CAPRI
It is a common observation among those who visit Capri that the first
close view of the island is disappointing. The distant lights and
colours are all gone. The cliffs look barren. The island has a stony
aspect, inaccessible and wild. The steamer coming from Sorrento
reaches first the cliff of the Salto, concerning which I shall have
more to say hereafter, and only when that tremendous precipice has
been rounded does one see the saddle of the island, a neck of land
which unites the two mountain peaks so long watched from the mainland,
a continuous garden, at the head of which stands the town of Capri,
while the Marina is at its foot.
It must be admitted that the landing-place of Capri is on the way to
lose its quaintness, and is even in some danger of taking on the
aspect of an excursionists' tea-garden. Hotels and restaurants spring
up on every side, and a broad, winding road has been carried in long
convolutions from the sea up to the town. Capri is striving hard to
provide conveniences for her visitors, and no longer conducts them up
the hill by the ancient staircase, which was good enough for friends
and enemies alike in all ages till our own, and is still so broad and
easy that a donkey can go up it with less distress than it will
experience on the hot and dusty road. However, the staircase is still
there, and as it is my odd whim to care nothing for the nice new road,
but to prefer entering Capri by the old front door, I consign my
luggage to the strapping, stout-armed sirens who pounced upon it as
soon as the landing-boat touched shore, and go up the cool and shadowy
steps between walls of ivy and deep-rooted creepers, over which the
budding vines project their tendrils, and blossoming fruit trees send
a drift of petals falling on the stair. From time to time I cross the
noisy road, and go on in peace again with greater thankfulness, till,
after some twenty minutes' climb, I emerge beneath an old vaulted
gateway, from the summit of which defence unnumbered generations of
Capriotes must have parleyed with their enemies, fierce Algerines,
followers of Dragut or of Barbarossa, merciless sea-wolves who
descended on this luckless island again and again, attracted, no
doubt, by its proximity to the wealthy cities of the mainland and the
streams of commerce which were ever going by its shores.
The gate is flung wide open now, and the group of women sitting in its
shadow eye the coming stranger with a friendly smile. I step out of
the archway on to the Piazza, the prettiest and tiniest of squares,
bordered with shops on two sides. On the third side stand the
cathedral and the post office, while the fourth is occupied by a wall
breast high, over which one may look out across the fertile slopes
bounded by the huge cliffs of Monte Solaro all burning in the midday
sun.
From the Piazza two or three arched openings give access to narrow,
shady lanes. One of these is the main street of the town, and meanders
down the opposite side of the saddle, passing Pagano's Hotel and the
"Quisisana," whereof the former is as old as the fame of the island
among tourists; for they, although the great interest and beauty of
Capri were well known, came here rarely before the discovery of the
Blue Grotto caught the fancy of all Europe. I shall not go to see that
marvel of the world to-day, for the hour of its greatest beauty is
past already; and I will therefore spend the hours of heat in setting
down how the grotto was recalled to memory some seventy years ago by
August Kopisch. The story is sold everywhere in Capri, but as it
happens to be written in German, hardly any English visitors take the
trouble to look at it.
There can be no doubt that when Kopisch landed in Capri during the
summer of 1826 the blue grotto was practically unknown. There are, it
is true, one or two vague passages in the writings of early
topographers--Capaccio, Parrino--which appear to be based upon some
knowledge of it; and it is said that in 1822 a fisherman of Capri had
dared to enter the low archway. If so, he kept his knowledge to
himself; for when Kopisch landed, and went up the old staircase to
Pagano's Hotel--a humble hostelry it was in those days!--he knew
nothing of the grotto, and his host, though very ready to talk about
the wonders of the island, required some pressing before he would
explain the hints he dropped of an enchanted cave below the tower of
Damecuta, a place which boatmen were afraid to visit in broad day, and
which they believed to be the habitation of the devil. "But I," went
on Pagano, "do not believe that. Many times, when I was a lad, I
begged friends of mine, who were strong swimmers, to swim into the
cavern with me, but in vain; the fear of the devil was too strong in
them! But listen! I once learned from a very aged fisher that two
hundred years ago a priest swam with one of his colleagues a little
way into the cave, but turned and came out at once in a terrible
fright; the legend says that the priests found the entrance widen out
into a vast temple, with high altar, set round with statues of the
gods."
Pagano's story fell on the enthusiastic fancy of the young German
artist like flint on steel, and the Capriote, catching his guest's
excitement, went on to say that he himself believed the tower of
Damecuta to be a relic of one of the palaces built by the Emperor
Tiberius, who constructed no pleasure-house without a secret exit.
Might not the hidden way go through the grotto? And if so, what
strange things might they not find if they dared explore it! Perhaps a
temple of Nereus, the shrine of some sea deity, left unworshipped and
forgotten through all the ages since the Roman Empire fell!
