The Naples Riviera
by Herbert M. Vaughan · English · Gutenberg #30634 · 565,158 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Naples Riviera
Author: Herbert M. Vaughan
Illustrator: Maurice Greiffenhagen
Release date: December 9, 2009 [eBook #30634]
Most recently updated: June 16, 2020
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/30634
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE NAPLES RIVIERA ***
[Illustration: CHARCOAL CARRIERS, AMALFI]
*THE*
*NAPLES RIVIERA*
BY
HERBERT M. VAUGHAN, B.A. (OXON.)
AUTHOR OF “THE LAST OF THE ROYAL STUARTS”
WITH TWENTY-FIVE ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOUR BY
MAURICE GREIFFENHAGEN
METHUEN & CO
36 ESSEX STREET W.C.
LONDON
_First Published in 1907_
TO
G. L. L.
IN MEMORY OF
MANY PLEASANT DAYS IN THE SUNNY SOUTH
THIS BOOK IS
AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED
BY THE AUTHOR
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I PAGE
INTRODUCTORY 1
CHAPTER II
THE VESUVIAN SHORE AND MONTE SANT’ ANGELO 8
CHAPTER III
LA CITTÀ MORTA 38
CHAPTER IV
VESUVIUS 66
CHAPTER V
THE CORNICHE ROAD 100
CHAPTER VI
AMALFI AND THE FESTIVAL OF ST ANDREW 126
CHAPTER VII
RAVELLO AND THE RUFOLI 152
CHAPTER VIII
SALERNO 172
CHAPTER IX
PAESTUM AND THE GLORY THAT WAS GREECE 198
CHAPTER X
SORRENTO AND ITS POET 221
CHAPTER XI
CAPRI AND TIBERIUS THE TYRANT 249
CHAPTER XII
ISCHIA AND THE LADY OF THE ROCK 275
CHAPTER XIII
PUTEOLI AND THE GRANDEUR THAT WAS ROME 295
————
INDEX 321
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
CHARCOAL CARRIERS, AMALFI _Frontispiece_
A CAPRIOTE FISHERMAN’S WIFE 16
ROAD NEAR CASTELLAMARE 30
MONTE FAITO, CASTELLAMARE 37
THE FORUM, POMPEII 46
LA CASA DEI VETTII, POMPEII 58
VESUVIUS AND THE BAY OF NAPLES 80
POZZANO 101
EVENING AT AMALFI 124
AMALFI 132
IN THE VALLEY OF THE MILLS, AMALFI 140
AMALFI: PIAZZA AND DUOMO 148
RAVELLO: IL DUOMO 156
A STREET IN RAVELLO 163
MINORI AT SUNSET 170
ON THE ROAD TO RAVELLO 186
THE TEMPLE OF NEPTUNE, PAESTUM 204
AFTERNOON, SORRENTO 230
FARAGLIONI ROCKS, CAPRI 249
CAPRI FROM THE VILLA JOVIS 254
IN THE BLUE GROTTO, CAPRI 262
A GATEWAY, CAPRI 274
ON THE PICCOLA MARINA, CAPRI 288
ISCHIA FROM CASTELLAMARE (SUNSET) 294
ON THE BEACH 306
BIBLIOGRAPHY
A small selection out of the books I have consulted during the preparation
of this work is given below:—
E. GIBBON: _Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_.
DEAN MERIVALE: _The Romans under the Empire_.
_Pliny’s Letters_: (Church’s and Brodribb’s Translation, London, 1897).
J. PHILLIPS: _Vesuvius_ (Oxford, 1869).
C. RAMAGE: _Nooks and Byways of Italy_.
C. LENORMANT: _À Travers la Lucanie et l’Apulie_.
W. J. A. STAMER: _Dolce Napoli_ (London, 1878).
E. NEVILLE ROLFE: _Naples in 1888_.
CONSTANCE GIGLIOLI: _Naples in 1799_.
C. L. SISMONDI: _Histoire des __Républiques__ Italiennes_.
L. ALBERTI: _Descrizione di tutta l’ Italia_ (Venetia, 1596).
C. MILLS: _The Travels of Theodore Ducas_ (London, 1822).
_Les Délices d’Italie_ (Paris, 1707).
_Nuova Guida de’ Forastieri in Napoli, etc._ (1751).
COUNT STOLBERG: _Travels through Italy and Sicily in 1756_.
A. H. NORWAY: _Naples, Past and Present_ (London, 1904).
E. BUSK: _Folk-Songs of Italy_.
J. A. SYMONDS: _Sketches and Studies in Italy_.
CATHERINE PHILLIMORE: _Studies in Italian Literature_ (London, 1891).
T. A. TROLLOPE: _A Decade of Italian Women_ (London, 1859).
G. BOCCACCIO: _Il Decamerone_.
A. MAU: _Pompeii: its Life and Art_ (New York, 1899).
J. FERGUSSON: _Handbook of Architecture_ (London, 1859).
FRANZ VON REBER: _History of Ancient and Mediæval Art_ (New York, 1882).
E. JAMESON: _Sacred and Legendary Art_ (London, 1879).
J. ELWORTHY: _History of the Evil Eye_ (London, 1888).
N. VALLETTA: _Cicalata sul Fascino detto Jettatura_ (Napoli, 1819).
A. CANALE: _Storia dell’ Isola di Capri_.
G. AMALFI: _Tradizioni ed Vsi nella Penisola Sorrentina_.
THE NAPLES RIVIERA
CHAPTER I
INTRODUCTORY
“In otia natam
Parthenopen.”
That the city of Naples can prove very delightful, very amusing, and very
instructive for a week or ten days no one will attempt to dispute. There
are long mornings to be spent in inspecting the churches scattered
throughout the narrow streets of the old town,—harlequins in coloured
marble and painted stucco though they be, they are yet treasure-houses
containing some of the most precious monuments of Gothic and Renaissance
art that all Italy can display. There are afternoon hours that can be
passed pleasantly amidst the endless halls and galleries of the great
Museo Nazionale, where the antiquities of Pompeii and Herculaneum may be
studied in advance, for the wise traveller will not rush headlong into the
sacred precincts of the buried cities on the Vesuvian shore, before he has
first made himself thoroughly acquainted with the wonderful collections
preserved in the Museum. Then comes the evening drive along the gentle
winding ascent towards Posilipo with its glorious views over bay and
mountains, all tinged with the deep rose and violet of a Neapolitan
sunset; or the stroll along the fashionable sea front, named after the
luckless Caracciolo the modern hero of Naples, where in endless succession
the carriages pass backwards and forwards within the limited space between
the sea and the greenery of the Villa Reale. Or it may be that our more
active feet may entice us to mount the winding flights of stone steps
leading to the heights of Sant’ Elmo, where from the windows of the
monastery of San Martino there is spread out before us an entrancing view
that has but two possible rivals for extent and interest in all Italy:—the
panorama of the Eternal City from the hill of San Pietro in Montorio, and
that of Florence with the valley of the Arno from the lofty terrace of San
Miniato. We can while away many hours leisurely in wandering on the
bustling Chiaja or Toledo with their shops and their amusing scenes of
city life, or in the poorer quarters around the Mercato, where the
inhabitants ply their daily avocations in the open air, and eat, play,
quarrel, flirt, fight or gossip—do everything in short save go to
bed—quite unconcernedly before the critical and non-admiring eyes of
casual strangers. Pleasant it is to hunt for old prints, books and other
treasures amongst the dark unwholesome dens that lie in the shadow of the
gorgeous church of Santa Chiara or in the musty-smelling shops of the
curiosity dealers in the Strada Costantinopoli, picking up here a volume
of some _cinque-cento_ classic and there a piece of old china that may or
may not have had its birth in the famous factory of Capodimonte. All this
studying of historic sculpture in the churches and of antiquities in the
Museum, this observing the daily life of the populace, and bargain-hunting
in the Strada de’ Tribunali, are agreeable enough for a while, but of
necessity there comes a time when the mind grows weary of yelling people
and of jostling crowds, of stuffy churches and of the chilly halls of the
Museum, of steep dirty streets and of glaring boulevards, so that we begin
to sigh for fresh air and a change of scene. Nor is there any means of
escape within the precincts of the city itself from the eternal cracking
of whips, from the insulting compliments (or complimentary insults) of the
incorrigible cabmen, from the continuous babel of unmusical voices, and
from the reiterated strains of “Santa Lucia” or “Margari” howled from
raucous throats or strummed from rickety street-organs. Oh for peace, and
rest, and a whiff of pure country air! For there are no walks in or around
the City of the Siren, where there is nowhere to stroll save the narrow
strip of the much-vaunted Villa (which is either damp or dusty according
to weather) or the fatiguing ascent amidst walled gardens and newly built
houses to the heights of the Vomero, which are covered with a raw suburb.
Moreover our pristine delight in the place is beginning to flag, as we
gradually realise that the city, like the majority of great modern towns,
is being practically rebuilt to the annihilation of its old-world
features, which used to give to Naples its peculiar charm and its marked
individuality amongst large sea-ports. Long ago has disappeared Santa
Brigida, that picturesque high-coloured slum, on whose site stands the
garish domed gallery of which the Neapolitans are so proud; gone in these
latter days is classic Santa Lucia with its water-gate and its fountain,
its vendors of medicated water and _frutti di mare_, those toothsome shell
fish of the unsavoury beach; vanished for ever is many a landmark of old
Naples, and new buildings, streets and squares, blank, dreary, pretentious
and staring, have arisen in their places. This thorough _sventramento di
Napoli_, as the citizens graphically term this drastic reconstruction of
the old capital of the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies, is no doubt
beneficial, not to say necessary, and we make no protest against these
wholesale changes, which have certainly tended to destroy utterly its
ancient character and appearance. But all seems commonplace, new, smart,
and unpoetic, and we quickly grow weary of Naples now that it has been
turned into a Liverpool of the South without the local colour and the
peculiar attributes of which author and artist have so often raved. The
life of the people, picturesque enough in its old setting, now appears
mean and squalid; the toilers in the streets look jaded, oppressed and
discontented; we search in vain for the spontaneous gaiety of which we
have heard so much. We feel disappointed, cheated even, in our
expectations of Naples, and we begin to understand that its chief
attraction consists in its proximity to the scenes of beauty that mark the
course of its Riviera.
The Riviera of Naples may be said to extend from the heights of Cumae, at
the end of the Bay of Gaeta to the north, as far as Salerno in a southerly
direction, whilst, lying close to this stretch of shore, are included the
three populous islands of Capri, Procida and Ischia, which in prehistoric
times doubtless formed part and parcel of the Parthenopean coast itself.
Our pleasant task it is to write of these classic shores and islands,
where the beauties of nature contend for pre-eminence with the glorious
traditions of the past that centre round them. What spot on earth can
surpass, or even be compared with, Amalfi in the perfect lustre of its
setting? What loftier or bolder cliffs than those of Capri can the wild
bleak headlands of the North Sea exhibit? The fertile lands of France
cannot vie with the richness of the Sorrentine Plain, nor can any mountain
on the face of the globe rival in human interest the peak of Vesuvius;
Pompeii is unique, the most precious storehouse of ancient knowledge the
world possesses; whilst the Bay of Baia recalls the days of Roman power
and luxury more vividly to our minds than any place save the Eternal City
itself. And again: what illustrious names in history and in
literature—classical, medieval, modern—are for ever associated with these
smiling shores! Robert Guiscard and Hildebrand in quiet Salerno, Tasso at
health-giving Sorrento, Vittoria Colonna in her palace-fortress on the
crags of Ischia, the great Apostle of the west at Puteoli:—these are but a
few of the more eminent and gracious figures that arise before us at the
casual bidding of memory. Then there are the infamous, as well as the
virtuous and the gallant, whose misdeeds are still freshly remembered upon
these coasts or in their fertile valleys. The sinister Tiberius, the
half-crazy and wholly vicious Caligula, many a king and queen of evil
repute that ruled Naples, the vile Pier-Luigi Farnese, the adventurer
Joachim Murat, all have left the marks of their personality upon the
coveted shores of the Neapolitan Riviera. From the days of the Sibyl and
of the Trojan hero to the stirring times of Garibaldi and of King Bomba,
which were but of yesterday, Naples and its environs have played a
prominent part in the annals and development of the civilised western
world; Roman emperors, Pagan statesmen and poets, Norman, French and
Spanish princes, popes, saints and theologians, merchants and scientists
of the Middle Ages, writers of the Renaissance and heroes of the
_Risorgimento_, all have combined to shed a halo of historical romance
upon Naples and its Riviera, where there is scarcely a sea-girt town or a
crumbling fortress that is not redolent of the memory of some personage
whose name is inscribed on the roll of European history. It seems but
right, therefore, that many works should have been written concerning this
favoured corner of Italy, so replete with natural charm and with
historical interest; and in truth multitudes of books, large and small,
witty and dull, erudite and empty, light and heavy, prosaic and
rhapsodical, have poured forth from the prolific pens of generations of
authors. We feel sincerely the need of an apology for making a fresh
addition to the ever-increasing pile of Neapolitan literature, and we can
only urge in extenuation of our crime of authorship that the same scene
appeals in varied ways to different persons, and that every fresh
description is apt to shed additional light upon old familiar subjects. In
the following pages we make no profession to act the part of a guide to
the neighbourhood of Naples, for are there not the carefully prepared
pages of Murray and Baedeker, to say nothing of the works of such writers
as Augustus Hare, to lead the wanderer into every church and castle, to
show him every nook in valley and mountain, and to supply him thoroughly
with accurate dates and facts? No, our treatment of this theme may be
deemed a poor one, but it has at least the merit and the courage of
following its own peculiar lines. For we pursue our own course, and we
touch lightly here and omit there; we run to dissertation in this place,
we glide by silently in another. We take our own views of people and
places, and give them for what they are worth to our readers to approve or
to condemn, as they think fit. We offer a medley of history and of
imagination, of biography and of private comment; and we crave indulgence
for our short-comings by observing that any deficiencies in these pages
can easily be remedied by application to the abundant literature upon
Naples and its surrounding districts which every good library is presumed
to contain.
CHAPTER II
THE VESUVIAN SHORE AND MONTE SANT’ ANGELO
That little stream the Sebeto, which is indeed, as the courtly Metastasio
observes, “scanty in depth of water though overflowing with honour,” may
be considered as the boundary line that divides the city of Naples from
its eastern environs, although it is evident that the whole stretch of
coast from Posilipo to Torre del Greco is covered with an unbroken line of
houses. Past the highly cultivated _Paduli_, the chief market-gardens on
this side of the city, with the town of La Barra on the fertile slopes to
our left, we pass by way of San Giovanni a Teduccio to Portici, once a
favourite resort of royalty. Here the dilettante Charles III., first
Bourbon King of Naples, built a palace and laid out gardens in the days of
patches and powder, constructing a royal pleasaunce that was destined to
become the chief residence of the temporary supplanter of his own family,
Joachim Murat, the citizen king of Naples and brother-in-law of the great
Napoleon. Villa and gardens still remain, but monarchs have ceased to
visit Portici since the days of Bomba, and the old royal demesne has been
turned into an agricultural college. Adjoining and practically forming
part of Portici is the town of Resina, which preserves almost intact the
old classical name of Retina that it bore in the distant days when it
served as the port of Herculaneum. Here then in the mean streets of Resina
we find ourselves standing above, though certainly not upon, historic
ground, for the temples and villas, the theatres and private houses of the
famous buried city lie far below the surface trodden by our feet. To visit
Herculaneum it is necessary for us to descend some seventy to a hundred
feet into the depths of the earth, passing more than one layer of ancient
lava, for Resina and Portici themselves are but modern editions of former
towns that have been engulfed in the course of ages. If the stranger can
derive any solid satisfaction from the descent by a gloomy underground
passage and from fleeting glimpses of ancient walls and dwellings seen
through a forest of wooden baulks, which serve to support the spaces
excavated, he must indeed be an enthusiast. But most people, perhaps all
sensible people, will be content to take the undoubted interest of
Herculaneum on trust, probably agreeing (at any rate after their visit)
that the inspection of this subterranean city is not worth the candle, by
whose flickering beams alone can objects be distinguished in the
oppressive darkness. Personally we strongly hold to the expressed opinion
of Alexandre Dumas, who declared that even the most hardened antiquary
could not desire more than one hour’s contemplation of this hidden mass of
shapeless wreckage. “Herculaneum,” writes that genial Frenchman, “but
wearies our curiosity instead of exciting it. We descend into the
excavated city as into a mine by a species of shaft; then come corridors
beneath the earth which can only be entered by the light of tapers; and
these smoke-grimed passages allow us from time to time to obtain a
momentary glimpse of the angle of a house, the colonnade of some temple,
the steps of a theatre. Everything is fragmentary, mutilated, dingy,
uncertain, confused, and therefore unsatisfactory. Well, at the end of an
hour spent in wandering amongst these abysmal recesses, the most hardened
archæologist, the most dry-as-dust antiquary, the most inquisitive of
tourists begins to experience only one feeling—an intense desire to ascend
to the light of day and to breathe once more the fresh air of the upper
world.”
