangle of streets and alleys, the old
Greek city which held out so stoutly generation after generation when
besieged by Lombard or Imperialist, lies open now to strangers of
every nation. On entering its precinct one appears to have found a new
world, albeit an unsavoury one. For here, in place of the irregular
and curved vistas in which the builders of modern Naples have
delighted, is a long narrow street of exceeding straightness, cleaving
like an arrow-flight through the close-packed houses. Irresistibly it
brings to mind the long straight streets of Pompeii, so far as a
thoroughfare seething with crowded life can recall one which lies
silent and open under the winds of heaven. It is a just comparison;
for indeed Pompeii still retains the very aspect which Naples must
have borne. In size, in manner of construction, in defences, the two
towns were closely similar, and this long street which under several
names pierces the ancient city from side to side, was one of the three
Decuman ways which every visitor to the buried city traces out and
follows. A little higher up the hill is the Decumanus Major, now
called the Strada de' Tribunali, and still by far the most interesting
street in Naples, while higher yet upon the slope the third of the
Decuman streets runs parallel to the other two under the name of
Strada Anticaglia, and in it stood the ancient theatre, some remnants
of which still exist between the Vico di S. Paolo and the Vico de'
Giganti. These three Decuman streets are the arteries of ancient
Naples. In them, and in the countless alleys which unite them, are to
be found almost all the relics of the mediaeval city; and indeed a man
wandering about beneath those unmodernised house-fronts, elbowing his
way through crowds of ragged peasants and of burly priests, might well
doubt in what century he found himself, so unlike the scene is to the
trim world which he has known elsewhere.
But these are quarters in which it is not prudent to wander when the
night is falling. Naples is not a safe city, and travellers would do
wisely to realise the fact. Even in broad daylight caution and good
sense are needed more than in most other cities. Ladies will show it
by removing from their dress all ornaments of the slightest value, and
men by refusing absolutely all inducements to enter houses, whether
offered by small boys professing to find sacristans--a not uncommon
trick--or by any other person not known and vouched for. After dark,
if a man must walk alone, he should walk carefully on the light side
of the street and restrain any curiosity he may feel to see the effect
of moonlight on the houses until he can watch it safely from his own
window. These are not unnecessary cautions. Neapolitans themselves do
not neglect them, though strangers do; and many have found cause to
regret it. I myself, while walking with a lady in the immediate
neighbourhood of the cathedral, have seen her caught by the waist by a
burly brute and shaken as a terrier shakes a rat in the effort to
unclasp a handsome silver buckle which she wore. The rascal failed,
and was gone again before he could be seized. But the experience is
one which few men would desire their wives or sisters to undergo.
Complaint is useless. It is even doubtful whether, in a city where
almost every robber has a knife, worse things may not happen to those
who meet such attacks in the customary English manner. But the remedy
is simple. Carry nothing which is of any obvious value. Avoid
unnecessary conversation with poor boys, who are not safe guides. Go
home while it is still light. With these plain rules men and women
equally may explore the recesses of old Naples with pleasure and with
almost perfect safety.
It is out of these teeming quarters, packed with a population as dense
and fetid as that of Seven Dials, that the Camorra, the great secret
society of Naples, drew the strength and vigour which enables it still
to defy the law. There would be no exaggeration in saying that hardly
a full generation has passed by since in all the lower quarters of the
city the Camorra ruled with an audacity so high that there was neither
man nor woman, boy nor girl, who did not know he must obey it rather
than the law. The law was blind and deaf. The Camorra had eyes and
ears in every vicolo and every cellar. It discovered all things; it
struck heavily and secretly at those who tried to thwart it. A
fruitseller who resisted payment of dues to the Camorrist would find
his custom disappear. Accident upon accident would happen to his
goods. Ere long he would be a ruined man. The Camorra might accept his
submission, if proffered humbly and accompanied by a fine; but any
active resistance, any communication with the police, would be repaid
by a knife-thrust in the stomach some dark night. Fishermen, street
hawkers, vetturini, guides--all were under the thrall of the ruthless
organisation, all paid tribute in return for its protection, and
executed its orders without remorse.
So far as is known to outsiders, the aims of the Camorra--which still
exists, and wields considerable power yet--were not mainly political,
though it was certainly at one time a powerful engine in the hands of
those who desired the return of the Bourbons. That desire, once
passionate in Naples, has almost died away. Francis the Second is
dead, and there is none who can breathe life into the dry bones of his
party. If the devotion to the old Royal House exists, it is kept alive
by the exertions of the priests, who would make a hero of Apollyon if
he came down on earth and showed a disposition to unseat the present
king. The lower orders are still as clerical as in the days of
Mas'aniello. Turbulent and fierce as are their passions, they are
capable of high devotion; and a spiritual ruler who exerted the whole
influence of the Church might turn them into a great people. But here
too, as at every turn in Italy, the task of government is checked and
hampered by the hostility of Church and Crown. No foreigner can
appreciate the chances of this struggle, or even apportion fairly
blame between the combatants. It is enough for those of us who love
Italy to sit and watch the unrolling of the future, lamenting that
from the outset of her career as a united nation she has been
wrestling with a Church whose traditions lie in the humbling of
emperors and kings.