Both men had heart for the adventure, undismayed by prophecies of
mischief from devils, mermen, or sea monsters, though quaking secretly
at the recollection of the sharks, which, however, rarely come close
into shore. Wondrous tales were told them of things seen near the
fabled grotto. Sometimes the frightened fishers had watched the glow
of fire from within trembling on the waves. Beasts like crocodiles
were seen to look in and out; seven times a day the entrance changed
its shape and windings; at night the Sirens sang there among dead
men's bones; the screams of little children in agony rang often round
the rocks, and it was no uncommon thing for young fishermen to
disappear in the neighbourhood of the ill-famed cavern. Many an
instance could be quoted, and one tale in particular was brought up to
show how mad they were who loitered on that sea. A fisherman went out
to spear fish near the grotto. It was a lovely morning, and he could
distinguish the shellfish creeping on the bottom, though the water
was ten fathoms deep. Suddenly he saw all the fish scurry away into
hiding, and just underneath his boat came swimming in concentric
circles a vast sea monster, rising at each turn nearer and nearer to
the surface. The fisher was uneasy, but instead of calling on the
Madonna as a Christian would, he trusted in his own strength, and
hurled his spear at the monster in the devil's name. He saw it strike
the creature's neck, but from the wound there came such a gush of
blood as clouded all the water so that he could see nothing. He
thought joyfully that he had killed the fish; but the thong of his
spear hung slack, and when he pulled it in the point of the harpoon
was gone--not broken off, but fused, as if it had been thrust into a
furnace!
The poor fisherman, terrified to death, dropped the spear and seized
his oars, longing only to get away from that accursed place. But row
as he might he could not progress. His boat went round in circles, as
the sea monster had swum, and finally stood still as if anchored,
while out of the reddened water rose a bloodstained man, with the
spear sticking in his breast, and threatened the fisher with his fist.
The poor man sank down fainting, and when he came to life again he was
being tended by his friends at the Marina of Capri. For three days he
was dumb. When he could speak and tell what had befallen him he began
to shrivel up. First his right hand withered, then his arms and legs,
till finally, when he died, he had lost the aspect of a man, and was
like nothing but a bundle of dried herbs in an apothecary's shop.
Such were the tales with which the Capriotes sought to dissuade
Kopisch from paying heed to the suggestions of Pagano, but in vain.
Early in the morning the party started, having with them Angelo
Ferraro, a boatman, with a second boat in which they had packed a
small stove, with all the materials necessary for kindling a fire.
When they came to the low entrance of the cave not one of them was
quite at ease, and Kopisch, who was in the water first, begged Angelo,
the boatman, for a fresh assurance that sharks never came between the
rocks. Angelo was labouring to kindle his fire, and gave a hasty
confident reply, which provoked the German to the natural reflection,
"It's all very well for him to be sure. His legs are in the boat!"
But when the resinous wood shavings caught and blazed up brightly all
fear was gone. Angelo pulled in under the low archway, pushing the
smaller boat with the lighted stove before him. Close behind came
Kopisch, Pagano, and a second German traveller, half blinded by the
smoke which blew back in their faces, and full of natural excitement
and anxiety concerning what might befall them in this bold quest. For
a time they could see nothing save a dim, high vault; but when Kopisch
turned to look for his companions he, first of all men of our age and
knowledge, saw that sight which for absolute beauty and wonder has no
superior in all the world.
"What a panic seized me," he says himself, "when I saw the water under
me like blue flames of burning spirits of wine! I leapt upwards, for,
half blinded as I was by the fire in the boat, I thought first of a
volcanic eruption. But when I felt the water cold I looked up at the
roof, thinking the blue light must come from above. But the roof was
closed.... The water was wonderful, and when the waves were still, it
seemed as if I were swimming in the invisible blue sky...."
I have told this adventure at some length because, in mere justice,
Kopisch and Pagano ought not to be forgotten by the crowds of pleasure
seekers who visit Capri, and for whom, however much or little they
may take pleasure in the other immense beauties of the island, the
Blue Grotto still remains the chief delight. It may not be necessary
to claim for Kopisch that he was indeed first of all men to see its
marvellous beauty; nor even that, but for his bold adventure, its low
gateway would have remained closed to all the world. Discoveries such
as this are made at their appointed time, and Kopisch may perhaps have
had precursors. But it remains true that his audacity first threw wide
the gate for us; and for my part I acknowledge gladly a deep debt of
gratitude.
No wise man goes to the Blue Grotto from the steamer by which he
travels from Naples or Sorrento. When one has crossed the ocean, and
journeyed thousands of miles, to see a sight so wonderful, why should
one be content to hurry round it in the few minutes given by a boatman
eager for other fares? There is but one way to see the Blue Grotto,
and that is by hiring a boat at the Marina on a still, sunny morning,
bargaining carefully that there shall be no compulsion to leave before
one wishes. Then as the boatman rows on slowly beneath the luxuriant
vineyards and the green slopes of the saddle of the island, he will
point out the baths of the Emperor Tiberius, low down by the shore,
indeed, partly covered by the clear green water, and will go on to
talk of the strange life led by the imperial recluse, who studded the
island with palaces and left it teeming with unsolved mysteries.