Nevertheless, it was from these dismal caverns, black as Erebus, that some
of the choicest marbles and bronzes that now adorn the Museum at Naples
were originally extracted. From a villa at Herculaneum also was taken the
famous collection of 3000 rolls of papyrus, chiefly filled with the
writings of the Epicurean philosopher Philodemus, perhaps the greatest
“find” of ancient literature that has yet been made, although the contents
of this damaged library, deciphered with equal toil and ingenuity, have
not proved to be of the value originally set upon them by expectant
scholars. But much of the city itself has yet hardly been touched since
the days when it was destroyed in the reign of Titus, so that far below
the squalid lanes of Portici and Resina there must still exist acres upon
acres of undisturbed buildings, public and private, many of them perhaps
filled with priceless works of Greek and Roman art, for Herculaneum,
unlike Pompeii, was never tampered with by the ancients themselves, for
the coating of volcanic mud, which filled the whole area of the city, made
impracticable a systematic searching of its ruins by the despoiled
citizens. Then, as if nature had not already buried the city sufficiently
deep, subsequent eruptions of Vesuvius have superimposed additional layers
of lava, whilst confiding human beings have in their turn built
habitations upon the volcanic crust.
We all know the story, perhaps mythical, of the discovery of Herculaneum
at the beginning of the eighteenth century by the accidental sinking of a
well upon its long-forgotten site and of the subsequent excavations made
by the Prince d’Elbœuf. These so-called explorations were, however, made
in the most greedy and destructive spirit, for the prince’s sole object
was to obtain antique works of art for his private collection, not to make
intelligent enquiries about the dead and buried city lying beneath his
estate. Ignorant workmen were despatched to hew and hack wholesale in the
mirky depths in order to discover statuary and paintings, and since there
was no receptacle at hand to contain the _débris_, they took the simple
course of filling in each hollow made with the masses of rubbish already
excavated. Later in the same century the Bourbon king was induced by
Neapolitan savants to take some interest in the work, but, strange to
relate, the superintendent appointed, a certain Spanish officer named
Alcubier, was so ignorant and careless that half the objects found under
his supervision were broken or lost before they reached Naples; this
ignoramus, it was said, even went so far as to order whole architraves to
be smashed up and their bronze lettering to be picked out before making a
copy of the original inscription! Under these circumstances the marvel is
that anything of beauty or value should have survived at all, for this
selfish plundering of Herculaneum, in strong contrast with the reverent
treatment meted out to Pompeii, may be considered one of the greatest
pieces of vandalism ever perpetrated. In spite of this wholesale
destruction, however, there must remain untouched, as we have said, a vast
quantity of objects, beautiful, useful or curious, yet it is extremely
doubtful if we shall live to see any serious and intelligent effort made
to bring these hidden treasures forth to the light of day. The expense of
working this buried hoard would be enormous in any case, whilst the
existence of the houses of Resina and Portici overhead necessitates
special measures of precaution on the part of the excavators. The only
method of examining Herculaneum properly would be in fact to treat the
buried site like an immense mine by the construction of regular galleries
and shafts for the entrance of skilled workmen, and to remove the rubbish
displaced to the outer air. Perhaps some multi-millionaire might be found
ready to undertake so arduous, yet so fascinating a task, though we fear
that the Italian Government, which has always shown itself as tenacious of
its subterranean wealth of antiquity as it appears languid in the work of
quarrying it, would indignantly refuse to accede to any such offer. As
regards the ancient city of Hercules, therefore, we must perforce remain
content to inspect the magnificent bronzes and the other objects of
interest that are to be found in the Museum of Naples, for we are not
likely to see any further researches just at present, more’s the pity,
since there is every reason to suppose that a thorough investigation
conducted regardless of cost would yield up to the world the most
marvellous and valuable results.
Some two miles of dusty suburb lie between Resina and Torre del Greco,
which has been destroyed time after time by the lava streams descending
from “that peak of Hell rising out of Paradise,” as Goethe once named the
burning mountain overhead. Nevertheless, the Torrese continue to sit
patiently at the feet of the fire-spouting monster, trembling when he is
angry, pleased when he is quiescent, and ready to abandon meekly their
homes when he renders them insupportable by his furious outbursts. Yet
these people never fail to return and risk the ever-present chances of
death and destruction. And little can we blame them for their fatalism,
when we gaze upon the glorious views that reveal themselves at this spot,
whence Naples rising proudly from the sea, the rocky islands of Ischia and
Capri, the aerial heights of Monte Sant’ Angelo and all the features of
the placid bay are seen spread around us in a panorama of unsurpassed
loveliness. Beneath lava rocks, black and sinister, that contrast
strangely in their sombre hues with the brilliant tints of sea and sky,
lie little beaches of glittering gravel that would afford delightful
retreats for meditation, were it not for the dozens of half-naked
brown-skinned imps, children of the fisher-folk of Torre del Greco, who
wallow in the warm sand or rush with joyful screams into the tepid surf.
The population must have increased not a little since those days, nearly a
century ago, when the unhappy Shelley could find peace and solitude in his
darkest hours of unrest upon these shores, where it would be well-nigh
impossible for a twentieth-century poet to espy a retreat for soothing his
soul in verse. Yet somehow, during the drowsy noontide rest when the
active life of the South ceases, if only for an hour or so, it is still
possible to catch the spirit in which that melancholy wanderer indited one
of his most exquisite lyrics:—sunshine, clear sky, murmuring seas, the
fragrance of the Italian spring, all are present to our reverie; and how
true and perfect a picture has the poet-artist drawn for us of this
beautiful Vesuvian shore!
“The sun is warm, the sky is clear,
The waves are dancing fast and bright,
Blue isles and snowy mountains wear
The purple noon’s transparent light:
The breath of the moist earth is light
Around its unexpanded buds;
Like many a voice of one delight,
The winds, the birds, the ocean floods,
The City’s voice itself is soft, like Solitude’s.
I see the Deep’s untrampled floor
With green and purple seaweeds strown;
I see the waves upon the shore,
Like light dissolved in star-showers, thrown:
I sit upon the sands alone;
The lightning of the noontide ocean
Is flashing round me, and a tone
Arises from its measured motion,
How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion?”
But it must be admitted that the seashore by Torre del Greco does not
often lend itself as a suitable spot for romantic or solitary communings
with nature; it is a busy place where the struggle for life is keen and
practical enough, and its inhabitants have little time or inclination to
bestow on the pursuit of poetry. As in all the towns of the _Terra di
Lavoro_, as this collection of human ant-hills on the eastern side of
Naples is sometimes designated, the old command given to the first parents
of mankind—“by the sweat of thy brow shalt thou eat bread”—is scrupulously
observed in Torre del Greco. It is little enough, however, that these
frugal people demand, for a hunk of coarse bread, tempered with a handful
of beans or an orange in winter or with a slice of luscious pink
water-melon or a few figs in summer, is thought to constitute a full meal
in this climate; nor are these simple viands washed down by anything more
potent than a draught of _mezzo-vino_, the weak sour wine of the country.
A dish of maccaroni or a plateful of kid or veal garnished with vegetables
is a treat to be reserved for a marriage or some great Church festival,
whilst a chicken is regarded as a luxury in which only _gran’ signori_ of
boundless wealth can afford to indulge. Amongst the many classes of
toilers with which populous Torre del Greco abounds, that of the
coral-fishers is perhaps the most interesting. There is pure romance in
the very notion of hunting for the beautiful coloured substance lying
hidden in the crystalline depths of the Mediterranean, and its quest is
not a little suggestive of azure caverns beneath the waves, peopled by
soft-eyed mermaids and strange iridescent fishes. As a matter of fact, it
would be difficult to name a harder occupation or a more dismal monotonous
existence than that of the coral-fishers, many hundreds of whom leave this
little port every spring in order to spend the summer months on the coasts
of Tripoli, Sardinia, or Sicily. The men employed, who work under contract
during some six months of unending drudgery, are by no means all natives
of Torre del Greco, but are collected from various places of the
neighbourhood, not a few of them being thrifty youths from Capri, who are
eager to amass as quickly as possible the lump sum of money requisite to
permit of marriage. It is true that the amount actually paid by the owners
of the coral fleet sounds proportionately large, yet it is in reality poor
enough recompense when measured by the ceaseless toil, the burning heat
and the wretched food, which the venture entails. The lot of the
coral-fisher has however much improved of late years, partly by measures
of government which now compel the contractors to treat their servants
more humanely, and partly by the fact that the practice of emigration in
Southern Italy has reduced the numbers of applicants for the coral-fishing
business and has thereby, indirectly at least, raised wages and bettered
the old conditions of service. A truly pitiable account is given of these
poor creatures some thirty years ago by an English writer, whose knowledge
of the Neapolitan people and character remains probably unsurpassed; and
it is some satisfaction to reflect that even in Mr Stamer’s day the bad
old oppressive system had already been somewhat tempered for the benefit
of these white slaves, who for nearly half the round of the year were
worse treated than King Bomba’s unhappy victims in the pestilent prisons
of Naples and Gaeta.
[Illustration: A CAPRIOTE FISHERMAN’S WIFE]
“Badly paid, badly fed, and hard worked is the poor coral-fisher. Compared
with his, the life of a galley-slave is one of sybaritical indolence. His
treatment was, until very recently, not one whit better than that of the
poor oppressed negro as he existed in the vivid imagination of Mrs Harriet
Beecher Stowe; immeasurably worse than that of the real Simon Pure. The
thirty ducats for which he sold his seven months’ services once paid, he
was just as much a slave as Uncle Tom of pious memory, harder worked, more
brutally handled. His _padrone_ was a sea-monster, alongside of whom Mr
Legree would have seemed a paragon of Quaker-like gentleness and
amiability. His word was law and a rope’s end well laid on his sole reply
to any remonstrance on the part of his bondsmen. For six days out of the
seven he kept them working incessantly, not unfrequently on the seventh
into the bargain, if the weather was favourable; and that they might be
strong, hearty and able to haul away, their food consisted of dry
biscuits; a dish of maccaroni with just sufficient oil to make the sign of
the cross being served out for the Sunday’s dinner.”(1)
In those “good old days,” not so very far distant, the dredging nets were
coarse and weighty, and the capstan of the clumsiest and most primitive
description, so that the coral-seeking serfs under contract were worked
like bullocks until they were often wont to fall asleep out of sheer
exhaustion as they hauled away mechanically. We can imagine then with what
raptures of joy these ill-treated mortals must have hailed the advent of
October, the month that terminated their long spell of suffering and
semi-starvation, and with what eagerness they must have returned
homewards, the more industrious to perform odd jobs during the winter
season on farms or in factories; the lazier to enjoy a well-earned holiday
of loafing on the quay or in the piazza. And although times have changed
for the better in the eyes of the coral-fisher, his lot still remains hard
enough, even in the present days of grace; whilst any employment that saps
the workman’s strength during the hot summer months and leaves him idle or
unemployed in winter time cannot well be described as a desirable trade.
Yet the temptation to obtain a considerable sum of money in advance, as is
the case in this particular industry, often proves overwhelming to the
young man of the Torres or of Castellamare, imprudently married before he
is out of his teens and with an ever-increasing family. It is so easy to
accept the proffered gold, which will keep wife and babies in comparative
comfort throughout the long hot summer; unskilled labour is paid so
lightly on these teeming shores of the Terra di Lavoro; saddled already
with children he cannot make up his feeble mind to emigrate; in short, to
go a-coralling is his sole chance, if he wishes to keep his home together
and to stave off charity or starvation from his young wife and family.
Beyond Torre del Greco we seem to escape to a certain extent from the
enveloping network of human dwellings, so that we are at last enabled to
gain some idea of the natural features of the country. The oriental
character of the landscape, which marks more or less distinctly the whole
of the Neapolitan coast-line, will at once be noticed in the domed farm
buildings, not unlike Mahommedan _koubbas_, washed a glistening white,
that stand out sharply against the lugubrious tints of the lava beds.
Above us, crowning a bosky hillock that juts forth from the mountain
flank, stands one of the many convents of the monks of Camaldoli, whose
houses are scattered throughout the breadth of Southern Italy. The
position of their Vesuvian settlement is certainly unique, for the rising
ground on which it is perched appears like some verdant oasis amid the
arid fields of sable lava. Secure in its commanding site, the monastery
has many a time been completely surrounded by burning streams, which have
invariably left the building and its woody demesne unscathed. More than
once have the good brethren, who wear the white robe of St Romualdo of
Ravenna, looked down from their convent walls upon the work of destruction
below, and have watched the waves of liquid fire surging angrily but
uselessly round the rocky base of their retreat. Hard manual labour,
prayer, solitude and contemplation: these are the chief duties enjoined by
the famous Tuscan order, and surely no more suitable place for carrying
out such precepts could have been chosen by the pious founder of this
Vesuvian convent. For what scenes on earth could be deemed more beautiful
to contemplate, we wonder, than the wide stretches of heaven and ocean, of
fertile plain and of rugged mountain, that are ever before the eyes of the
brethren; or more instructive than the constant spectacle of disappointed
human ambition and energy, which is afforded by the barren lava beds and
the ruined cities close at hand!
Descending from the slopes of Camaldoli, we cross a tract of country
wherein black lava alternates with patches of rich cultivation and of
thriving vineyards, and gaining the high road we soon reach Torre
Annunziata. Here it is evident that the manufacture of maccaroni forms the
chief industry of its population, for on all sides are to be seen the
frames filled with the golden coloured strings of _pasta_ that have been
hung up to dry in the sunshine. Every flat roof in the place, moreover, is
covered with smooth concrete and protected by a low parapet for the
spreading of the grain, and on the beach are laid huge cloths of coarse
brown material that are heaped with masses of the crude corn, whilst men
with their naked feet from time to time turn the grain so as to dry the
whole bulk. Torre Annunziata and its inland neighbour, Gragnano, are in
fact the two chief local scenes of this industry with which the Bay of
Naples has always been so closely associated, and it is here that we can
best make ourselves acquainted with the process of manufacturing
maccaroni. By following any one of the tall brown-skinned fellows,
stripped to the waist and bare-legged, who have been breathing the fresh
air of the street for a few moments, we quickly arrive at the entrance of
one of the many small factories with which the town abounds. In spite of
open doors and windows its atmosphere feels hot and stifling, for it is
impregnated with tiny particles of flour dust, which too often, alas! are
apt to affect permanently the lungs of the workmen. The dough of maccaroni
is obtained by mixing pure wheaten flour with semolina in certain
proportions, only water being used for the purpose, whilst the task of
kneading is carried out in primitive fashion by means of a lever worked
continuously by two or more men. When the dough has at length arrived at
the required consistency after some hours of steady kneading, it is placed
in a large perforated copper cylinder, each hole having a central pin at
the bottom and a valve on top. A powerful screw is then employed to press
down upon the dough, which is thus squeezed out of the imprisoning
cylinder through the holes in the serpentine shape that is so familiar to
us. On reaching a certain length these pipes, issuing from the holes, are
twisted off and are then removed for drying to the frames in the open air.
Maccaroni has, of course, many varieties of form and quality, from the
thin fluffy vermicelli, known under the poetical name of _Capilli degli
Angeli_, to the great thick pipe-stem-like article of ordinary commerce.
There are endless means of cooking and dressing this, the national dish of
Italy, but perhaps the most popular of all is _alla Napolitana_, wherein
it is served with tomato sauce, to which a sprinkling of grated Parmesan
cheese is frequently added. A compound of eggs and maccaroni, sometimes
known as a Neapolitan omelette, likewise makes an appetising dish, though
it is one that is little known to foreigners. One circumstance is patent;
the dismal so-called “maccaroni pudding” one meets with in England seems
to have nothing in common with the delicately flavoured, sustaining dish
that can be obtained for a few pence in any Southern restaurant.
Torre Annunziata has the reputation of being a dirty malodorous town,
composed of shabby stone houses and full of quarrelsome people. Well,
perhaps there is a scintilla of truth in the sweeping observation, yet if
we can contrive to endure the smells and racket of the place for a brief
space of time, there is much of human interest to be observed in the daily
scenes of its crowded beach and its noisy streets. After all, no odours of
the South can compare in all-pervading intensity with the blended aroma of
fried fish and London fog that old Drury Lane can often produce; nor are
the Torrese more dangerous to strangers or more objectionable in their
habits than the crowds of Lambeth or Seven Dials. In strength of lungs, it
must be granted, the Italian easily surpasses the Londoner, for the
Southern voice is positively alarming in its vigour and its far-reaching
power. No one—man, woman or child—can apparently speak below a scream;
even the most amiable or trivial of conversations seems to our
unaccustomed ears to portend an imminent quarrel, to so high a pitch are
the naturally harsh voices strained. Morning, noon and night the same
hubbub of men shouting, of women screeching, and of children yelling
continues for nobody minds noise in Italy, where people are troubled with
no nerves of their own and consequently have no consideration for those of
strangers. And why, therefore, should they suspend their native habits to
please a handful of cavilling _forestieri_?
A stroll through Torre Annunziata, although it possesses not a few
drawbacks, can be made both amusing and instructive; we can even find
something attractive in the quality of the local atmosphere, which
suggests at one and the same time sunshine, garlic, incense, stale fish
and wood smoke; it is the pungent but characteristic aroma of the South,
filled “with spicy odours Time can never mar.” And what truly charming
pictures do the family groups present in the wide archways giving on the
untidy courts within, full of sun and shadow and gay with bright-coloured
garments swaying in the wind! The ebon-haired young mother with teeth like
pearls and with warm-tinted cheeks sits fondling the last helpless little
addition to her growing family, whilst toddlers of any age from two to
seven, unkempt but bright-eyed and engaging, play around the door-step,
watched over by their grandmother, or may be their great-grandam, who with
her wizened face enfolded in her yellow kerchief, her skinny neck, and her
distaff in the bony fingers, looks as if she had stepped out of some
Renaissance painting of the Three Fates in a Florentine gallery. Crimson
carnations in earthenware pots stand on the steps of the outside
staircase, giving a touch of refinement to the squalid home, and from the
balcony overhead the glossy-black, yellow-billed _passer solitario_, the
favourite cage-bird of the Neapolitan poor, chirrups with apparent
cheerfulness in his wicker-work prison. Behind, in the dim shadows of the
large room, which serves as sole habitation, we can espy the inevitable
household altar with the oil lamp glimmering before the little
crude-coloured print of the Virgin and Child, and its usual accessory, the
piece of palm or olive that was blessed by the priest last Palm Sunday;
poor and mean though the chamber be, its bed linen and simple appointments
are more cleanly than might perhaps be inferred from the appearance of the
family itself. In a shady corner close by, three or four young labourers
at their mid-day rest have finished their frugal repast of bread and
beans, and are now playing eagerly the popular game of _zecchinetto_ with
a frayed and grimy pack of cards. Wives or sweethearts watch with anxious
faces from a respectful distance, for it is not meet to disturb the lords
of creation when they happen to be engaged in a game of chance. What
possibilities of farce and tragedy can be drawn from so simple, so common
a scene upon these shores, where human life is less artificially conducted
than elsewhere in Europe, and where human passions are kept under less
restraint? Terrible are the tales of jealousy and revenge, of deliberate
treachery and of uncontrolled violence, which are related of these
quick-tempered grown-up children of the South, who seem to love and hate
with the blind intensity of untutored savages.
“Lo ’nnamorato’ mmio sse chiammo Peppo,
Lo capo jocatore de le carte;
Ss’ ha jocato ’sto core a zecchinetto,
Dice ca mo’ lo venne, e mo’ lo parte.
Che n’agg’ io a fare lo caro de carte?
Vogho lo core che tinite ’m pietto!”
(“That lover of mine is called Handsome Beppo,
The best player of cards all around this way;
He’s been playing on Hearts at _zecchinetto_,
And says now they turn up, now are sorted away.
What matters the heart in the card-pack to me?
The heart in his bosom’s the heart for me!”)
Here lies the sleeping fisherman, worn out probably with hours of hauling
at the heavy nets, who is snatching a chance hour of repose, prone upon
his chest with face buried in his crossed arms. Little he seems to reck of
the damp of the soil or the heat of the sun, nor can a noisy game of
_mora_ played by a couple of his companions beside him disturb his deep
slumber. _Mora_ has ever been the classic game of the South, and indeed,
there is abundant evidence to show that it was played by the ancestors of
these dwellers in Magna Graecia hundreds of years before Pompeii was
overthrown. The game, which requires nothing but the human fingers, bears
no little resemblance to our own humble pastime of “Up Jenkin!” which may
almost be described as a species of drawing-room _mora_; perhaps some
Italian traveller in a past age may actually have introduced this form of
the southern diversion into prosaic England. The two players, face to face
and craning forward with outstretched necks, simultaneously extend their
right hands with one or more fingers pointing upward, the aim of each man
being to guess the exact number, from two to ten, jointly displayed by
both right hands. If one of them hit upon the correct figure, then he
gains one point towards the stakes, which are usually made in _centesimi_
rather than in _soldi_. How rapidly do the lean supple brown fingers flash
backwards and forwards, and with what gusto do the two frenzied combatants
yell out their numbers! _Mora_ has been a favourite recreation with these
people almost from their cradles, and he would be a bold man indeed who
would venture to challenge a Torrese at this game, for the native’s skill
and experience are almost bound to tell eventually in his favour, and the
odds are “Lombard Street to a China orange” against the outside player.
There are certain maxims too with regard to the game which are closely
observed by those who play it, as well as peculiar expressions, such as
_tutte_ to denote that all ten fingers are being shown, or _chiarella_ for
all but one. Five points usually make the game, and these are commonly
marked by holding up one or more fingers of the disengaged left
hand.—These are a few of the many sights to be witnessed by those who can
afford to endure the pestering attentions of small boys, and the
uncomplimentary staring of the adult population in such places as the
Torres or Castellamare; and such as wish to make themselves acquainted
with the details of southern life and manners cannot do better than pass
an idle hour in the fishmarket or the piazza of these little industrial
towns of the Vesuvian shore. For to regard Southern Italy from the
majestic isolation of a railway compartment or a hired carriage cannot
possibly give the traveller the smallest insight into the ordinary phases
of local life; for he is ever looking, as it were, into a picture from
which all trace of colour has vanished.
It is but a short quarter of an hour by train from Torre Annunziata to
Castellamare di Stabia, the ill-fated Stabiae of the Romans, which shared
the evil lot of Pompeii and Herculaneum. On our right we have the sea,
with the castle-topped islet of Revigliano, whilst on looking to the left
we can survey the fertile valley of the Sarno, and the shapeless mounds
which hide that precious goal of every traveller to these shores, the
buried city of Pompeii. Everywhere thrives sub-tropical vegetation:—cactus
and aloe draped in wreaths of smilax; tall straggling masses of scarlet
geranium that cling for protection to the Indian fig, and blossom in
security amid their spiky but safe retreats; shrubs of fragrant yellow
genista; clumps of purple-leaved _ricini_, as the Italians name the
castor-oil plant. If it were summer time, the daturas would be covered
with their great white floral trumpets, and every oleander bush would be
one blaze of the coarse carmine blossoms that are here called _Mazza di
San Giuseppe_, or St Joseph’s nosegay, and a very gaudy rank bouquet they
make. But in spring-time the oleander can but display long greyish leaves
and pods of snowy fluff, which is blown hither and thither like
thistle-down on the air; and it is only in flaming summer that these
regions are brightened by St Joseph’s flower, or by the still more
gorgeous masses of the mesembryanthemum, which clambers on all sides over
the lava rock and hangs in crimson festoons from tufa cliffs, making
impossibly splendid splashes of colour in the landscape.
* * * * * * *
So many writers have expatiated upon the sordid ugliness of Castellamare
and upon the beauty of the wooded slopes above the town, that a further
description of the place may well be dispensed with. Uninteresting,
however, as this industrial town appears, it boasts a long historical
record, to which its crumbling medieval castle bears witness. The great
Emperor Frederick the Second, the scholar-pope Pius the Second, and all
the monarchs of the Angevin, Aragonese and Bourbon dynasties have been
associated with this “castle by the sea.” The whole district was once the
property of that human monster Pier-Luigi Farnese, duke of Parma, heir of
Pope Paul the Third, of whose demoniacal cruelty and treachery the racy
pages of Cellini’s Memoirs give so vivid an account, and whose repulsive
face has grown familiar to us from Titian’s famous portraits in the
gallery of Naples. It was the evil Pier-Luigi’s descendant and
heiress-general of the family, Elizabeth Farnese, Queen of Spain, who
conveyed the beautiful villa and woods of Quisisana to the Bourbon kings,
and here the Neapolitan royal family for several generations sought health
(as the name of the place implies) and repose upon the breezy heights that
lie so conveniently near to the great city in full view to the west.
Nowadays the old royal villa, deserted by crowned heads since Ferdinand’s
days and fallen from its high estate to its present use of a hotel and
pension, forms with its park the chief attraction of Castellamare, where
English travellers are wont to congregate in winter, and Neapolitan and
Greek seekers of pleasure or drinkers of medicinal waters resort in the
hot summer months. The Southerners who come here for their _villeggiatura_
certainly enjoy a better time than the winter visitors, for the bulky form
of Monte Sant’ Angelo intercepts much of the sunshine, thereby rendering
the place damp and chilly in the cold season of the year. Nominally it is
the mineral springs that attract the Neapolitan folk, wherein they have a
fine choice of health-giving beverages, varying from the _acqua ferrata_,
a mild chalybeate that is found useful as a tonic, to the powerful _acqua
del Muraglione_, that is warranted to reduce the stoutest mortal to a mere
shadow of his former self in a trice. But though the waters may be
occasionally sipped of a morning and wry faces made, it is in reality the
warm sea-bathing on the shore, where people spend hours pickling in tepid
salt water, and also the cool rides or walks amongst the shady alleys of
sweet chestnut and ilex woods of Quisisana and Monte Coppola, which draw
hither in summer the elegant world of Naples, and even of Athens, to visit
Castellamare. The leafy groves on the zephyr-swept hill sides, once sacred
to the pleasures of Bourbon tyrants, now ring with peals of noisy
laughter, with gallant compliments, and with the harsh shouting of the
_ciucciari_, the leaders of the poor over-driven donkeys. Unhappy patient
beasts! usually covered with raws and galls, that are urged forward at a
gallop by the remorseless stick, or even by the goad, for the Neapolitan
donkey-boy is absolutely callous to the feelings of his animal. Not that
he is cruel out of sheer cussedness, for cruelty’s sake, for he can be
really kind to his dog or his cat; but the beast of burden, the helpless
uncomplaining servant of man, suffers terribly at his hands. It is useless
to remonstrate or argue with the young ruffian, who at our sharp reprimand
will merely open wide his big black eyes and stare in genuine amazement.
_Non sono Cristiani_—they have no souls, and the beasts are their property
and not yours; what does it matter then to you how they are treated,
provided they carry you properly? That is the sum total of the
donkey-boy’s argument, and he has high ecclesiastical authority to back up
his private theory, if he had the wit to enter into a discussion with us
on the subject. Almost equally hopeless is it to point to the simple fact
that a well-groomed, well-treated animal lasts longer than a half-starved,
mutilated scare-crow. “How old is your horse?” we once asked a driver in
the south. “He is very old indeed, _eccelenza_,” was the reply; “he must
be nearly twelve!” On being informed that horses often worked well up to
twenty years old and over in England, he let us infer, quite politely,
that he thought we were romancing. Tenderness towards the dumb creation is
a common, not to say a prevailing characteristic of the Anglo-Saxon race,
and it must be confessed that the thoughtless and horrible cruelty towards
animals witnessed on all sides in the Neapolitan Riviera amounts to a
serious drawback to the full enjoyment of its many beauties and amenities.
Matters are improving a little of late, it is only fair to add. There is
an Italian Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, and its
officials have done some good in the streets of Naples itself, but
naturally its new ideas have not yet penetrated far into the country
districts.
[Illustration: ROAD NEAR CASTELLAMARE]
To the healthy and energetic the most delightful excursion that
Castellamare can offer is the ascent to the summit of Monte Sant’ Angelo,
that monarch of the Bay of Naples, whose lofty crest gleams with snowy
streaks until the spring be well advanced. The lazy or the feeble can make
use of one of the poor oppressed donkeys, but it is better to engage its
ragged master, who without his four-footed drudge to whack and kick is a
harmless enough being, to act as guide over the steep ill-defined pathway
that leads ever upwards. As we slowly ascend through the sub-tropical
region of fig and vine, of olive and carouba, we question our guide, who
in spite of his bright eyes and well-knit frame seems about as intelligent
a companion as the poor ass left behind in the stall, where he is
enjoying, let us hope, an unexpected holiday. It is not easy to extract
information from our native attendant, yet with a little judicious
pressing we learn from him that the top of the mountain, which is our
bourne, was once inhabited by evil spirits, until a holy hermit took up
his abode on the peak, since when his sanctity has kept the place
tolerably clear of witches and foul incubi. Wicked sprites, however, still
haunt the spreading woods of beech and chestnut which we must presently
traverse, and our guide (whose name is Vincenzo) admits to us that he
would not care to venture there alone, even in broad daylight. There is,
he tells us, warming up at last to the subject, much gold hidden there,
which the spirits guard so jealously that they are ready to tear in pieces
any mortal who is clever enough to find and bold enough to rifle their
secret hoards. Only a priest, on account of his sacred office, is reckoned
safe from their iniquitous spells. “But has not any one dared,” we ask,
“to go in company with a holy man, to search for this hidden treasure?”
Well, yes, he had been told that men from Vico had once ventured up into
the woods to search for the gold. With a little encouragement Vincenzo is
finally prevailed upon to give us the whole story, which is evidently of
somewhat recent date.
Once upon a time there were four men, one of them being a priest, who
lived in Vico, and one of these men had often been told by his father that
in the forests near the top of Monte Sant’ Angelo there lay buried a chest
full of gold—_molto! molto!_ The father of the man had been himself in his
youth to search for the treasure, but find it he never could, for he would
never take a priest with him to avert the spells of the evil spirits of
the mountain sides, who kept the place hidden. So this time the man chose
two out of his friends, the boldest and the trustiest he could fix upon,
to accompany him, and at the same time he obtained the promise of a
cousin, who was a priest, to assist in the undertaking. All four made
their way up to the woods, and whilst the three men were digging and
searching, the priest continued to read aloud the incantations out of a
certain book he had brought with him for the purpose. In course of time
the chest was discovered to the joy of all, and sure enough it was bulging
with the desired gold pieces. They opened it without difficulty, and the
four friends divided its contents in equal shares. Scarcely had the work
of division been carried out, than there came a loud voice issuing from
the unknown, calling out the question:—“_Che ferete con questo tesoro?_”
“_Mangeremo, beveremo!_” boldly replied one of the group, to whom this
sudden accession of wealth offered dreams of unlimited platters of
maccaroni and countless flasks of ruby-red Gragnano in the future. “We
shall eat, we shall drink, but we shall also make abundant alms!” called
out another—let us hope it was the priest!—but no sooner had the word
_elemosina_ (alms) been uttered than there was heard a most terrific
rattling of chains, the gold pieces turned to dead leaves in the
affrighted mortals’ hands, and the four men took to their heels and fled
in alarm down the mountain flank.
Vincenzo believes this tale implicitly, just as it was related to him, and
he adds to combat our own incredulity that the priest and one of the men
who took part in this strange adventure were still living and ready to
confirm the story, but that of the remaining two, one was now dead, and
the other had been deaf and dumb ever since the event. It seem a pity to
criticise Vincenzo’s simple little narrative, which makes a pretty
fairy-story and points a sound moral, as it stands.
We enter the fresh scented woods that have now replaced in our climb the
rich cultivated crops and terraced gardens, and here amidst the clumps of
ancient chestnuts our guide points out to us the great snow-pits, the
contents of which are used to cool the water sold by the _acquaioli_
during hot summer nights in the sultry streets of Naples. These pits are
dug about fifty feet deep, and half as much across, being conical in shape
with a grating placed a short distance above the tapering base to allow
the melted snow to drain off into the soil. The sides of each pit are
first well-lined with straw and leafy branches, and the new-fallen snow
shovelled in and forced into a solid mass by pressure from above, whilst
on top is placed a sound thatched roof. As we wander through the silent
woods we see patches of anemones, white and blue, lying upon the
leaf-strewn ground, and beside them in many places are tufts of the pale
starry primroses; coarse spurge, and lush masses of the hellebore with its
large pale green flowers and dark leaves are common enough on all sides.
From amongst the naked trees we emerge into the bare bleak stony stretches
that lead to the summit, covered with the coarse but aromatic vegetation
that clothes the dry limestone wastes of the south. How truly marvellous
is the description of these wind-swept, weed-grown solitudes that Robert
Browning presents to us in what is perhaps the most truly Italian in
feeling of all his poems, “The Englishman in Italy!” For here with the
rich imagination, worthy of some of Shelley’s finest flights, is mingled
an accurate appreciation of Nature, of which Wordsworth might well be
proud; for the Lake poet himself could not have improved upon this
exquisite description of the various shrubs and plants of a limestone
hill-top in Italy.
“The wild path grew wilder each instant,
And place was e’en grudged
’Mid the rock-chasms and piles of loose stones,
Like the loose broken teeth
Of some monster which climbed there to die
From the ocean beneath—
Place was grudged to the silver-grey fume-weed
That clung to the path,
And dark rosemary ever a-dying,
That, spite the wind’s wrath,
So loves the salt rock’s face to seaward,
And lentisks as staunch
To the stone where they root and bear berries,
And ... what shows a branch
Coral-coloured, transparent, with circlets
Of pale sea-green leaves.”
Above our heads hovers a kite, performing graceful circles in the keen
clear air and breaking the oppressive silence of the place with his shrill
screams, for his mate must have her nest hidden in some cleft of yon grey
towering cliff. A pair of crested hoopoes with brown plumage and ruddy
breasts keep fluttering a little way before us, uttering from time to time
their curious notes of alarm. Mercifully these handsome birds have escaped
the fowler, who lays his snares even amongst the spirit-haunted crags of
this desolate region. The hoopoe, though a very rare visitor to our
northern shores, is fairly common on the Mediterranean coast, and he would
be still more frequently encountered, were it not for his hereditary
enemy, Man. There is a venerable legend concerning this interesting
bird—_bubbola_, the Italians call him—which relates how ages ago on the
scorching plains of Palestine a number of hoopoes once followed King
Solomon as he was riding, and in order to protect the great king from the
fierce rays of the sun, they formed themselves into a living screen to
shelter the royal head. Grateful for this welcome attention, Solomon Ben
David at eventide sent for the king of the Hoopoes to ask him what reward
he would like to receive for this service, and the answer was promptly
made that a crown of pure gold on the head would be acceptable. The Jewish
monarch smiled grimly as he granted the request, whereupon immediately
each bird found his poll decorated with a tuft of pure golden feathers,
and mightily pleased with their new magnificence were the conceited
hoopoes. But alas! the news was quickly spread abroad that there were to
be seen strange birds with plumes of real gold, and the eternal lust of
gain at once set men in quest of the hoopoes, whom they began to slay
wholesale with stones, arrows, and traps in order to obtain the coveted
precious metal they bore on their heads. In despair, the king of the
hoopoes then flew to the monarch sitting on his ivory throne at Jerusalem,
and begged him to change their golden crowns for crests of feathers.