Twelve villas he built, so says Tacitus, upon this narrow space, and
in these solitary palaces by cliff and shore he lived a life of
nameless tyranny and wickedness. Who can tell the uses of the strange
masses of broken masonry which one finds in climbing up and down the
lonely cliff paths? With what object did he build tower and arched
vault in spots where only sea-birds could have the fancy for
alighting? What secret chambers may not still be hidden in these
ruins! What passages leading deep into caverns of the hillside! What
mysteries! What treasures for those who have the heart and courage of
the German artist! Such are the suggestions of the brown-faced boatman
bending towards me across his oars, while in a hushed whisper he
points out now one and now another chasm of the limestone which gives
access, so he tells me, to a cavern of unmeasured size. And still, as
he talks eagerly and low, the sheer cliff rises higher and darker
overhead; for the saddle of the island is long past, the towering
precipices of Monte Solaro are above me, and high up on some eyrie
which the sight straining from the water cannot reach is the white
mountain town of Anacapri.
Presently the coast-line sinks to a more moderate height. The tower of
Damecuta is seen ahead, and below it a stair, cut in the face of the
rock, leads down to a low arched opening, through which the blue sea
is washing in and out. A couple of women in gay dresses are sitting in
the shade upon the stair. A few boats are rocking on the blue water,
strangely, intensely blue, even in the morning shadow which the cliffs
fling out across the sea. It was not the rich, royal colour which one
may see about the shores of western England, nor yet the exquisite
soft turquoise which glows by all the bays and headlands of this
coast, but a darker and more watery blue, verging on indigo rather
than on any other single colour.
The boat approached the opening. The boatman, warning me to lie flat
in the stern, shipped his oars, grasped a chain which was fastened to
the rock, and, at the lowest point of the wet, winding entrance,
flung himself backward on my body, while the boat shot into what for
an instant seemed a moonlit darkness. But on struggling up erect I
became conscious of a strange, milky radiance, which grew and
brightened as the sight adjusted itself, until I saw that the waves
washing round the boat were of a silvery blue, which is like nothing
else, lambent, incandescent, flashing with the softest glow
imaginable. One thinks of the shimmering flashes in the heart of an
opal, of the flame of phosphorus, of the most delicate colour on a
blue bird's throat--there is no similitude for that which has no
match, nothing else upon the earth which is not gross when set beside
these waves of purest light, impalpable, unsubstantial, and radiantly
clear. "Che colore?" I asked in wonder; and the boatman, no less awed
by the strange beauty, answered very low, "Il cielo," and sat silent,
stirring his oar gently, so as to make spouts of light among the blue
reflections.
The roof of the Blue Grotto, low-spreading near the entrance, rises at
the centre into a domed vault. It is not dark--nowhere in the grotto is
it dark--it is neither light nor dark, but blue; blue pervades the
air, and plays about the crannies of the roof like flame, far paler
than the sea, yet quick and living.
Far back in the cave, where the blue shades are deepest, is a shelf of
rock, the only place within the grotto at which one can land. It is
usually occupied by a boy who pesters visitors by offering to dive in
return for as many francs as he can extort. The sight of his body in
the silvery water has excited various writers to high flights of
eloquence, one of them indeed assuring us that here alone we can
realise what we shall look like in heaven, when the grossness of our
bodies has been purged away into the radiance of ethereal light. If
this is so one should rejoice, though on more human grounds I regret
the presence of the boy, whose avarice detracts from the charm of the
grotto. The aspect of his body in the water is less wonderful than he
believes. Moreover, the shelf which he has turned into a bathing board
has a higher interest than any which it derives from him.
For at this spot, and this only, is conclusive evidence that other
eyes, in ages far distant from our own, have beheld this grotto,
though, for reasons to be given presently, it is practically certain
that those eyes saw a different sight. It is easy to discern a squared
opening, like a door or window, in the rock above the ledge. Probably
such visitors as notice it regard this as a modern contrivance to
serve some purpose of the guides; but it is not so. It stands
untouched since Kopisch saw it when he swam in half blinded by the
smoke. When he, first of all men of our age, climbed up on the rock
ledge and peered through the opening he felt confident that he had
found the secret exit from the palace of Tiberius at Damecuta; and
nothing has yet been discovered which disproves the possibility of
this.
The boatmen will have it that the passage goes to Anacapri. Mine was
positive upon the subject, and though constrained to admit that his
conclusion had not been proved, yet did not regard it as open to
discussion. Tradition has a certain value where proof is not
available; and as the passage is blocked at no great distance from the
grotto, it may be long before the boatman's faith is shaken. Kopisch
followed it as far as possible. He describes several corridors
radiating in different directions through the hillside, forming a sort
of labyrinth in which his party almost lost themselves, and in which
they were finally checked by the presence of mephitic vapours.