Solomon the Wise smilingly gave the order; at once lovely red and black
feathers took the place of the golden plumes, and the slaughter of the
hoopoes in Palestine forthwith ceased. And the story, argues the recorder
of this lesson upon the folly of personal adornment, must of necessity be
true, for it is certain that the hoopoes bear a crown of feathers upon
their heads unto this day.
Slowly we toil up the last portion of the peak, until we reach the ruined
chapel of St Michael upon its summit, which is still a resort of local
pilgrims, although in these days of doubt and avarice, when “sins are so
many and saints so few,” the statue of the Archangel since its removal
from this spot no longer perspires with the sacred dew, which the priests
used to collect with cotton wool on the first day of August and distribute
to the peasants of the district. Like the oil that was once wont to exude
from the blessed relics of St Andrew in the Cathedral of Amalfi, _non c’è
più_; we may possess motor cars and radium, but we must contrive to exist
without these precious exhibitions of the miraculous.
It would be sheer folly to attempt a full description of that glorious
view, comprising the bays of Gaeta, Naples, and Salerno; of Vesuvius with
his ascending smoky clouds; of the endless chain of the snow-tipped
Abruzzi Mountains that bound the vision to the east; of the vast expanse
of the Mediterranean, stretching in one unbroken sheet of turquoise to the
west, varied by violet patches of reflected cloud, and studded by
innumerable ships, from the vast liners to the tiny fishing craft with
their glistening sails, like snow-white sea-swallows resting on the calm
waters. Again we turn to Robert Browning, most human of poets and most
kindly of philosophers, to find adequate expression for the thoughts we
dare not, cannot utter.
“Oh, heaven and the terrible crystal!
No rampart excludes
Your eye from the life to be lived
In the blue solitudes.
Oh, those mountains, their infinite movement!
Still moving with you;
For ever some new head and breast of them
Thrusts into view
To observe the intruder; you see it
If quickly you turn,
And before they escape you surprise them.
They grudge you should learn
How the soft plains they look on, lean over
And love (they pretend)
—Cower beneath them, the flat sea-pine crouches,
The wild fruit-trees bend;
E’en the myrtle leaves curl, shrink and shut,
All is silent and grave:
’Tis a sensual and timorous beauty.
How fair! but a slave.”
[Illustration: MONTE FAITO, CASTELLAMARE]
We descend by the slopes of Monte Faito in the quiet of the evening,
facing the distant headland of Posilipo and the sunset, where above the
horizon we see collecting thick masses of dark purple cloud, which augur a
stormy morrow. Above us the peak of the Archangel is already wreathed in
garlands of white mist, a sure sign of coming tempest, and it is amid a
lurid light from the sinking sun that we hasten downwards, bending our
steps in the direction of Pozzano, where the form of its convent stands
out sharply defined against the background of the Bay. Night is rapidly
approaching, and in the gathering darkness as we strike the road below the
convent, we can already hear the ominous roaring and seething of the
waters under the cliff, lashed to fury by the first deep breaths of the
coming squall. Hurrying along the broad smooth roadway it is not long
before we reach our hotel door, where we bid good night to Vincenzo, just
as the first heavy drops of rain have begun to fall; pleasantly exhausted
after our long excursion, we are ready to appreciate to the full the
warmth and good cheer of the hospitable Hotel Quisisana.
CHAPTER III
LA CITTÀ MORTA
Pompeii can never be visited without the same haunting conviction, the
same oppressive thought: how terribly difficult it is to understand the
City of the Dead which holds in so small a space the whole secret of the
antique world! There are far more grandiose and impressive ruins to be
seen in Rome; the city of Timgad in Northern Africa is more complete as a
specimen of a Roman settlement than the half-excavated town near Vesuvius;
yet here, and here only, can the men of the past stretch hands, as it
were, across the barrier of eighteen intervening centuries to the dweller
of to-day, and the dead-and-gone spirits of a highly organized
civilization can whisper into the living ears of the twentieth century.
For Pompeii will speak to us, if we will take the trouble to learn the
tongue in which alone she can convey the secret of her story. It is
needless to say that this language is not obtainable by one or two cursory
visits to the Naples Museum, and a few hurried half-hours given to the
contents of the guide-book; no, the language of Pompeii, which constitutes
the key of access to the hidden chambers of the Roman world, can only be
acquired with much expenditure of precious time and with infinite trouble.
But “life is short and time is fleeting,” and our bustling age expects to
seize its required knowledge in the twinkling of an eye; well, in that
case the story of Pompeii must remain a sealed volume to the traveller,
who is conveyed to the City of the Dead in a train crammed with
fellow-tourists; who eats a heavy unwholesome luncheon to the sound of
mandoline-players twanging sprightly Neapolitan airs; and who is finally
piloted round the sacred area by a chattering guide in the oppressive heat
and glare of a sunny afternoon. Fatigued in mind and body, such an one
will sink with ill-concealed relief upon the dusty velvet cushions of the
returning train, thoroughly disappointed in the vaunted marvels of
Pompeii, which his imagination had led him to expect. A vague impression
of low broken walls, of narrow—to his eyes absurdly narrow—streets, of
broken columns and of peeling frescoes fills his tired brain, as he is
borne back to his hotel in Naples. But this disenchantment is his own
fault, for no one who sets foot within the Sea Gate of the buried city in
the proper spirit of knowledge and appreciation can possibly fail to enjoy
the privilege which has thus been afforded him—
“to stand within the City Disinterred;
And hear the autumnal leaves like light footfalls
Of spirits passing through the streets; and hear
The Mountain’s slumberous voice at intervals
Thrill through those roofless halls.”
Before passing through the Porta Marina into the purlieus of the city, let
us first of all instil into our minds the essential difference that exists
between the ruins of Pompeii and the historic fragments of Rome or Athens.
When we gaze upon the well-known sites of the vanished glories of the
Palatine or the Acropolis, we experience no effort in looking backward
through the vista of the past and in conjuring up some vague
representation of the scenes that were once enacted in these places; the
more imaginative feel the very air vibrating with the unseen spirits of
men and women famous in the world’s history. He must be indeed a
Philistine or a dullard who cannot contrive to arouse a passing exaltation
at the thought of treading in the footsteps of Cicero and the Caesars in
Rome, of Pericles and Socrates in Athens, for the very soil of the Forum
and the stones of the citadel of Pallas seem impregnated with the very
essence of history. But this is far from being the case at Pompeii, where
long careful study of details and a grasp of hard facts are really of more
avail than a poetic imagination in reclothing with flesh the dry bones of
the past, for the importance of the Campanian city is almost purely
social. The _names_ of many of its prominent citizens are certainly
familiar to us from inscriptions found, yet who were these persons that we
should take so deep an interest in their lives and fates? Who were Pansa
the ædile, Eumachia the priestess, Caecilius Jucundus, Aulus Vettius and
Epidius Rufus, and a score of other Pompeian worthies? The answer is, they
were officials or simple dwellers in a flourishing provincial town; they
had no especial literary or public reputation; their names were probably
little known beyond the walls of their own city. Imagine an English
country town, such as Exeter or Shrewsbury, suddenly overwhelmed by some
unforeseen freak of Nature and afterwards embalmed in the manner of
Pompeii as a curiosity for the edification of future ages. To what extent,
we ask, would the discovery of a place of this size and population supply
the existing dweller with a complete impression of our national life and
civilization in the opening years of the twentieth century? The reply will
be that it would give a very good idea of the average provincial town, but
that it would hardly serve as a fair criterion to judge of the life
pursued in the capital, or in the really large cities. Such a comparison
will afford us a certain clue to the unveiling of the mysteries of
Pompeii.
For the city at the mouth of the Sarno was an ancient Campanian
settlement, founded long before the days wherein Greek adventurers beached
their triremes on the shores of the Siren. It was a native community of
Oscans, deriving its name from the Oscan word _pompe_ (five), and, unlike
Paestum, it appears to have retained its original appellation under all
its successive masters. Its primitive inhabitants seem to have
intermingled with their Hellenic victors, and to have grown civilized by
intercourse with them. Temples of heavy Doric architecture were raised;
walls and watch-towers were built; and by the time the city fell into the
hands of the encroaching Romans, it had become a flourishing place with
some twenty to thirty thousand inhabitants, owing its prosperity to its
excellent situation at the mouth of the river, which made Pompeii a
convenient port to serve the rich district of Campania that lies eastward
of Vesuvius. Nuceria (the modern Nocera) and the larger city of Nola were
both dependent on it, for the Sarno was in those days navigable, so that
ships bringing Egyptian corn and Eastern merchandise frequently left the
Pompeian harbour and sailed up stream to unload their cargoes at these
cities. Let us picture then to ourselves a compact town, an irregular oval
in form, surrounded by walls pierced by eight gates and embellished with
twelve towers; its eastern extremity towards Nocera containing the
Amphitheatre, and its most westerly point marked by the Herculaneum gate
leading to the Street of Tombs. Southward, we must imagine the sea much
closer to its walls than at the present day, for the alluvial deposits
have in the course of nearly two thousand years added many acres of solid
ground to the shores of the Bay. Behind the city to the north rose the
mountain side, not seared with the traces of lava as in these days, nor
surmounted by a smoking cone, but radiant with vineyards and gardens which
extended unbroken up to the very rim of the ancient crater. Amidst the
greenery of the luxuriant slopes peeped forth innumerable farms and villas
of wealthy Romans, for this exquisite spot had long become an abode of
cultured leisure. Within the closely packed streets of the town itself
there were to be found few open spaces except the Forum, and perhaps a
small park in front of the amphitheatre, for the place was prosperous,
though not wealthy, and its chief citizens were forced to remain content
with the tiny gardens enclosed within the walls of their own dwellings.
Internally Pompeii presented, like many another Roman town, marks of its
six hundred years of existence. There was at least one perfect Doric
temple; there were Oscan-Grecian buildings, notably the so-called “House
of the Surgeon,” with its air of old-fashioned simplicity; there were
houses of the Republican period; there were numberless dwellings of the
Imperial era; there were unfinished structures that were being completed
at the time of the city’s overthrow. For, sixteen years before Vesuvius
suddenly awoke from its long sleep, the neighbourhood had been visited by
the severe earthquake shock of 63, and the effects produced by this
disaster had not nearly been effaced, when the great event of 79
transformed the town into a huge museum for the delight and instruction of
future generations. Pompeii therefore preserves the marks of more than
half a thousand years of civilization, so that those who will take the
necessary trouble can trace within its area the gradual progress of its
social and political life from the far-off days of Greeks and Oscans to
the reign of the Emperor Titus. The case of a ruined Exeter or Shrewsbury
could not be widely different. The students of ensuing ages would be able
to find in the dead town one or two churches of Norman or Plantagenet
times; portions of medieval city walls and gateways, perhaps even some
undoubted traces of Roman baths or fortifications; some few public
buildings erected under Tudor or Stuart sovereigns; a large number of the
plain roomy mansions of the Georgian period; and, last of all, a
preponderating quantity of nineteenth century structures of every
description—churches, warehouses, factories, inns, barracks, shops,
dwelling-houses. Many would be the inscriptions and monuments we should
find in such a town, alluding to private and public persons utterly
unknown to English history, but more or less noteworthy in local annals:
grandees of civic life, soldiers, philanthropists, clergymen, _et hoc
genus omne_. Future generations of scholars would doubtless strive eagerly
to obtain details of the careers of these provincial worthies, who filled
municipal offices in the reigns of Queen Victoria and King Edward, in
order to throw more light upon the period wherein they flourished. Let us
apply then the same principles to the study of Pompeii _mutatis mutandis_,
for in our quest of better knowledge of the old Roman life we fix
anxiously upon every detail concerning the leading personages of the dead
city. Nevertheless, it is its existence in the aggregate that proves of
surpassing interest to us; we desire to learn of the daily tasks and
occupations of the mass of its population, rather than to become
acquainted with the private histories of its leading individuals; we study
the former, in fact, only as a means to a definite end. We cry for
information, which to a certain extent we can secure, as to how an average
Roman city was administered, provisioned, drained; how its inhabitants
passed their time both in leisure and in business; how they amused
themselves in their homes and in the theatre; what they ate and what they
drank—the endless trifles of human life, in short, which like the
_tesseræ_, the tiny cubes of their own mosaic pavements, go to make up a
complete picture out of a thousand fragments. Not a few of the cubes in
this case are missing, it is true, nor are they ever likely to be found;
nevertheless, we own an abundant supply wherewith we can piece together a
tolerably accurate picture of the life of a Roman provincial city during
the first century of the Christian era.
It is of course quite outside our province to attempt any detailed account
of the wonders of Pompeii. The reader who desires full information must
turn to the elaborate works of Mau and Helbig, of Gell and Overbeck, to
say nothing of the descriptive pages, full of condensed knowledge,
contained in Murray’s and Baedeker’s guide-books in order to obtain a
clear impression of all he wishes to inspect. We can but dwell on a point
here and there, and even then but lightly and superficially, for any
endeavour on our part to add to the statements and theories of the great
archaeologists already cited would be indeed a matter of supererogation
and presumption.
Entering then by the Marine Gate, and pursuing our course eastwards along
the lines of naked broken house-fronts, we reach the great rectangular
space of the Forum. Here at its southern extremity let us select a shady
corner, for the sun beats down fiercely upon the bare ruins at every
season of the year, and even on a winter’s afternoon the air often
shimmers with the heat haze, so that in no place on earth is the use of an
umbrella so necessary or desirable as at Pompeii.
What an ideal spot for the founding of a city! That is our first
impression, as we glance across the broad sunlit enclosure on to the
empurpled slopes of Vesuvius rising grandly above the broken columns of
the great temple of the Capitoline Jove; behind us, we know, is the azure
Bay with Capri and the Sorrentine cape lying on its unruffled bosom, so
that we stand between sea and mountain to north and south, whilst we have
the luxuriant slopes of Vesuvius to westward, and to the east the rich
valley of the Sarno, thickly dotted with groves and hamlets. One element
alone is wanting in the glorious scene before us—Life; it will be our duty
and pleasure to re-invest as far as possible this empty space before us
with the semblance of the busy crowds that once flitted in and out of its
colonnades and porticoes; to rebuild in imagination its shapeless ruins,
so that we may obtain a fleeting picture of the Pompeian Forum in early
Imperial days.
[Illustration: THE FORUM, POMPEII]
Conceive, then, in front of us, instead of this long bare stretch flanked
by broken walls and strewn with shapeless fragments of brick and stone, an
immense double arcade, two stories in height, affording ample protection
against sun or rain and enclosing an oblong pavement whereon are set
numerous statues of emperors or private citizens, occupying lofty
positions of honour above the heads of the surging throng below. Imagine
that group of shattered pillars, which obstructs our full view of the
distant cone of Vesuvius, transformed into an imposing temple, covered
with polychrome decoration, not in the best of taste according to our
modern ideas of art, but gorgeous and cheerful in the clear atmosphere of
the south. Rebuild, in the mind’s eye, the Basilica and the temple of
Apollo on the left, and straight before us, as we look forward from our
coign of vantage at the narrow southern end of the colonnade, let us plant
the three dominant statues of Augustus, Claudius and Agrippina to form our
foreground. If we can construct by stress of fancy some such setting of
classical architecture, gay with primary colours and gilding and graceful
in design, it is easier to people the Pompeian Forum with the masses of
humanity that once mingled here. For we have the knowledge of modern
Italian life to guide us to a certain extent; we have seen the swarms of
citizens who to-day fill the main piazzas of the towns, especially those
of the provincial type, where the morning market is held and the chief
cafés and shops are situated. But if the general use of the piazza is
characteristic of the modern second-class Italian city, this concentration
of life was far more marked in the ancient Roman town, wherein the Forum
must have appeared as the very heart of the whole body social and politic.
Roman city life indeed displayed two strongly antagonistic phases:—the
utmost privacy in the home, the most public exhibition in the Forum, where
every trade and form of business were carried on in the open air, and
whither pursuit of gain, or pleasure, or religious duty led all the
citizens to direct their steps. For, as we have already shown, almost all
the public life of the place was concentrated within this space and its
surroundings; temples, markets, shops, law courts, municipal offices, all
abutted on the Forum; it was not merely the chief, but the only place that
drew together the daily crowd, bent alike on business or amusement. No
chariots were permitted to cross the area sacred to the claims of
money-making, of gossip, and of worship; so that we must picture to
ourselves a great mass of people undisturbed by the passing of vehicles,
or by the shouts and whip-crackings of the noisy charioteers—was ever such
a thing as a quiet Italian coachman, ancient or modern, we digress to
wonder! All was orderly and decorous when compared with the quarrelling,
screaming groups of citizens that block the congested streets of modern
Naples. Happily for us various paintings of the Forum of Pompeii have been
discovered, and these are naturally of immense value in helping us to a
proper understanding of the habits and methods of the people, and of the
general appearance of the Forum itself during its busiest hours. The
costumes of men, women and children; the articles of clothing and of food
ready for sale; the little knots of loiterers or gossips; the citizens
intent on reading the municipal notices that are herein portrayed, all
combine to present us with an authentic picture of Pompeian and therefore
of Roman civic life. “There is nothing new under the sun,” grumbled the
Preacher many centuries before the city under Vesuvius had reached its
zenith of civilization, and it must be confessed that the general
impression conveyed after studying the contemporary pictures of antique
life does not differ very widely from that which we obtain by observing
present Italian conditions. For the frescoes in the Naples Museum and in
certain of the Pompeian houses seem to recall strongly the scenes of the
piazza, where all the elements of society, irrespective of rank or
station, are still wont to congregate. Differences of dress, of manner, of
custom are doubtless evident enough, yet somehow we perceive an essential
sameness in these two representations of classical and modern Italy.
Nevertheless, these simple and often rude wall-paintings furnish us with
many pieces of information that we search for in vain amidst the ancient
authors, who naturally considered the commonplace everyday scenes of life
beneath the notice of contemporary record. We are enabled to learn, for
instance, how the citizens were usually dressed in the Forum, and how, in
an age when hats and umbrellas were practically non-existent, the pointed
hood, like that of the Arab burnous, was often used to cover the head in
cold or wet weather. Again, it is easy to perceive from the same source
that the diet of the Pompeians must have resembled closely that of their
present descendants; even the shape of the loaves has in most cases
continued unchanged to the present day. And one curious coincidence is
certainly worth mentioning, in that a peculiar method of preparing figs
with caraway seeds, which was long supposed to be a local speciality of a
remote town in Central Italy, has now been recognized as a common method
of dressing this fruit for the table at Pompeii, for large quantities of
figs so treated have been unearthed in shops and kitchens. Such grains of
information as the wearing of hoods and the preserving of figs may appear
trifling enough at first sight, yet it is from a number of petty details
such as these that we are assisted to an intimate understanding of a state
of society extinct nearly two thousand years ago.
Close beside us on the eastern side of the Forum is set the Chalcidicum,
the large building of the priestess Eumachia, one of the most gracious
personalities of Pompeii with which the modern world has become
acquainted. It was this lady who generously presented this structure, one
of the handsomest and most solid of the public buildings of the city, to
the fullers to serve as their exchange, wherein goods might be exposed
upon benches and tables for the convenience alike of sellers and
purchasers. “Priestess Eumachia,” remarks a modern critic, “has done the
thing well; no expense has been spared in the building and its
decorations. The columns of the portico are of white marble; the statues
of Piety and Concord, works of art; and the flower-borders along the
panelled walls, prettily conceived and carefully executed. After so much
plaster and stucco, it is a relief to see something so solid and genuine.
When a third-rate city apes the capital, there must needs be a certain
amount of sham. But at Pompeii it is all sham, or next door to it. In the
entire city are not more than half a dozen edifices whose columns are of
real marble, the bas-reliefs and cornices of anything more solid than
stucco; and of these half-dozen, the Exchange heads the list.”
We feel tolerably secure in assigning this fine building to the early
years of the Emperor Tiberius, and in naming the Emperor’s mother, Livia,
as the divinity to whom it was dedicated. The statue of Concord with the
golden horn of plenty doubtless once adorned the large pedestal which
still stands in the eastern apse of the Exchange, but though the figure
and emblem were those of Concordia, the face bore certainly the features
of Imperial Livia. Yet more interesting than the various speculations as
to the actual uses of this edifice and the different names of the statues
which once embellished its alcoves, is the circumstance that the marble
portrait of the foundress herself has been discovered. It is true that
only a copy in plaster now occupies the pedestal at the back of the apse
where Eumachia’s statue once stood, for the original has been removed for
safety to Naples, but it is not difficult to call to mind the calm gentle
face of this Pompeian Lady Bountiful, and her graceful figure in its
flowing robes. The existence of this statue adds undoubtedly a touch of
special human interest to the whole building, and we find our minds
excited by the brief inscription which still informs the curious that the
fullers of Pompeii erected this portrait in marble in grateful
appreciation “to Eumachia, a city-priestess, daughter of Lucius
Eumachius.”
Outside the Chalcidicum, at the corner of the lane usually termed Via
dell’ Abbondanza, is to be seen a pathetic little memorial of the working
life of the city: the fountain of Concordia Augusta, the divinity of
Eumachia’s noble building hard by. Dusty and heating is the business of
fulling cloth, and it generates thirst, so that it is but natural to find
a fountain close at hand, whereat the labourers could refresh their
parched throats. With what eagerness must the exhausted toilers during
those long summers of centuries past have leaned forward to press their
human lips to the cool mouth of the sculptured goddess that ejected with
pleasing gurgles a volume of water into the basin below! That this
fountain proved a boon to weary citizens is evident enough, for the
features of water-spouting Concordia are half worn away by thirsty human
kisses, and her suppliants’ hands have left deep smooth furrows in the
stone-work of the basin, whereon they were wont to support their bodies,
so as to direct the cooling draught into the dry and dusty gullet. In
Italian cities to-day we can frequently observe some exhausted labourer
bend deftly downwards to snatch a drink of water from the mouth of some
fantastic figure in a public fountain. Who has not paused, for instance,
beside Tacca’s famous bronze boar in the Florentine market-place without
noting an incident of this kind? If we ourselves are too dainty to place
our own aristocratic lips where our fellow-mortals have pressed theirs,
not so are the abstemious descendants of the ancient Romans, the Italians,
whose minds remain untroubled by any nasty-nice qualms of possible
infection.
Here then is the setting of the picture, and we must ourselves endeavour
to repeople the empty space with the crowds of high and low that once
collected here.
“It is high change, and the Forum is crowded. All Pompeii is here, and his
wife. _Patres conscripti_, inclined to corpulence, taking their
constitutional, exquisites lazily sauntering up and down the pavements;
decurions discussing the affairs of the nation, and the last news from
Rome; city magnates fussing, merchants chaffering, clients petitioning,
parasites fawning, soldiers swaggering, and Belisarius begging at the
gate.... It is a bright and animated scene. Beneath, the crowded Forum,
with its colonnades and statues, at one end a broad flight of steps
leading to the Temple of Jupiter, at the other a triumphal arch; on one
side the Temple of Venus and the Basilica; on the other the Macellum, the
Temple of Mercury, the Chalcidicum; overhead the deep blue sky. Mingled
with the hum of many voices and the patter of feet on the travertine
pavement are the ringing sounds of the stonemasons’ chisels and hammers,
for the Forum is undergoing a complete restoration. Although fifteen years
have elapsed since the city was last visited by earthquake, the damage
then done to the public buildings has not been entirely repaired. First
the Gods, then the people. The temples of Jupiter, Venus, and Mercury are
completed, but the Forum and Chalcidicum are still in the workmen’s
hands.”(2)
With this fleeting glimpse at the public life of the city, let us now turn
our attention to its domestic arrangements. Of the many houses which have
been excavated of recent years under the truly admirable superintendence
of Signor Fiorelli, none is better calculated to give us a striking
impression of the working details of an upper-class Roman household than
the private dwelling which is known equally under the two names of the
Casa Nuova and the House of the Vettii;—perhaps the former name has now
ceased to own any significance, since the buildings were laid bare as far
back as the winter of 1894-5. An hour or two spent in a careful inspection
of this house and its contents is to most persons worth four times the
same amount of time occupied in aimless wandering amongst the hot glaring
streets of the city, peeping into this courtyard and that, and listening
to the interminable tales of guide or custodian. If we study the Casa
Nuova intelligently, lovingly and minutely, it will not be long before we
obtain a tolerable grasp of Roman life and manners, which will prove of
immense service and of genuine delight. What then is it, the question will
be asked, that makes the House of the Vettii so valuable as an example of
antique architecture and decoration, in preference to other mansions which
can boast an equal and often a greater distinction? The answer is simple
enough: it is because this particular group of buildings has been allowed
to remain as far as practicable in the exact condition wherein it was
originally unearthed, when its various rooms and courts were once more
exposed to the light of day. For until the clearing of this “new house” a
decade or so ago, no proper opportunity had so far been afforded to the
amateur of our own times of judging for himself the interior of a Roman
dwelling in full working order, and with all its furniture, paintings, and
utensils complete. Up to this, almost every object of value had been
removed at once for safety, every fresco even of importance had been cut
bodily out of its setting and placed in one of those immense halls on the
ground floor of the Museum in Naples. How well do we remember those gaunt
chilly chambers, filled from pavement to ceiling with painted fragments of
all sizes, a medley of domestic subjects and of classical myths! Torn from
the walls they were specially executed to adorn, divorced from their
proper scheme of surrounding ornament, these wan dejected ghosts stare at
us like faces out of a mist. The uninitiated cannot find pleasure in them,
for they have no pretention to be called works of art; on the contrary
they form an inherent part of a conventional system of house decoration.
The classical student can of course find many points of interest in the
incidents portrayed, but all charm of local environment is absent;—it is,
in short, impossible to judge of Roman decoration from this collection of
crumbling, fading pieces of painted stucco. It would be as easy to imagine
the effect of a rose-bush in full bloom from the sight of a few withered
rose-buds, pressed until every vestige of colour had left their petals, as
to understand the significance of antique domestic art from the contents
of the Museo Nazionale.
But here, in the House of the Vettii, the public was for the first time
initiated into the mysteries of true Roman life; here it was admitted to
gaze upon the fruits of classical taste and refinement, and to contrast
them, favourably or unfavourably, with prevailing modern standards. The
Casa Nuova has been left as an object lesson, a complete museum in itself,
wherein every daily incident of Pompeian life, every domestic secret,
reveal themselves to our inquisitive eyes. Here in the roofless halls we
can be taken from entrance to dining-hall, from _atrium_ to sleeping
rooms, spying into the minutest detail of shape, size and colour, as
though we were seriously intending to rent the house for our own
habitation. The last tenant has even left his money-chest in his hall, his
pots and pans in the kitchen, and as we inspect his utensils, we wonder if
they would suit our own requirements to-day. Of portable objects of
value—plate, jewels, statuettes of precious metals and the like—belonging
to the late owner, there is certainly no trace, for Signor Fiorelli’s
labourers were not the first to break the deep silence of this buried
mansion. For it was the survivors of the stricken town, the citizens of
Pompeii themselves, who were the foremost pioneers to excavate, and they
carried off every work of art they could conveniently remove. Cutting from
above into the deposit of ashes that filled the streets, they managed to
reach in course of time the level of the ground, after which they
tunnelled from room to room, from house to house, collecting every object
they thought worth the trouble of transporting. Perhaps the owners of the
house, the Vettii themselves, presuming they escaped in the general
catastrophe, may have returned with skilled workmen to recover some of
their treasures; perhaps some “man of three letters”—the colloquial Roman
term for thief (_fur_)—may have forestalled the masters’ efforts—who
knows? And at this distance of time, who cares?
The house once occupied by Aulus Vettius Restitutus and Aulus Vettius
Corvina stands in a quiet district not far from the Capuan Gate, and
consequently at some distance from the Forum. Like all Roman habitations
it was essentially Oriental in its outward aspect, and must have resembled
closely any one of those mysterious dwellings of wealthy Arab citizens
which we constantly encounter in the native quarters of Algiers or Tunis.
The gateway giving on the street was wide, certainly, but it was well
defended both by human and canine porters; its windows were few and small,
and were probably closely latticed like those of the nunneries which we
sometimes perceive overhead in the crowded streets of Naples. There must
have been something austere, even suspicious, in the external appearance
of the Casa de’ Vettii, but snarling dog and grim janitor have long since
disappeared, and we pass unmolested through the _atrium_ and thence into
the Great Peristyle, which is perhaps the most remarkable feature of this
house. The peristyle, as its name implies, is a Greek importation in a
Roman city, and its use would have been scorned by the old-fashioned
citizens, such as the master of the “House of the Surgeon”; yet it was in
truth admirably suited to the character of Southern Italy, where it
afforded shelter from sun and wind, and its arcades protected from the
rainfall. The peristyle of the Vettii, with its gaudily tinted pillars of
stucco, is highly ornate; perhaps it passes the limits of good taste in
certain points of colour and æsthetic decoration, yet the general effect
is undoubtedly pleasing to the eye. This courtyard is at once a lounge
open to the sky; it is a garden; it is an art-gallery; for the cheerful
court of Greek domestic architecture had nothing in common with its
successor of the Middle Ages, the monastic cloister of religious
meditation. Cannot we imagine to ourselves the goodman of the house
proudly leading his guests after a sumptuous meal in the adjacent
dining-room into the cool corridors of his peristyle, in order to point
out to them his statues and vases of bronze or porphyry, and to expatiate
upon their value or elegance of form? On such a festive occasion these
great shallow basins of pure white marble before us would be heaped high
with fragrant pyramids of red and white roses, roses that were perhaps
plucked all dewy in the famous gardens of Paestum on the other side of
Mons Gaurus. For the flowering shrubs in the tiny pleasaunce itself are
far too precious to be stripped of their blossoms in so lavish a manner,
and perhaps if Vettius be anything of an amateur gardener, he may comment
to his visitors upon the rare plants that fill his diminutive flower-beds.
Careful and reverent hands have restored the little garden as near as
possible to its pristine plan and appearance. There are still standing the
two bronze statues of urchins holding in their chubby arms ducks from
whose bills once gushed the limpid water, making a soothing sound amidst
the alleys of the peristyle; corroded and injured they certainly appear,
yet here they hold their original positions in Vettius’ domain long after
temple and tower have fallen to the ground. The marble chairs and tripod
tables likewise remain, and around them still thrive the very plants that
the servants of the house were wont to tend in the days of Titus. For, by
a rare chance, we find depicted on the walls of the excavated house the
actual flowers and herbs that were popular during Vettius’ lifetime, and
these have been replanted by modern hands in the garden of the peristyle.
There are clumps of papyrus, the strange mop-headed rush from the banks of
the Nile, introduced into Italy as a botanical novelty after the conquest
of Egypt; there are rose-bushes, of course; and also masses of shining ivy
trained in the ancient Roman manner upon a cage of wicker-work fixed into
the soil. As we watch the verdure-clad sunlit space there descends,
delicately fluttering, one of those splendid pale yellow brimstone
butterflies of the South with flame-coloured blushes on its wings, and
after some moments of graceful hesitation, this new visitor settles upon
the purple head of an iris bloom. With its vivid colouring and its quick
movements the butterfly brings an atmosphere of life into the courtyard
that was hitherto lacking. Its appearance too suggests the famous
allegory, the unsolved riddle of human existence which so puzzled the
divine Plato and the ancient philosophers of Athens and Syracuse. Here are
we, the living men of to-day, watching the corpse of a departed world upon
which the mystic symbol of Psyche has just alighted. _Tempus breve est_ is
the simple little truism that rises to our reflecting minds. Eighteen
centuries between the Vettii and ourselves! They are gone like a flash,
and we are amazed to note how little has our nature altered either for the
better or the worse within that space of time, long enough if we measure
its limit by the standard of history, trivial if we reckon it by the
progress made in human ethics and human understanding. Surely there are
lessons to be learned in the silent city; Pompeii, we realize, is not
merely a heap of antique dross whence we can pick up precious grains of
knowledge, but it is an oracle in itself, which, if properly consulted,
will give us plain answers to our modern speculations, and will possibly
reprove us for our conceited assumption of omniscience.
[Illustration: LA CASA DEI VETTII, POMPEII]
Still brilliant in their strong prevailing tints of black, yellow and
vermilion are the decorative schemes which make a visit to the house of
the Vettii of such supreme importance for those who wish to understand
fully the artistic tastes of the Romans, and also their artistic
limitations. If the contents of the Museum seem colourless and cold, and
prove unsatisfying and disappointing, here the eye of the artist can feast
upon the classical ornamentation which remains fairly fresh in spite of a
dozen years of exposure to daylight. For this province of art is
peculiarly associated with the opening years of the Empire, and Pompeii is
naturally the chief place for its study, and in Pompeii the untouched Casa
Nuova is all important for the student. According to Pliny, the inventor
of this pleasing style of decoration was a certain Ludius, who flourished
in the reign of Augustus, and first persuaded the Romans to embellish
their flat wall-surfaces with designs of “villas and halls, artificial
gardens, hedges, woods, hills, water basins, tombs, rivers, shores, in as
great a variety as could be desired; figures sitting at ease, mariners,
and those who, riding upon donkeys or in waggons, look after their farms;
fishermen, snarers of birds, hunters and vine-dressers; also swampy
passages before beautiful villas, and women borne by men who stagger under
their burdens, and other witty things of this nature; finally, views of
sea-ports, everything charming and suitable”:—a fairly long and
comprehensive list of subjects, truly, from which a patron might pick and
choose, or an artist might execute!
Although the great architect Vitruvius strongly denounced this new
striving after scenic effect and characterized it as petty and false, yet
none can deny that these cheerful scenes with their bright colours and
their agreeable if trivial subjects were singularly well adapted to
improve the appearance of the bare narrow rooms, the meagre proportions of
which seem to us absolutely incompatible with plain comfort, to say
nothing of luxury. Space may be increased, so far as the eye is concerned,
by an architectural or landscape painting ingeniously conceived, and thus
the restricted rooms seem to obtain by means of this new system of
decoration a wider expansion, and with it an increased sense of ease and
lightness. The invention of Ludius became at once the fashion, the rage;
and all Rome began to cover the walls of its narrow chambers with these
novel designs, which had already found favour in Imperial circles.
Campania, where the old Greek love for polychrome still lingered, was not
slow in imitating the new taste of the Capital, so that Pompeii bears
undoubted testimony to the popularity of this revolution in artistic
ideas, which substituted a lighter freer method for the old conventional
severity of treatment. Experts profess to trace—and none will endeavour to
gainsay them—a marked difference between the frescoes executed before the
earthquake of 63 and those undertaken subsequent to that date. The wall
paintings of the first group, carried out when the art was comparatively
novel, are superior in harmony of colour, in choice of themes and in
technical finish to those which belong to the latter period, the sixteen
years that intervened between the earthquake and the eruption of Vesuvius.