Now, whatever may be the secret of these passages, it scarcely admits
of doubt that they were designed for an entrance to the grotto from
the island. Capri is so thickly studded with Roman works of the
emperors Augustus and Tiberius, and possesses so few others, that
there is little risk in attributing the construction of this passage
to Roman hands. But what did the Imperial courtiers see, if they did
indeed come down those winding passages and stand on the rock shelf
where the greedy boy now bargains loudly for francs? Was it the same
blue wonder that we see? The answer is certain. The miracle of colour
depends directly on the level of the water, and in Roman days the arch
was far too high to permit the necessary refraction or colouration of
the rays of sunlight.
This is proved in two ways. Firstly, there is unanswerable evidence in
the hands of geologists and naturalists that the level of the sea in
Roman days was many feet lower than at present. Secondly, the fact
that there was more of the archway to be uncovered has been proved by
Colonel MackOwen, who explored it by diving, and who found not only
that the original height of the entrance was six feet and a half, of
which three feet are under water, but also that the base of the
opening is formed by a flat, projecting sill, which appeared to have
been set there by human hands. Moreover, this archway, which is now
the sole entrance to the grotto, is but a poor substitute for a more
ancient and incomparably larger doorway still existing, but now
submerged, and measuring as much as fifty feet by forty feet, which
must have let white sunlight into the cavern as long as it stood above
the water.
There is thus not much reason for supposing that Roman eyes ever
beheld this wonder of the world. Whether seen or not seen by an
occasional bold intruder, this unique marvel lay silent and unvisited
through all the Middle Ages, accounted even by our grandfathers as a
haunt of fiends and a centre of mysterious terrors. It is not easy now
to catch a moment in which the cave is silent. Only early in the
morning one may find its charm completely undisturbed, and carry away
a recollection of unearthly mystery and beauty which will remain a
precious possession throughout life.
There is much in Capri that is unparalleled. If I have set the Blue
Grotto first, that is not because more beauty is found there than
exists elsewhere upon the island. It may be beauty of a rarer kind; I
do not know. All Capri is a gem, and that which one sees from the
island is lovelier still than anything upon its shores.
Only one driving road exists in Capri, yet that one serves the purpose
of a score, so rich is it in a charm that perpetually changes. It
leads to Anacapri, and is cut along the precipices of Monte Solaro,
doing violence to the face of those solitary cliffs on which the
winding staircase offered until recently the only mode of approach.
Here and there one may find a few yards of the stair still clinging to
the front of the abyss, and by its narrow steepness it is possible to
gauge the desperate courage of those Turkish rovers who, coming up
this way, stormed and destroyed the castle overhead. Perhaps, however,
what we should measure by the dangers of the approach is the faint
spirit of the defenders, who could not even keep a path by which every
enemy was under full arrowshot a dozen times while toiling up the
cliff. One ought to visit Anacapri on a clear morning, early,
because the sunshine is then softer; and having seen what is of
interest in that whitewashed hamlet, leaving Monte Solaro for another
day, it is well to loiter down the road on foot--the way is far too
beautiful to drive.
[Illustration: UNLOADING BOATS, BAY OF NAPLES.]
First, in coming down, one's eye is caught by the incomparable
loveliness of the channel that parts the island from the peninsula.
High on the right hand towers the dark headland named "Lo Capo," and
when one has dropped upon the hillside to the point at which the
strait appears about to close, and the height of Capri seems almost to
touch the tower on the Punta di Campanella, just so much of the coast
towards Amalfi has disclosed itself as looks like the shores of
fairyland skirting a magic sea. Behind the green slope of the
Campanella, with its humps close to the water's edge, drops the purple
ridge of the St. Angelo, with an islet at its base, shadowy and having
the colour of an amethyst. Upon the great slopes of St. Angelo one can
see every jag and cleft, while further off lie the blue mountains,
vague, soft, melting imperceptibly into the pale sky. Away beyond
Salerno, where the mountains join the purple sea, a solitary
snow-capped cone towers up radiant and flashing, while as one watches
the changes of the light, now one peak and now another is lit up, and
disappears again under the returning shadow.