From this circumstance it has been inferred, not without reason, that this
particular house must have passed some time before the year 63 out of the
possession of people of good taste into the hands of vulgarians, ignorant
of the fundamental principles of art and anxious only to obtain what was
startling and garish. As freedmen, the two Vettii would naturally belong
to a class which was not remarkable for culture; nevertheless, they seem
to have had the good sense to leave intact some of their predecessor’s
most cherished works of decoration, and for this exhibition of restraint
we must feel duly grateful towards our dead-and-gone hosts, the maligned
Vettii.
But it is not only for purposes of examining Roman internal decoration _in
situ_ that this art gallery of the Casa Nuova is available. Below the
painted panels of the dining-room runs a long string of ornament, whereon
are represented Cupids and Psyches engaged in the various occupations of
Pompeian daily life. Full of dainty grace and of lively expression, these
little winged figures initiate us into a number of the trades and customs
of the ancients. For they are made to appear before us as goldsmiths,
vine-dressers, makers and sellers of olive oil, dealers in wine, fullers
of cloth, and as partakers in a dozen other scenes of town or country
life. Where learned antiquaries had hitherto doubted and disputed, the
discovery of the paintings of these celestial little mechanics and
merchants helped to solve many a difficulty, for the secret of half the
arts and crafts of Pompeii is revealed to us in this playful guise. Nor
are the designs themselves contemptible from an artistic point of view;
look how intent, for example, is the pose of the tiny jeweller working
with a graver’s tool upon the gold vessel before him; how steadily he
bears himself at a task which requires at once strength of hand and
delicacy of workmanship. Look again at the nervous pose of the pretty elf
who is gingerly pouring wine out of a huge amphora, which he holds in his
arms, into a shallow tasting cup offered by a brother Cupid. How
thoroughly must the unknown artist have enjoyed the task of painting this
frieze! How unfettered his fancy, as his brush glided smoothly and deftly
over the carefully prepared wall-surface! Excellent, no doubt, he thought
his work at the time of execution, but even the most conceited of
Campanian artists could hardly have dreamed that these creations of his
brush would still at the end of two thousand years be admired, commented
upon and even reproduced in thousands, by a process he never dreamed of,
for the benefit of citizens of nations as yet unborn or unforeseen.
As the spring evening softly steals over the city and the shadows of the
colonnades lengthen, let us leave the silent halls and chambers of the
Casa dei Vettii and turn our footsteps westward; and issuing out of the
Gate of Herculaneum, let us traverse the famous Street of Tombs, that
extends along the road leading to the sister buried city. In ancient times
this was the Via Domitiana, a branch road of the Appian Way, and it formed
the most frequented entrance into Pompeii. To Roman ideas, therefore, it
was but natural that tombs should be erected alongside its borders, whilst
the spirits of the passing and repassing crowds were in no wise affected
by the memorials of death attending their exits and entrances. And with
the surging human tide that was ever flowing in this thoroughfare the
funeral processions must constantly have mingled, the wailing of the hired
mourners rising sharply above the din of harsh voices, the creaking of
clumsy wooden wheels and the braying of the heavily laden asses. Now over
all reigns a decorous silence, such as we moderns deem fitting for a
cemetery; only the hum of insects breaks the deep quiet of the atmosphere,
nor are there any living creatures visible at this late hour save the bats
which flit restlessly in and out of the weed-grown piles of brick or stone
that once were stately monuments of wealth or piety. Above our heads the
tall sombre cypresses shoot upward like gigantic spear-heads into the
crystal-clear air, pointing heavenward like our own church spires in a
rural English landscape. This Street of the Dead in the City of the Dead
is in truth a solemn and a soothing spot; nor can we find its precincts
melancholy, when we stand in the midst of such glorious scenery. For Monte
Sant’ Angelo towers to our left against the mellow evening sky, flecked
with lines of peach-blossom cloud, whilst in front of us the dark form of
Capri seems to float in a golden haze between firmament and ocean. Behind
us the dark mass of the Mountain with its breath of ascending smoke seems
like an eternal funeral pyre in honour of the Dead, who were spared the
horrors of that fearful disaster which overwhelmed the living. Upon the
broken tombs and altars the light from the setting sun falls with warm
cheerful radiance, flushing stone and brick-work with a ruddy glow like
jasper; whilst, high in the heavens above the cypress tops, the crescent
moon prepares to turn to gold from silver.
_Beati sunt mortui_: here rest, we know, the priestess Mammia, the
decemvir Aricius, Libella the aedile, and a host of other citizens with
whose names the student or the lover of Pompeii is familiar. How many a
time has this line of roadway rung with the sound of the last sad appeal,
the thrice repeated valediction: “_Vale, vale, vale!_ farewell until the
day when Nature will allow us to follow thee!” How often have the wooden
pyres flung up in these precincts their clouds of perfumed smoke into the
clear air, now redolent with the aroma of yellow broom, of dewy thyme and
of sweet marigolds! Perhaps it was amidst these lines of cypress-set tombs
by the Herculaneum Gate that the poetic genius, whose verses were spurned
by his own generation, composed his famous Ode to Naples, for in its
opening lines Shelley tells us it was the aspect of the “city disinterred”
that gave him inspiration:—
“Around me gleamed many a bright sepulchre
Of whose pure beauty, Time, as if his pleasure
Were to spare Death, had never made erasure;
But every living lineament was clear
As in the sculptor’s thought; and there
The wreaths of stony myrtle, ivy and pine,
Like winter-leaves o’ergrown by moulded snow,
Seemed only not to move and grow,
Because the crystal silence of the air
Weighed on their life....”
Tranquilly and slowly descends night upon the untenanted city, as one by
one the stars begin to peep forth like chrysolites in the heavens, which
have changed from azure to a deep indigo during the sunset hour. Amid
chilly dews, to the sound of the evening bell from the distant church of
Santa Maria di Pompeii, we hasten in the growing darkness from the Street
of the Tombs towards our modest inn outside the Marine Gate, anticipating
with delight a ramble in the city in the freshness of the coming morning.
CHAPTER IV
VESUVIUS: THE STORY OF THE MOUNTAIN
The first appearance of Vesuvius, whether viewed from the deck of a
steamer entering the Bay of Naples or espied from the window of a railway
carriage on the main line running southward from Rome, makes an impression
that will linger for ever in the memory. It is open to argument which is
the more striking of the two experiences: the Mountain rising proudly from
the deep blue waters into the paler shade of the upper air, or its
graceful broken contour seen from the landward side to the north across
the green fertile plains of the Campagna Felice. From a long acquaintance
with both ways of approaching Naples, we are inclined to prefer the latter
view. Travelling in an express train from Rome we find ourselves whirled
suddenly, by magic as it were, into the atmosphere of the South, when with
the sight of the domes and towers of Capua, the ancient capital of
Campania the Prosperous, we first note the presence of orange trees and
hedges of aloe, of white lupin crops and clumps of prickly pear, and we
feel we are nearing Naples with “its burning mountain and its tideless
sea,” so that we eagerly strain our eyes in a southerly direction to catch
our first glimpse of Vesuvius, with whose shape and history we have been
so familiar since our childhood’s days. At length we perceive its double
summit, with smoke tranquilly issuing from the cone and obscuring the
clarity of the air, and as we hurry forward towards our destination,
through the plains studded with elm-trees festooned with vines, we have
the satisfaction of observing its form grow larger and more distinct in
outline.
On our arrival at Naples, in course of time we grow more intimately
acquainted with the peculiar attractions of “the Mountain,” as the
Neapolitans always designate their treacherous but fascinating neighbour,
of whose near existence they have every reason to be proud, for certainly
Vesuvius, though barely as lofty as Ben Nevis, _is_ to us westerns the
most famous mountain upon earth. Regarding Vesuvius both from the land and
the sea, we note that it rises in solitary majesty from an extended base
some thirty miles in circumference, and that it sweeps upwards in graceful
curving lines until at a distance of about 3000 feet from sea level its
summit is cleft into two peaks; that to the north being a rocky ridge
which catches our eye as we gaze eastward from the heights of Sant’ Elmo
or the Corso at Naples, the other point being the actual cone of the
volcano itself. The upper part of the Mountain has in fact two aspects; in
other words, Vesuvius is double, being composed of the ridge of Monte
Somma to the north, 3760 feet in height, which is pre-historic; and the
ever-shifting modern dome of Vesuvius to the south, which is _about_ 4000
feet high. We say “about” purposely, for Vesuvius proper sometimes
over-tops, sometimes equals, and sometimes even crouches under its
immovable sister-peak, according to the effect produced by volcanic
action. Monte Somma, which is one of the everlasting hills, is the parent,
and Vesuvius is the child, born but yesterday from a geological point of
view, for it is not so old as the Christian era;—“it is a variable heap
thrown up from time to time, and again, not seldom, by a greater effort of
the same force, tossed away into the air, and scattered in clouds of dust
over far-away countries. Thus it has happened often, in the course of
these variations of energy, that Vesuvius has risen to a conical height
exceeding that of Somma by 500 or 600 feet, and again, the top has been
truncated to a level as low as Somma, or even as much below that mountain
as we now behold it above.”(3)
To understand the story of the Mountain, therefore, it is necessary for us
to travel back in retrospect to ancient Roman days. In the first place,
however, one word as to its present name that we use to-day, for all are
familiar with Vesuvius, but comparatively few, until they visit Naples,
have heard mention made of Monte Somma. The name of Vesuvius, then, though
strictly applicable only to the volcanic and modern portion of the
Mountain, is not a recent appellation; on the contrary, it is probably of
far more ancient origin than _Mons Summanus_ by which the whole was known
to the Romans. The point is by no means unimportant, for etymologists
derive Vesuvius from the Syriac “Vo Seevev, the abode of flame,” thereby
proving to us that whatever opinions may have been held as to the nature
of the Mountain in the century preceding the Christian era, its volcanic
nature must have been perfectly well understood by those who gave it this
suggestive title in a more remote age. But the secret locked up in Mons
Summanus was not altogether unsuspected by the Roman scientists. Strabo,
the geographer, writing about thirty years before the birth of Christ,
made a careful examination of the crest of Mons Summanus, then a
saucer-shaped hollow surrounded by a steep rocky edge and occupied by a
flat plain covered with cinders and void of grass, although the flanks of
the Mountain were extraordinarily fertile. From what he saw during his
visit, Strabo conjectured the Mountain to be an extinct volcano, in which
surmise he was destined to be proved partly in the right and partly in the
wrong; whilst Vitruvius, the famous architect of the Emperor Augustus,
“who found Rome of brick and left it of marble,” as well as Tacitus the
historian, shared the same opinion. About a century and a half before the
first recorded eruption in 79, Mons Summanus figures prominently in Roman
history as the scene of a curious incident during the Servile War, so that
in the pages of the old chronicler Florus we obtain an interesting
description—especially interesting because it was not given for scientific
purposes—of the condition of the mountain top at that period. The brave
gladiator Spartacus and his intrepid band of revolted slaves, seeking a
place of safety from the pursuing Roman legions, not very wisely selected
the top of this isolated peak, which, although affording a good position
of defence and possessing a wide outlook over the Campanian plain, had
only one narrow passage in its rocky rim to serve as entrance or outlet.
Followed hither by the Roman forces and caught like rats in a trap,
Spartacus and his men were doomed either to be reduced by starvation, or
else to run the gauntlet of the sole narrow exit, which the Senate’s
commander, Clodius Glabrus, was already guarding. The story of Spartacus’
escape from his terrible dilemma is told in the history of Florus, and
repeated with further details by Plutarch in his Life of Crassus.
“Clodius the Prætor, with three thousand men, besieged them in a mountain,
having but one narrow and difficult passage, which Clodius kept guarded;
all the rest was encompassed with broken and slippery precipices, but upon
the top grew a great many wild vines: they cast down as many of these
boughs as they had need of, and twisted them into ladders long enough to
reach from thence to the bottom, by which, without any danger, all got
down save one, who stayed behind to throw them their arms, after which he
saved himself with the rest.”
A dozen learned statements of a scientific nature as to the ancient
appearance and slumbering condition of the Mountain could not impress our
imagination more vividly with its subsequent natural changes than the
account of this episode of Spartacus and his handful of rebels,
beleaguered by Clodius within the very crater of the volcano. We can see
the Mountain in the last years of the Roman Republic before us, with its
truncated cone encircled by a low rampart of rock half hidden by wild
vine, ivy, eglantine, honeysuckle and all the creeping plants whose tough
trailing stems enabled the besieged gladiators to effect their escape from
the snare into which they had unwittingly fallen. We can understand from
this event how utterly remote was the idea of any upheaval of nature to
the dwellers on these shores, whose ancestors remembered the crest of the
mountain as the scene of a military operation.
The first warning of a coming eruption after unnumbered centuries of quiet
was given by a series of earthquakes which did an immense amount of damage
at Herculaneum and Pompeii; yet in a district which had from time
immemorial been subject to similar convulsions of nature, the shocks,
though unusually distressing and destructive to life and property, were
evidently unconnected in the popular mind with their true cause: the
reawakening to life of the mountain overhead. The mischief done by the
earthquakes was accordingly repaired as quickly as possible, and the
normal course of life was resumed until the terrific and wholly unexpected
outbreak of August 24th 79, during the reign of the Emperor Titus. Of
this, the first recorded eruption of Vesuvius, we are exceptionally
fortunate in possessing the testimony of a credible eye-witness, who was
no less a personage than Caius Plinius Caecilius Secundus, better known to
the modern world as Pliny the Younger, who wrote two lengthy letters to
Tacitus on the subject of this event, the first describing the fate of his
uncle, the Elder Pliny, most eminent of Roman naturalists, who perished
during this period of terror; and the second containing a more detailed
account of the eruption itself. For it so happened—luckily for
posterity—that at the time of this sudden outburst of Mons Summanus, the
Elder Pliny was in command of the Roman fleet at Misenum on the Bay of
Naples, where his young nephew (who was also his adopted son) was living
with his mother in a villa. “On the 24th of August,” writes Pliny the
Younger some eleven years after the event he is about to describe, “about
one in the afternoon, my mother desired my uncle to observe a cloud which
appeared of a very unusual size and shape. He had just returned from
taking the benefit of the sun, and after bathing himself in cold water,
and taking a slight repast, was retired to his study. He immediately arose
and went out upon an eminence, from whence he might more distinctly view
this very uncommon appearance. It was not at that distance discernible
from what mountain this cloud issued, but it was found afterwards to
ascend from Mount Vesuvius. I cannot give a more exact description of its
figure than by resembling it to that of a pine-tree, for it shot up to a
great height in the form of a trunk, which extended itself on the top into
a sort of branches, occasioned, I imagine, either by a sudden gust of air
that impelled it, the force of which decreased as it advanced upwards, or
the cloud itself being pressed back again by its own weight, expanded in
this manner; it appeared sometimes bright, and sometimes dark and spotted,
as it was more or less impregnated with earth and cinders. This
extraordinary phenomenon excited my uncle’s philosophical curiosity to
take a nearer view of it.” The nephew then proceeds to relate how his
uncle sailed by way of Retina, the port of Herculaneum, to Stabiae, where
he met with his second in command, one Pomponianus. Meanwhile the Younger
Pliny, who had declined to accompany his uncle’s expedition on the plea of
having to pursue the studies with which as a hard-working youth of
seventeen he was evidently engrossed, became alarmed during the night for
the Elder Pliny’s safety. His own and his mother’s terrible experiences
are vividly portrayed in the second letter, which, at the historian’s
special request, the Younger Pliny wrote to Tacitus in later years.
“When my uncle had started, I spent such time as was left on my studies—it
was on their account, indeed, that I had stopped behind. Then followed the
bath, dinner and sleep, this last disturbed and brief. There had been
noticed for many days before a trembling of the earth, which had caused,
however, but little fear, because it is not unusual in Campania. But that
night it was so violent, that one thought everything was being not merely
moved, but absolutely overturned. My mother rushed into my chamber; I was
in the act of rising, with the same intention of awaking her, should she
have been asleep. We sat down in the open court of the house, which
occupied a small space between the buildings and the sea. And now—I do not
know whether to call it courage or folly, for I was but in my eighteenth
year—I called for a volume of Livy, read it as if I were perfectly at
leisure, and even continued to make some extracts which I had begun. Just
then arrived a friend of my uncle, who had lately come to him from Spain;
when he saw that we were sitting down—that I was even reading—he rebuked
my mother for her patience, and me for my blindness to the danger. Still I
bent myself as industriously as ever over my book. It was now seven
o’clock in the morning, but the daylight was still faint and doubtful. The
surrounding buildings were now so shattered, that in the place where we
were, which though open was small, the danger that they might fall on us
was imminent and unmistakable. So we at last determined to quit the town.
A panic-stricken crowd followed us.... We saw the sea retire into itself,
seeming, as it were, to be driven back by the trembling movement of the
earth. The shore had distinctly advanced, and many marine animals were
left high and dry upon the sands. Behind us was a dark and dreadful cloud,
which, as it was broken with rapid zig-zag flashes, revealed behind it
variously shaped masses of flame; these last were like sheet lightning,
though on a larger scale.... It was not long before the cloud that we saw
began to descend upon the earth and cover the sea. It had already
surrounded and concealed the island of Capreae, and had made invisible the
promontory of Misenum. My mother besought, urged, even commanded me to fly
as best I could; ‘I might do so,’ she said, ‘for I was young; she, from
age and corpulence, could move but slowly, but would be content to die, if
she did not bring death upon me.’ I replied that I would not seek safety
except in her company; I clasped her hand and compelled her to go with me.
She reluctantly obeyed, but continually reproached herself for delaying
me. Ashes now began to fall—still, however, in small quantities. I looked
behind me; a dense dark mist seemed to be following us, spreading itself
over the country like a cloud. ‘Let us turn out of the way,’ I said,
‘whilst we can still see, for fear that, should we fall in the road, we
should be trodden under foot in the darkness by the throngs that accompany
us.’ We had scarcely sat down when night was upon us,—not such as we have
seen when there is no moon, or when the sky is cloudy, but such as there
is in some closed room where the lights are extinguished. You might hear
the shrieks of women, the monotonous wailing of children, the shouts of
men. Many were raising their voices, and seeking to recognise by the
voices that replied, parents, children, husbands or wives. Some were
loudly lamenting their own fate, others the fate of those dear to them.
Some even prayed for death, in their fear of what they prayed for. Many
lifted their hands in prayer to the gods; more were convinced that there
were now no gods at all, and that the final endless night of which we have
heard had come upon the world.... It now grew somewhat light again; we
felt sure that this was not the light of day, but a proof that fire was
approaching us. Fire there was, but it stopped at a considerable distance
from us; then came darkness again, and a thick, heavy fall of ashes. Again
and again we stood up and shook them off; otherwise, we should have been
covered by them, and even crushed by the weight. At last the black mist I
had spoken of seemed to shade off into smoke or cloud, and broke away.
Then came genuine daylight, and the sun shone out with a lurid light, such
as it is wont to have in an eclipse. Our eyes, which had not yet recovered
from the effects of fear, saw everything changed, everything covered deep
with ashes as if with snow. We returned to Misenum, and after refreshing
ourselves as best we could, spent a night of anxiety in mingled hope and
fear. Fear, however, was still the stronger feeling; for the trembling of
the earth continued, while many frenzied persons, with their terrific
predictions, gave an exaggeration that was even ludicrous to the
calamities of themselves and of their friends. Even then, in spite of all
the perils which we had experienced, and which we still expected, we had
not a thought of going away till we could hear news of my uncle.”(4)
As to the fate of the Elder Pliny, it seems that the old man had been
obliged together with his friends and servants to fly from the villa at
Stabiae where he was resting. The sea being too agitated to allow of an
embarkation, the fugitives turned their steps towards the slopes of Mons
Gaurus, the present Monte Sant’ Angelo, with pillows bound over their
heads to serve as protection against the showers of hot cinders that were
falling thickly on all sides. At length the famous old writer, who was
somewhat plethoric and unwieldy, sank exhausted to the ground, never to
rise again, and shortly expired in an attack of heart failure, induced by
the unusual excitement and fatigue he had lately been called upon to
endure. At any rate, it appears fairly certain that the Elder Pliny did
not perish, as is still sometimes asserted, by the direct effects of the
eruption, but rather through an ordinary collapse of nature—syncope,
perhaps. Three days later his body was found lying not far from Stabiae by
his grief-stricken nephew, who describes his uncle’s corpse as looking
“more like that of a sleeping than of a dead man.”
This then was the first, as it was also the most violent, of the many
outbreaks of Vesuvius which our own age has witnessed, and with this
eruption of 79 in the reign of Titus, the Mountain, as we have already
said, greatly altered its shape. More than half the rim of the ancient
crater that had enclosed Spartacus and his men less than two hundred years
before had been torn away and destroyed, its remaining portion on the
landward side retaining the old name of Mons Summanus. Between this
remnant of the old wall of the crater and the scene of wreckage on the
southern face of the Mountain, there now appeared the great cleft, the
horse-shoe shaped valley called the Atrio del Cavallo, which separates the
two peaks of the whole summit. A fragment only of the original crater,
known as the Pedimentina, still remains on the seaward side above Torre
del Greco. From that terrible day, so vividly described by the Younger
Pliny, to our own times, a period stretching over 1800 years, a vast
number of eruptions, great and small, have been enumerated, for owing to
the nearness of Vesuvius to one of the largest cities in Europe, every
incident connected with its activity has been carefully noted, at least
since the time of the Renaissance. Out of the many upheavals we propose to
select the eruptions of 1631 and 1779, as being amongst the most
significant.
Ever since an outburst in the year 1500, the Mountain appears to have
lapsed into a remarkable condition of quietude, even of apparent
extinction, for over a century and a quarter, during which period, it may
be remarked, the Sicilian volcano of Etna was unusually active. Once more
the summit of Vesuvius was beginning to assume the form it had borne in
the days previous to the overthrow of Pompeii; the riven crater was
becoming filled with dense undergrowth and even with forest trees, amidst
which wild boar made their lairs and were occasionally hunted. The learned
Abate Giulio Braccini, whose account of the eruption of 1631 is the most
graphic and accurate we possess, explored the crater shortly before the
outbreak of the volcano, but found little to suggest any idea of an
approaching convulsion. He reckoned the deep depression occupying the
crest of the mountain to be about five miles in circumference, and to take
about a thousand paces of walking so as to reach the lowest point within
its area. He remarked abundance of brushwood on its sides, and observed
cattle grazing peacefully upon the open grassy patches in the midst of the
over-grown space. A deep crack, however, ran from end to end of the whole
crater, which allowed persons so minded to descend amidst rocks and
boulders to a large plain below the surface, whereon Braccini found three
pools of hot steamy water, of a saline and sulphureous taste. Such was the
tranquil aspect of the Mountain as surveyed by the Abate Braccini in the
first half of the seventeenth century; to men of science signs of latent
energy were certainly not wanting, yet to the ignorant, careless peasants
of the hill-side and the scarcely less ignorant dwellers of the towns on
the seashore, the state of repose in which the Mountain had continued for
four or five generations suggested no fears or suspicions. Tilling of
vineyards, building of new houses, sinking of wells, went on apace as
cheerfully as though an eruption were an impossibility, till certain
unmistakable portents that occurred towards the close of the year 1631
roughly dissipated this spell of fancied security. Earthquakes, more or
less severe, began at this time to be felt along the whole of the volcanic
line stretching from Ischia to the eastern slopes of Vesuvius; the plain
within the crater of the Mountain began to heave and rise in an alarming
fashion, and the water in all the local wells sank mysteriously below
ground. The signs of some impending disaster coming from the heights above
were too strongly marked to be lightly disregarded; the idea of a volcanic
convulsion, though by this time a long-distant and vague memory, became so
terrifying to the dwellers on the mountain’s flanks and in Torre del
Greco, Resina and the various towns that line the seaward base of the
Mountain, that the majority of the people removed themselves and their
property with all speed to places of safety. Nevertheless, despite the
warnings given by Nature and also by men of science and the royal
officials, many remained behind in their houses, and in consequence
perished, to the immense number, it is surmised, of 18,000. On the morning
of Wednesday, December 16th, the long threatened eruption burst forth in
earnest upon an expectant world. Amidst crashes like prolonged volleys of
artillery the people of Naples and the surrounding district beheld the
terrible pine-tree of smoke and ashes, described centuries ago by Pliny,
ascend from the south-western side of the summit of the Mountain, veiling
the sky for miles around, and so charged with electricity, that many were
even killed by the _ferilli_, or lightning flashes, that darted from the
smoking mass. The spectacle of the ominous pine-tree was at once followed
by a terrific rumbling and an ejection of lava, which after flowing down
the southern flank in several streams finally reached the sea, making the
waters hiss and boil at the moment of contact. Slowly but surely these
relentless red-hot rivers of lava crept like serpents along the hill-side,
destroying vineyard and garden, cottage and chapel, on their downward
path. Resina shared the fate of its ancient forerunner Herculaneum, whilst
Torre del Greco and Portici suffered severely, as we can see to-day by
noting the great masses of lava flung on to the strand at various points.
To add to the universal confusion of Nature, the sea, which had now become
extraordinarily tempestuous, probably owing to some submarine
earthquake-shock, suddenly retreated half a mile from the coast, and then
as suddenly returned in a tidal wave more than a hundred feet beyond its
normal limits. Such were the main features of the second great eruption of
Vesuvius, wherein the ashes ejected by the Mountain were wafted by the
wind beyond the Adriatic, to the Greek islands and even to Constantinople
itself.
[Illustration: VESUVIUS AND THE BAY OF NAPLES]
From this date onward the Mountain became very active in contrast with its
previous condition of lethargy, and throughout the whole of the eighteenth
century there were frequent eruptions, many of them on a vast scale. All
these outbursts have been carefully recorded and commented upon, for
naturally the scientists of a great city like Naples were intensely
interested in the passing phases of their own volcano. During the latter
half of this century all the phenomena have been described for us by Sir
William Hamilton, British ambassador at the Court of the Two Sicilies, the
versatile diplomatist who eventually married the beautiful but frail Emma
Hart. During his long period of residence in Naples, Sir William made no
fewer than fifty-eight explorations of the crater alone, besides carefully
studying every peculiarity visible upon the sides of the Mountain. He was,
of course, a close observer of the great eruptions of 1766-7, and also of
the still greater convulsion of 1779, which, strangely enough, occurred on
the seventeenth centenary of the awakening of the Mountain from its
pre-historic slumbers. On this occasion, Hamilton, accompanied by a Mr
Bowdler of Bath, had the temerity to track the streams of flowing lava to
their hidden source by walking over the rough unyielding crust of stones
and earth that had formed upon the surface of the molten stream, as it
slowly trickled down hill at the rate of about a mile an hour. The
adventurous pair of Englishmen were successful in their quest, and Sir
William thus describes the fountain-head of the fiery streams that he
found a quarter of a mile distant from the top of the cone.
“The liquid and red-hot matter bubbled up violently, with a hissing and
crackling noise, like that which attends the playing off of an artificial
firework; and by the continued splashing up of the vitrified matter, a
kind of arch, or dome, was formed over the crevice from whence the lava
issued; it was cracked in many parts, and appeared red-hot within, like a
heated oven. This hollowed hillock might be about fifteen feet high, and
the lava that ran from under it was received into a regular channel,
raised upon a sort of wall of scoriae and cinders, almost perpendicularly,
of about a height of eight or ten feet, resembling much an ancient
aqueduct.”
Some days later, at midnight on August 7th, a veritable fountain of red
fire shot up from the crest of Vesuvius, illuminating all the surrounding
country; and on the following night a still more marvellous sheet of flame
appeared, hanging like a fiery veil between heaven and earth, and reaching
to a height (so Sir William Hamilton guessed) of about 10,000 feet above
the summit, affording a wonderfully grand but terrible spectacle. This
great curtain of fiery particles, accompanied by inky black clouds from
which were darting continual flashes of lightning, was reflected clearly
on the smooth surface of the Bay, delighting the Court and the scientific
world of Naples, but inspiring, as may well be imagined, the mass of
superstitious inhabitants with the direst alarm. The theatres were closed
and the churches were opened; above the rumblings and explosions of the
agonised volcano could be heard the tolling of the bells. Maddened by
terror, the Neapolitan mob rushed to the Archbishop’s palace to demand the
immediate production of the holy relics of St Januarius, the protector of
the city, and on this request being refused, set fire to the entrance
gates, a forcible argument that soon persuaded his Eminence of the
propriety of the people’s demand. Thereupon the head of the Saint,
enclosed in its case of solid silver, was accordingly borne in solemn
procession with wailing and repentant crowds behind it to an improvised
shrine, hung with garlands, on the Ponte della Maddalena, at the extreme
eastern boundary of the city. Nor was the confidence reposed by the
Neapolitans in their patron Saint misplaced, for except from the stifling
smells and the dense rain of ashes, the terror-stricken capital suffered
not a whit, whilst the general alarm inspired its inhabitants with a
revival of religious fervour which was by no means insalutary. As usual,
the old cynical proverb was once more justified:—_Napoli fa gli peccati, e
la __Torre gli paga_, for of course poor Torre del Greco was grievously
affected by the lava streams. In this case, however, even Torre del Greco
and Resina did not fare so badly as did the towns on the northern slopes
of Monte Somma, a district which is of course perfectly immune from lava
inundations owing to the protecting rocky ridge of the Atrio del Cavallo.
But it seems that the great veil of clouds and fire, extending some
thousands of feet from the crest of the mountain to the heavens above, was
swayed by a chance current of air, so that its component red-hot dust,
ashes and stones were emptied in one fatal shower upon the northern flank
of the Mountain. Whole villages were ruined, hundreds of acres of vines
and crops were scorched and burned; the smiling peaceful hillside was in a
few minutes converted into a parched wilderness. Ottajano, a large town of
some 12,000 inhabitants, was the place most seriously injured by this
wholly unexpected rain of destruction, for a tempestuous fall of red-hot
stones, some of immense size, and a shower of ashes killed hundreds of the
terrified and suffocating citizens, and blocked up the streets with
smoking debris to a depth of four feet.
Of the recent eruptions of Vesuvius, which have been pretty frequent
during the latter half of last century, that of April 1872, so carefully
recorded by Professor Palmieri, who in spite of imminent danger never
abandoned his post in the Observatory, is the most notable. It is
remembered also owing to the catastrophe whereby some twenty persons out
of a large crowd of strangers, who had imprudently ascended to the Atrio
del Cavallo to get a closer view of the phenomenon, were suddenly caught
by the lava stream and enfolded in its burning clutches. For if ignorance
and superstition seem to make the poor fisherman or peasant unduly alarmed
on such occasions, curiosity and self-confidence are sometimes apt to lead
the educated or scientific into unnecessary peril. Naples itself was once
more alarmed in 1872, so that the relics of St Januarius at the furious
demand of the populace were again brought forth in solemn procession, and
exposed towards the face of the Mountain on the Ponte della Maddalena.
Thousands of quaking mortals gathered near this spot, joining in the
chanting of the priests and watching with pallid anxious faces the fiery
currents of lava slowly trickling down the south-western flank of Vesuvius
towards the city itself. A certain number of attendants meanwhile were
engaged in perpetually brushing away from the image of the Saint, from his
improvised altar, and from its votive garlands the ever-accumulating
mantle of grey dust, and it is scarcely to be wondered at that a certain
cool-headed Neapolitan artist, Il Vaccaro, should all this time have been
busily engaged in painting so characteristic and highly picturesque a
scene. Within the churches, and particularly in St Januarius’ own
cathedral, enormous crowds of hysterical men and women had collected,
loudly bewailing their past sins and imploring the Divine mercy, for
“E belle son le supplice
Pompe di penitenza, in alto lutto.”
Again the historic _palladium_ proved effectual, and the city, that was
never for a moment in danger, was once more saved! Naples received no
damage beyond a temporary panic and a heavy fall of ashes, which covered
every street and flat surface within the town to a depth of some inches
and which it took many days of enforced labour to remove. Again it was the
poor confiding vine-dressers and tillers of the Vesuvian soil who suffered
in this upheaval, for though the loss of life was very slight indeed, yet
numerous houses, fields and vineyards were totally destroyed and many more
were injured. Truly it is a maxim well proven by time:—_Napoli fa gli
peccati, e Torre gli paga._
Such, told baldly and briefly, is the history of the Mountain, which forms
the most conspicuous feature of the Bay of Naples and dominates one of the
fairest and most populous districts on the face of the globe. But it does
not take long to make visitors to the Neapolitan shore understand the
mysterious charm, not unmixed with awe, and the all-pervading influence of
Vesuvius. Go where we will within the circuit of the Bay of Naples and
even outside it, we are never out of sight of the obtruding Mountain and
its smoky wreath. We begin to feel that the Mountain is an animated thing,
that the destiny of the Parthenopean shore is locked up in the breast of
the Demon who has his dwelling within its red-hot caverns. So sudden are
the actions, and so capricious the moods of this Monster of the Burning
Mountain, that no one can tell the day, or even the hour, wherein he will
give us an exhibition of his fiery temper, though, it is true, in the case
of violent eruptions he is kind enough to afford timely warning by means
of a succession of earthquakes and other signals almost equally alarming.
His Majesty’s presence is felt everywhere; each morning as we open our
window upon the dazzling waters of the Bay, we note with relief his
tranquil aspect; each night, ere we retire to sleep, we find ourselves
inevitably drawn to watch the glare thrown by the molten lava within the
crater upon the thick vapour overhead. The nightly expectation of this
aerial bonfire possesses an extraordinary fascination for the stranger.
Some times the lurid glare is continuous; at other times there are long
intervals of waiting, and even then the reflected light is very faint, a
mere speck of reddish glow in the surrounding blackness, gone in the
twinkling of an eye. But, strangely enough, one grows to understand the
Mountain better from a distance and by watching its moods from afar, like
the Neapolitans themselves, who never ascend to probe its mysteries,
except a few vulgar guides and touts who batten on the curiosity of the
foreigner.