But if I turn in the direction of the north, there lies extended the
whole length of the Sorrento peninsula, the little town of
Massalubrense exactly opposite, with the low point of Sorrento jutting
like a tooth, while further off the Punta di Scutola rises out of the
sea, all purple in the warm sun, with the further cliff that hides
Castellammare--Capo d'Orlando the people call it talking still of a
great sea fight that occurred there six hundred years ago, when the
Admiral Roger di Loria shattered the fleet of Sicily, which in other
days he had led to victory. There is all the curving strand of the
Campagna Felice, backed by its mountains, brown and blue, ridged here
and there with snow; and then one sees Vesuvius with his smoky pillar,
the reflection of which lies across the bay, discolouring the water,
and Somma, wonderfully shadowed by the clouds; while further north
again, gleaming so splendidly, rising so pure and white into the
heavens that one has to look more than once to make sure they are not
piles of cumulus, stretches the snowy line of Apennines, peak rising
over peak till the gleam upon their summits dissolves in the great
distance. Lower down in the vast prospect is the chain of Campanian
mountains, which seem so lofty when one cannot look beyond them; and
at their feet lies Naples, that queenly city with the long sweep of
coast from Posilipo to Miseno, where the flames rose from the pyre of
the Trojan trumpeter. Further off again is craggy Ischia, while blue
and infinitely vague upon the skyline one can see the mountains behind
Gaeta.
There is surely in the whole world scarce any other view at once so
wide, so beautiful, and so steeped in the associations of romance. The
sun climbs higher, the light increases, the coast towards Amalfi is as
purple as a violet. The sea, unruffled by the lightest breeze, is of
that nameless blue which seems to have been refined and purified from
the colour of a turquoise. Far as one can see, from the headland which
hides Cumae to the farthest point of the Lucanian coast, scarcely one
vessel is in sight. The ancient waterway is deserted by which AEneas
came, which through so many centuries was ploughed by the galleys of
Alexandria, and which in later days, when the power of Amalfi rose to
its height, was crowded with the wealth of furthest India. From side
to side of the great Bay of Salerno there is now no port of
consequence. The coast is silent which once rang with the busy noise
of arsenals; trade has departed; and the boats which slip in and out
beneath the Islands of the Sirens are so few that Parthenope would
have disdained them, not caring to uplift her song for so mean a
booty.
This decay happened long ago. It was partly the work of pirates, who,
as I have often said, swarmed upon these coasts up to that year of
grace in which Lord Exmouth destroyed Algiers. The nest being dinged
down, the crows flew away, or rather learnt better manners. But for
many generations they hunted at their will along the coasts of Italy,
counting the people theirs, as often as they chose to come for
them--the men to slay, the women and children to be carried off.
The corsairs in all generations had a rendezvous at Capri, which
served them much the same useful purpose as Lundy, at the entrance of
the Bristol Channel, did to others of their breed. It was a turnpike
placed across the track of shipping, and heavy tolls were taken there
from the luckless sailors. Barbarossa has stamped his memory on the
island more permanently than any other rover. Dragut was, perhaps, as
terrible in life, and Occhialy can have met few men who did not fear
him. But tradition makes less of them than of the red-bearded
scoundrel who assumed the cognomen of an emperor. Barbarossa was
indeed often at Capri. His armaments were colossal. One gasps in
reading of a pirate who descended on Capri with a fleet of 150 sail!
Yet such were the numbers with which Barbarossa arrived about St.
Johns Day in the year 1543. Happily we do not know the exact details
of the woe he wrought upon the midsummer seas; but on this lofty road
it is well to recollect him, for it was up the now fragmentary stair
to Anacapri that his warriors swarmed, perhaps on this, perhaps on
some other visit, and stormed the ancient castle overhead.
It is worth while to climb up this last flight of the old broken
stair. One has free access to it from the modern road, and turning
away from the sea-wall, over which one can distinguish the boats far
down below on their way to the Blue Grotto, looking as small as
beetles from this vast height, one may climb cautiously up the
shattered steps, gaining continually wider outlooks until at last a
level platform is attained, where the path winds round the face of the
precipice. Sweet-scented shrubs and flowering plants are rooted in the
crannies of the limestone, and next the path leads under an old
gatehouse, spanning the whole width of the ground between precipice
above and abyss below.
How, one asks, did the Turks get past this point? There is no way
round, save for the birds. They must have stormed it, coming on in
twos and threes--which is another way of saying that the defenders
were either fools or cowards. The mere sight of a Turk turned men's
hearts to water, it would seem. When the corsairs had won the
gatehouse, they were still at some distance from the castle, which
towers on a crag several hundred feet higher, strengthened with
towers, and having guardrooms for a substantial number of defenders.
It is not often that a castle wins and keeps the name of the enemy who
stormed it. One may surmise that Barbarossa committed some atrocious
deed when the fight was over. There is a dizzy precipice on the higher
side of the castle. Probably all the garrison went over it who had
not fallen by the sword. It is a grand and beautiful spot. There is no
end to the pleasures of these mountain slopes; one may wander over
Monte Solaro for many days, and yet remain in doubt from what point or
in what light its wondrous views are finest.
[Illustration: NAPLES--ON THE MODERN SIDE--LOOKING TOWARDS CAPRI FROM
THE CORSO VITTORIO EMMANUELE]
As one comes down the winding road, in the shadow of the high grey
scars, discoloured with patches of black brushwood, the saddle of the
island looks picturesque and homely. The white town nestles on the
ridge between two conical hills, the Telegrafo and the Castiglione,
the latter crowned by a small fort, the modern representative of an
ancient stronghold which was the last defence of the Capriotes in the
days of piracy.
It is a good and defensible position, but the stranger, remembering
the almost inaccessible plateau of Anacapri, may wonder not
unnaturally why all the inhabitants of the island did not retreat
thither on the approach of danger. The answer is that on the small
island there are two nations, despising each other like most other
neighbours. To the undiscerning eye of the stranger the Capriotes are
a pleasant, friendly race; but any child in Anacapri will declare them
to be full of malice and deceit, unworthy neighbours of those who look
down on them from a moral elevation no less remarkable than the
physical. The Capriotes, on their part, would not have dreamt of
taking refuge in Anacapri, knowing that here, as elsewhere, only bad
men dwell in lofty places. They had a refuge of their own in times of
danger--a vast cavern in the hill of Castiglione, where the women and
children used to crowd together when the pirates came. It could tell
woeful stories, but has not been examined with the care that its past
history demands.
As for the streets of Capri, they are always gay and charming, but to
my mind they are most pleasing when the dusk descends, bringing not
only cool fresh breezes from the sea, but also imparting a sense of
space to vistas which under the garish sunlight seem a trifle cramped.
Therefore I go on through the town towards the opposite height, where
the villa of Tiberius crowns the hill; and here it is necessary to
discourse of Carolina and Carmelina, the two sirens who lie in wait
for travellers on the ascent.
These words are not a warning. It is no calamity for a traveller to
fall into the hands of either nymph. It is a thirsty walk, and she
will bring him wine. It is not a very beautiful walk; and she--yes,
both of her!--is charming, attired in blue and scarlet, like the
Capriote maidens of an olden day. She will, moreover, dance the
tarantella gracefully and well, and talk even about archaeology when
she has done explaining volubly what a cheat the other girl is, and
how false is her pretence to be custodian of anything worth seeing.
The whole of the weary climb is beguiled by the pretty rivalries and
antics of these dancers. I have scarcely commenced the ascent, when a
boy, starting up from the cover of a rock, thrusts upon me a notice
gracefully written in three languages. It advertises the attractions
of the restaurant of the Salto and Faro of Tiberio, and contains the
following emphatic caution: "Visitors are requested to take careful
note that certain unscrupolous (_sic_) persons do their best to
misguide visitors in misnominating the real and authenticated position
of the Tiberius Leap. Visitors are therefore warned not to be
misguided by these unscrupolous persons who, for their own ends,
falsely indicate an historical fact, etc., etc."
I hardly know what weighty accusations may lurk beneath the words
"etc.," but I have hardly done reading this kindly caution when, at a
turn of the path, I am confronted by the chief among the "unscrupolous
persons" who debase historical truth. It is no other, indeed, than
Carmelina herself, smiling all over her handsome face so pleasantly
that I could forgive her a worse crime. She is unabashed by the
knowledge that I have been put upon my guard as to her true character.
She has a Salto, she informs me; and when I point out that it is not
the true one, but a fraud, she directs my attention, with a charming
shrug, to her own particular notice-board, whereon is printed in large
characters a judicial statement to the effect that it is quite
impossible for anyone to say precisely over which precipice Tiberius
threw his victims. Thus, one being as good as another, it is the part
of a wise man, without labouring further up the hill, to take the
first which comes, at which, moreover, the Capri wine is of unequalled
quality, and so forth.
I do not propose to discuss the rival merits of Carmelina and
Carolina. No chart avails the mariner in danger of wreck upon the
reefs of woman's beauty. Nothing will help him but a good stout
anchor, and that I cannot give him, nor even indicate where he should
cast it out. But if a man pass safely by these perils he will ere long
attain the summit of the rock, whence he will find much the same view
exposed before him as he saw from Anacapri, and thus may give his
attention the more freely to the ruins of the "Villa di Tiberio."
None but an archaeologist can derive much pleasure from these ruins.
Eighteen hundred winters and the delvings of many investigators,
whether pirates or men of science, have so shattered the buildings
that a trained intelligence is required to comprehend their
arrangement. Other eyes can see nothing but broken walls, grass-grown
corridors, and vaulted basement chambers, which suggest but little
splendour. Yet here, on the summit of the headland, stood beyond any
doubt the largest and most magnificent of the palaces in which
Tiberius secluded himself during the long years he spent in Capri; and
with this spot most of the stories told by the guides are associated.
These tales are grim and terrible. Tiberius, in the days he spent in
Capri, was a tyrant and a debauchee. His palaces, which are now washed
and blown clean by the pure rain and wind, were stews of lust and
murder while he lived. It is not strange that he is well remembered in
the island. His life was wicked enough to beget tradition--the surest
way of earning long remembrance! When he saw Capri first it was
occupied by a simple, laughing people, gracious and friendly as they
are to-day. He left it full of agony and tears. No wonder that after
eighteen centuries he is not yet forgotten!
Tiberius came first with the Emperor Augustus, an old man near his
end, but joyous and frank, as was his nature.
It happened that a ship from Alexandria was lying at the Marina, bound
for Pozzuoli; and the shipmen, desiring to do honour to Augustus, clad
themselves in white, put garlands on their heads, and came to give him
hail. The simple ceremony, the frank reverence of the sailors, pleased
the Emperor beyond measure. He mixed freely with them, gave his
attendants money to buy merchandise from the ship, put himself at the
head of the revels; and left behind him when he went away a kingly
memory. Perhaps the Capriotes hoped that when Tiberius came back those
good days would return. But Tiberius was made of other clay, and
brought only deepening terror to the island.
Timberio, the islanders call him, and they believe that deep down in
the bowels of this hill, where now his crumbled villa is slowly
yielding to the weather, the Emperor sits to this hour upon his steed,
both carved in bronze, and having eyes of diamond. Years ago,--no one
can say how many!--a boy, creeping through some crevice of the rock,
saw that sight, and lived to tell of it, but could never find his way
into the vault again. Such tales of mystery are common all the world
over; but there are few places in which, whether true or untrue, they
have more excuse.
It is impossible to wander round the remnants of this gigantic
building without suspecting that the hillside underneath it must be
honeycombed with vaults and secret chambers, natural caverns, perhaps,
which are so plentiful in Capri, adapted to the uses of the villa.
There is a constant tradition among the peasants that from this palace
as from all the others, Tiberius had a secret passage to the sea. The
tremendous height of the cliff seems almost to forbid belief in the
tale; but if it be true, corridors and stairs must exist in the hill
upon a scale sufficient to warrant even stranger stories than those
which circulate.
There is in the face of the Salto a cavern which, from its proximity
to the ruins of the palace, has sometimes been regarded as a possible
exit of the secret passage. In 1883 a gentleman of Capri named Canale,
together with three peasants, climbed up to this grotto from the sea.
It was a hardy feat; and the searchers were rewarded by the discovery
of two chambers hewn by hand in the solid rock. Beyond them was an
opening closed with fallen stones and earth; and having cleared away
the rubbish, they penetrated into a large and lofty natural grotto,
hung with stalactites; but found no exit from it. There was no trace
of a staircase. The issue of the search seems unsatisfactory, and one
can only wish that it may be resumed. Clearly there must have been
some approach to these chambers otherwise than by climbing from the
sea.
The day may come when on this spot, as elsewhere in Capri, more
careful excavations and researches will be set on foot and continued
until Time has either been compelled to yield up his secrets, or has
been convicted of possessing none. At that day the archaeologist will
rejoice; but I think the unlearned man may rather grieve. For the
abounding mystery of Capri is so inextricably woven with its
extraordinary beauty that to touch either must be to reduce the
strange fascination which conquers every visitor, which wakes
enthusiasm even in those who do not love Italy, and makes this little
island the one spot which no one sees without longing to return. How
shall one explain this feeling? It would be as easy to analyse a
caress. Not alone the mystery, the beauty, the aloofness from the
world, the balmy air or the odorous vegetation of the hillsides,--all
these elements exist upon the mainland, yet there is no town, not even
Sorrento, which wins such instant or such enduring love. It is partly
in the people that the secret lies. They have charm. They are simple,
friendly, gracious; they accost the stranger from the outset as a
kindly friend, who must mean well, and whom they are disposed to like.
If they beg, which is but rarely, they ask without importunity, and
accept refusal with good temper. The children run up as you cross the
piazza, say "Buon Giorno," and run away smiling out of pure delight.
The women sitting in their doorways, clean and industrious, look up
and smile but ask for nothing. They are indifferently honest, paragons
of every solid virtue, when compared with the denizens of Naples. But
were it otherwise, were they unblushing rogues and knaves, I think one
would love them still for their abundant charm and grace.
In Capri it is rare to see a plain girl; it is perhaps not very common
to see a beautiful one. But between the two extremes lies something
more attractive than regularity of feature, a thing without a
name--charm, vivacity, a gracious radiance of manner which is lacking
in scarce any girl or woman of the island. Their features are small
and delicate, their heads well poised, their faces brown as berries,
their large and lustrous eyes are sometimes pensive, but oftener
sparkling with goodwill and merriment. They toil at heavy weights like
men, yet do not grow coarse. They will work from dawn to dusk without
complaining, without even dreaming that constant labour is a
grievance; and at any moment they will return a pleasant word with one
still pleasanter, not only responsive to kindness, but arousing it
with all the frankness of a child who feels sure all people are as
full of goodwill as he is himself.
It is this sense of simplicity and friendliness which, more than any
other of Capri's rare attractions, wins the heart of every visitor. On
the mainland no such sense exists, save perhaps in some degree on the
Piano di Sorrento. Naples, even in broad daylight, is none too safe,
and at night the citizens themselves walk cautiously. Castellammare is
a wicked city. Amalfi puts the stranger on his guard instinctively. In
Capri, from the very hour of landing, one drops precautions.
Suspicions are cast off like bad dreams in this isle of laughter and
goodwill; the women on the roads want nothing but a greeting, the men
believe you when you say you do not need a carriage. If you lose your
purse the loss is cried in church, and the odds are the purse comes
back that day. Crimes of violence are very rare; and never has it been
taught in Capri, as it is even in Sorrento, that he who licks the warm
blood on his knife will not be troubled by remorse.
There is a hermit on the summit of the hill among the ruins of the
villa. He is not poor, but prosperous. He keeps a visitors' book, a
tap of wine, moreover, and though he has a chapel he did not interest
me. Escaping him with some dexterity, I wandered along the cliff past
the lighthouse, climbing over boulders, sometimes knee-deep in tuft
grass and scrub, until I reached the brow of the valley on the hither
side of the Telegrafo, and climbed down into it by a break-neck path.
Having reached the bottom, I was in the main way from the town to the
Arco Naturale, and a few turns of the path brought me to the verge of
the cliff.
The sun had sloped far westwards, so that all this, the eastern face
of the island, was in shade. The first steps of the rock staircase by
which the gorge is descended lay in grateful shadow. There is a fine
path along the northern slope, but it is better to plunge down the
stair towards the level of the sea. After many flights had been
descended I came out under a great arch, where cavernous vaults lined
with Roman masonry awake once more the sense of mystery which is never
far distant in this island. At the foot I found a rough path leading
to the south, by which I clambered on until by backward glances I was
assured that the Arco Naturale had freed itself from the labyrinth of
spires and splintered jags of limestone over which it rises, and stood
out clear and sharp against the sky.
The setting sun shone warm and soft on the top of the great cliffs,
but all their vast height was covered with cool grey and brown, with
here and there a green tuft of grass or trailing herbs. There is no
end to the fantastic wonder of the crags rising out of the cliff
slopes. The great loophole of the Arco Naturale is the loftiest and
most striking, but there are countless others. The whole line of the
cliff is pierced with cavities and grottoes, with many a sheer, smooth
precipice, dropping steep and awful to the sea. Immediately opposite
lay the bare headland of the Bell, bathed in golden sunlight, and the
rocky coast towards Amalfi, purple and brown beneath the paling sky.
Then a bar of cloud came and drew its wisps of vapour slowly across
the sunset slope of the Campanella. Whence it came I know not; for the
sky was clear, and the hill, both above and below the bank of mist,
was bright. The ravines of St. Angelo grew sharper and the glow more
purple. The sea was paling fast. One or two rosy clouds floated in the
east, catching all the reflections of the sunset. Night was at hand;
but as I climbed up the stair I turned often to look again upon that
channel through which the Greek ships steered their way three thousand
years ago, as they came or went between Euboean Cumae and the
far-distant cities of the East.
Well, it is growing dusk in Capri, and the time has gone by in which
one can see sights. The sea has turned grey and the colour has gone
out of the coast. I turn back towards the town, and as I loiter down
the steep hill paths I perceive by a growing brightness in the sky
that the full moon is rising behind the Telegrafo. The April night has
all the fine warm scents of summer. The blue darkness is dropping fast
across both town and sea, while in the soft sky the small gold stars
are trembling as they do in June in England.
Ere long the silvery light begins to drive the shadows back; the
bright disc climbs above the pointed hill, and floods all the Valley
of Tragara. From hill to hill the old white town lies glowing softly.
The sea is all a-shimmer, "Splendet tremulo sub lumine pontus"; the
deserted cloister of the Certosa has the colour of old carved ivory;
the Castiglione on the hilltop shines like steel. The tremendous
precipice of Monte Solaro, a cliff wall severing the island in twain,
is transformed most wonderfully. In the clear morning sun the heights
are red and grey, chiselled into infinite crevices and clefts, awful
and magnificent. But when the full moon sails clear of the Telegrafo
all the rock face turns light and silvery, almost impalpable, towering
up among the stars like a mountain of frosted silver rising out of
fairyland. The small piazza is silent and empty, streaked with hard
shadows flung by the rising moon. As I step out on it and pause in
wonder at the beauty of the scene, the striking of the clock falls on
the still air with a strange theatrical effect. Away over the houses
comes a drift of music; for Schiano, the coiffeur, is giving a concert
in his salon, and all the world has crowded down the street to hear
it. At this distance the voices are softened, and blend insensibly
with the magic of the summer night, across which, trembling like a
star fallen out of the blue sky, shines the light hung over the great
figure of the Madonna set in a cleft of the rock on the road to
Anacapri.