On clear windless days the intermittent clouds of vapour sent up from the
crater assume the most fantastic shapes—trees, ships, men, birds,
animals—ever changing like the forms of Proteus. It would seem as if the
Spirit of the Mountain were idly amusing himself, like a child blowing
bubbles, or a vendor at a fair-stall carving out little figures of
gingerbread to tickle the fancy of country boys and girls. The clouds so
formed sometimes cause amusement by their uncanny shapes, but not
unfrequently they inspire alarm. The superstitious peasant of the
_Paduli_, looking up suddenly from his work amidst the early peas or
tomatoes, beholds against the blue sky a vague nebulous form that to his
untutored mind suggests a gigantic crucifix upheld in mid-air above the
Mountain, and he crosses himself devoutly ere he bends down to earth once
more to his work in the rich dark soil. “Such stuff as dreams are made of”
appear in truth the weird phantoms that the sly Demon of Vesuvius flings
up into the pure aether, and if credulous mankind likes to draw inferences
for good or bad from these unsubstantial creations of his fancy, he laughs
to himself with a hollow reverberating sound. It must, however, have been
in the true spirit of prophecy on the occasion of King Manfred’s birth,
that the genius of the Mountain despatched two cloud-forms into the sky
(so the unabashed old chroniclers gravely relate), one having the
appearance of a warrior armed cap-à-pie, and the other that of a fully
vested priest. The affrighted gazers below, struck with the strange
phenomenon, beheld the two figures sway towards each other and finally
become locked together in deadly aerial combat, until all resemblance to
human shape had vanished from the pair. Then, after an interval of time,
men perceived the cloudy mass once more assume a mortal shape, and a huge
towering priest with flowing robes and tiara on head was left in solitary
and victorious possession of the sky. The Churchman had swallowed up the
soldier; the Pontiff had vanquished the King; it was a true premonition of
the fatal field of Benevento, which saw the ultimate triumph of the Papal
over the Imperial cause.
But if the near presence of the burning mountain has tended to make the
inhabitants of its immediate zone the slaves of superstitious awe, the
disasters of generations have likewise imbued them with a spirit of
fatalism, that appears even stronger than their outward show of credulity.
Life is not so sweet nor so dear apparently to these children of the
South, but that they can afford to take their chance of disturbance or
death with a true philosophic calm. The fisher-folk and maccaroni workers
of Resina, Portici and the two Torres have, it is true, little to lose; a
small boat can at the last moment easily convey their families and slender
stock of household furniture to a place of temporary safety, and when the
danger is over-past, the same shallop can bring back the refugees and
their belongings. But with the husbandmen the case is different. Not only
has he to fear the actual stream of lava, which may or may not overwhelm
his house and farm in its slow inevitable course, but there are also the
showers of hot ashes and of scalding water that will frizzle up in a few
seconds every green blade and leaf upon his tiny domain, for which he pays
an enormous rental, sometimes as much as £12 sterling an acre. Yet the
_contadino_ takes his chances with a seraphic resignation that we do not
usually attribute to the southern temperament. After the eruption of 1872,
which covered the rich _Paduli_ with a deep coating of grey ashes, a young
peasant girl was heard deploring the loss of her carefully tended gourds
and melons; “_Oh come volimme fa? Addio, pummarole! addio, cucuzzielle!_”
whereupon an older woman, witnessing these useless tears, upbraided her
with the words: “Do not complain, child, lest worse befall you!” And
indeed the whole population of the _Paduli_, instead of lamenting over
their scorched and spoiled crops, were jubilant at the thought that the
havoc done was only partial, not irrevocable;—a few months of incessant
labour, said they, would bring back the holdings to their former state of
perfection. Yet a general opinion prevails among foreigners that the
Neapolitans are lazy, thriftless and helpless! They indeed rely to a
certain extent upon St Januarius to protect their crops from the efforts
of Nature, over which, they argue, the Saint is more likely to possess
control than his human applicants, but when once the fatal shower of ashes
has fallen, they do not expect “San Gennaro” to set their injured acres to
rights again, but with a rare patience turn to the task themselves. A more
industrious, and at the same time a more capable and practical race of
agriculturists than the tillers of the slopes of Vesuvius, it would be
hard to match. And thus in the sunshine of the south, yet ever under the
shadow of death and destruction, dwell many thousands of human beings, as
unconcerned as though Vesuvius were miles and miles away. Not unconscious,
but fully conscious of their doom, the victims of the Mountain toil and
moil upon the fertile farms (in many cases risen phoenix-like from their
own ashes) that grow the early beans and tomatoes, the egg-plants and the
white fennel roots (_finocchi_) that well-fed travellers devour in the
hotels of Naples. Or else they tend the vines that yield the generous
_Lagrima Christi_, of which imprudent and heated visitors drink long
draughts unmixed with water, and then complain of ensuing languor and
pains beneath their waistcoats. Luscious, yet seductive wine! Counsellor
of moderation after a first experience of excess! Essence of Vesuvius,
whose strange name so puzzled the poet Chiabrera!
“Chi fu de’ contadini il si indiscreto,
Ch’ a sbigottir la gente
Diede nome dolente
Al vin’ che sovra gli altri il cuor fa lieto?
Lagrima dunque appellerassi un riso
Parte di nobilissima vendemmia?”
(“Who was the jesting countryman, I cry,
That gave so fearsome and so dour a name
To that choice vintage, which of all think I
Most warms the heart’s blood with its genial flame?
Smiles, and not tears, the epithet should be
Of juice wrung from so fair a vinery.”)
* * * * * *
Scarcely had the above pages been written, than the Mountain, which had
been drowsing for more than thirty years, suddenly awakened to give
appalling evidence of its latent activity and powers of mischief. The
eruption of April 1906 has, in fact, surpassed all previous outbursts
within living memory, and it may probably be reckoned amongst the most
violent of all hitherto recorded. Many of the details of this event
doubtless remain fresh in the memory, and in any case the sad condition of
numerous towns and villages, and of the beautiful Vesuvian districts, the
_paesi ridenti_ as the Neapolitans affectionately term these fertile
lands, will serve for some years to come as a sinister and ever-present
reminder of the horrors of the past and of the dread possibilities of the
future. All vegetation for miles around the volcano has been injured or
destroyed, for not only was the Mountain itself covered deep with grit and
ashes, but the streets and gardens of Naples, the luxuriant plain of
Sorrento, and even the heights of Capri, twenty miles distant across the
Bay, were shrouded in a funereal mantle of the greyish-yellow dust that
Vesuvius had flung into the air to let fall like a shower of parching and
destructive rain upon the earth. How vast was the amount of matter ejected
from the crater and scattered in this form over the surrounding country,
we may judge from the scientific calculation that 315,000 tons fell in
Naples alone! Everywhere appeared the same scenes of desolation, the same
dreary tint, for so thickly had this aerial torrent of ashes descended,
that buildings, trees and plants were completely hidden by it, the whole
landscape suggesting the idea of a recent heavy fall of dirty-coloured
snow. _Paesi ridenti_, indeed! It was a land of ugliness and mourning, a
city of stifling air and of human terror.
A few days previous to the eruption, which began on April 5th, the island
of Ustica, which lies some forty miles north of Palermo, had been visited
by earthquake shocks of such violence that the Italian Government at last
decided to remove the greater part of its population to the mainland, as
well as the convicts attached to the penal settlements on the island.
Scarcely had these manifestations ceased at Ustica, than Vesuvius began to
show signs of increased activity; the supplies in the wells on the
mountain sides began to fail, and there was observed a strong taste of
sulphur in the drinking water; whilst—most dreaded phenomenon of all—the
ever-active crater of Stromboli, that lies midway between Naples and
Messina, suddenly lapsed into quiescence. We all know the subsequent story
of the outbreak; of the thousands of fugitives flying into Naples or other
places of refuge; of the utter destruction of houses and cultivated
lands;—the doleful scenes of a Vesuvian eruption have been enacted and
described time after time in the history of the Mountain, and there is
every reason to suppose they will be repeated at intervals for centuries
to come. The marvel is how human beings can calmly settle down and pass
their lives so close to the jaws of the fire-spouting monster, and why an
intelligent Government permits its subjects to dwell in places which are
ever exposed to catastrophes such as that which we have just witnessed.
Well, it is the natural temperament of the Vesuviani to be fatalistic,
despite their religious fervour; and acts of legislature cannot force them
to abandon their old deep-rooted notions; all that the Italian Government
can do therefore is to stand ready prepared to help, when the upheaval
_does_ occur, as it inevitably must.
It is always a matter of speculation on these occasions as to what course
the ejected lava will pursue; whose turn, of the many settlements on the
southern slopes of the Mountain, will it be to suffer? This time it was
Bosco-Trecase, a village above Torre Annunziata, that was devastated by
the sinuous masses of incandescent matter, high as a house and broad as a
river. Torre Annunziata itself, as also ruined Pompeii were threatened,
but the red-hot streams of destruction mercifully stopped short of their
expected prey. The story of horrors and panic in the overthrow of
Bosco-Trecase is happily relieved by many a recorded incident of valour
and unselfishness. The royal _Carabinieri_, that splendid body of mounted
police, who in their cocked hats and voluminous cloaks appear as
ornamental in times of quiet as they prove themselves useful in the stormy
hours of peril, acquitted themselves, as usual, like heroes. It was they
who guided away the trembling peasants before the advance of the lava,
searching the doomed houses for sick and crippled, whom they carried on
their shoulders to places of security. Working, too, with almost equal
zeal and practical good sense were the Italian soldiers, who richly
deserved the praise that their royal commander, the Duke of Aosta,
subsequently bestowed upon them for their invaluable services rendered
during these fearful days of darkness and danger. “Soldiers!” declared the
Duke, in his address to the troops on April 23rd, “I have seen you calm
and happy in the work of alleviating the misfortunes of others, and I put
on record the praise you have won. By promptly appearing at the places
distressed by the eruption, you have encouraged the people by your
presence and your example; you have maintained order and have safe-guarded
property. Helping the local authorities, and even in some instances
filling their offices, you have carried out the most urgent and dangerous
duties in order to save the houses and to keep clear the roads. In the
spots most heavily afflicted you have lent your assistance in removing and
caring for the injured, and in searching for and burying the dead you have
given proofs of great self-sacrifice and reverence (_pietà_). Not a few of
the refugees have obtained food and shelter in your barracks, and whole
communities without means of existence have been provided by you with the
necessaries of life. Everywhere and from all your conduct has gained you
loud applause. Nevertheless, your task is not yet ended; continue at it
out of love for your country and devotion to your King!”(5)
With such a reputation for kindness of heart and energy in time of need,
no wonder that the Army is popular with all classes in Italy!
Nor did the King and Queen hold aloof from the scene of disaster, for they
hurried from Rome at midnight of that terrible Palm Sunday on purpose to
comfort the terror-stricken population. Victor-Emmanuel even penetrated in
his motor-car as far as Torre Annunziata, in spite of the fumes of sulphur
and the many difficulties in proceeding along roads clogged deep with
volcanic dust and ashes. On another occasion the King and Queen paid a
visit to the afflicted district of the slopes of Monte Somma, where
Ottajano and San Giuseppe had been almost buried by the continuous falling
of burning material from the crater. In fact, these localities suffered
even more severely than the towns on the seaward face of the Mountain
(Bosco-Trecase excepted), and at Ottajano hardly a house in the place
remained intact at the close of the eruption, whilst the loss of human
life was probably higher here than elsewhere. The Duke and Duchess of
Aosta—he the king’s cousin, and she the popular Princess Hélène, daughter
of the late Comte de Paris—were likewise indefatigable in their efforts to
assist and reassure the demoralized population, and to make every possible
arrangement for the feeding and housing of the numberless refugees and the
tending of the injured in the hospitals of Naples. Equally valorous was
the conduct of the great scientist, Professor Matteucci, who remained
together with a few Carabinieri throughout all phases of the eruption at
the Vesuvian Observatory, although in imminent peril of death amidst a
deadly atmosphere of heat and sulphureous fumes.
It was on April 5th that the streams of burning lava first burst from the
riven crater and made their way down the south-eastern slopes, destroying
Bosco-Trecase and reaching to the very suburbs of Torre Annunziata.
Pompeii itself was imperilled, and it is always well to remember that
during an eruption this precious relic of antiquity may possibly be lost
to the world. Meanwhile the rain of ashes and mud—formed by dust and hot
water commingling—fell incessantly; 150,000 inhabitants of the Vesuvian
districts fled in precipitate flight towards Naples, towards the shore,
towards the hill country beyond the Sarno. It was truly a marvellous
spectacle to observe the relentless stream of burning lava crushing
irresistibly every opposing object in its fatal path. Onlookers at a
distance could perceive the walls of houses bulging outward under pressure
of the moving mass, until the roof collapsed in an avalanche of tiles upon
the ground, whilst with a final crash the whole structure—cottage, farm,
church or stately villa—succumbed to the overwhelming weight.
Many are the tales of courage and intrepidity; not a few, alas! are the
stories of folly and cowardice that are related in connection with the
eruption. It cannot be said that the population of Naples, where everybody
was perfectly safe even if the atmosphere was unpleasant and the distant
thunders of the Mountain reverberated alarmingly, comported itself with
dignity or calm; and this criticism applies in particular to the hundreds
of visitors—English, German, American and other _forestieri_—who besieged
the railway station in frantic and indecent anxiety to remove themselves
with all speed from the city. Some excuse might perhaps be found for the
hysterical terror of the poor inhabitants of the Mergellina or the
Mercato, who spent their time in wailing within the churches or in
screaming for the public exhibition of the venerated relics of their
patron Saint, which again on this occasion the Archbishop, _nolens
volens_, was compelled by the mob to produce. But for the great mass of
educated foreigners then filling the hotels and pensions of the place, it
cannot be said that their conduct was edifying, particularly in face of
the example set by the King and Queen of Italy. To add to the general
panic prevailing in the city, the Neapolitans themselves were not
unnaturally greatly exasperated by the serious accident which took place
at the Central Market Hall near Monte Oliveto in the heart of the old
town. Here, early one morning during the course of the eruption, the great
roof of corrugated iron collapsed, killing many and frightening the whole
of the populace, already sufficiently unnerved by recent events. That this
catastrophe was due to the casual methods, amounting in this case to
criminal neglect of plain duty, of the municipal authorities, who had
neglected to sweep the accumulation of heavy volcanic ash from off the
thin metal roof, none can deny; and this glaring example of public
stupidity had of course a bad effect on the demoralized multitude, which
threatened to grow unruly, as well as terrified. No, the graceless
stampede of educated foreigners to the railway-station, the incompetence
of the Municipality, and the behaviour of the Neapolitan crowd do not
appear very creditable to the supposed enlightenment of the twentieth
century. It had been confidently predicted that nearly fifty years of
State education and liberal government would work wonders in dispelling
the crass ignorance and the deep-seated superstition of the dwellers on
the Bay of Naples. Yet, so far as can be judged from recent events,
matters seem to have changed but little on these shores, for the mass of
the population evidently preferred to pin its hope of safety to the
miracle-working relics of San Gennaro, rather than to the reassuring
messages of Professor Matteucci, sent from his post of undoubted peril on
the mountain-side.
If the inhabitants of a great city, which was never seriously threatened
with danger, should have acted thus, there is undoubtedly much excuse to
be found for the Vesuviani themselves, whose houses and lives were
certainly in danger from the devastating streams of lava. It was with a
sigh and a smile that we learned how the good people of Portici attributed
their escape from the fate of Bosco-Trecase to the direct interposition of
a wonder-working Madonna enshrined in one of their own churches. For some
days the town had been threatened, so that many were convinced of its
impending doom, when happily at the last moment the expected fate was
averted, as though by a miracle. And miracle it truly was in the eyes of
the people of Portici, when it was observed that the snow-white hands of
their popular Madonna had turned black in some mysterious manner during
the night hours. What could be a simpler or easier deduction from this
circumstance, than that Our Lady’s Effigy, taking pity on its affrighted
suppliants, had with its own hands pushed back the advancing mass of lava,
and thus saved the town! Great was the joy, and equally great the
gratitude, displayed by these poor souls at Portici, who at once organised
a triumphal procession in honour of their prescient patroness “delle mani
nere.” Does not such an incident, we ask, lend a touch of picturesque
medievalism to a modern scene of horror and darkness, exhibiting to us, as
it does, the traits of a simple touching faith and of genuine human
thankfulness?
Well, the great eruption of 1906 is over, and the inhabitants of the
Vesuvian communes are once more settling down in their ruined homes, or
their damaged farms and gardens. No doubt a new Bosco-Trecase will arise
on the shapeless ruins of the old site, for fear of danger seems powerless
to deter the outcast population from reoccupying its old haunts. Ottajano
will be rebuilt, not for the first time, and its citizens will again trust
to luck—and to St Januarius—for protection from the evil fate which has
repeatedly overtaken their town. The two Torres, Resina, Portici, and the
villages along the shore, have this time contrived to escape the lava
streams, and though their buildings have been severely shaken, and even
wrecked in many instances, the people will doubtless mend the cracks in
their walls and place fresh tiles on the injured roofs. They are wise in
their own generation, for the Mountain is not likely to burst forth again
for another quarter of a century at least after so violent a fit, _salvo
complicazioni_, of course, as the more cautious Italians themselves say.
But another outburst is inevitable; and whose turn to suffer will it be
then? Will it be Portici, or either of the Torres? Who knows?—and what
dweller under Vesuvius to-day cares at this moment? “Under Vesuvius,” but
it is a new Vesuvius, for the tall cone which was so conspicuous a feature
of the Bay of Naples has disappeared completely, and the summit of the
volcano has been once more reduced to the level of Monte Somma. How many
years, we wonder, will be required for the Mountain to raise for itself
once more the tall pyre of ashes that it has itself demolished and flung
on all sides to the winds? At any rate let us now look for a period of
rest, a period of prosperity to recoup the disturbed denizens of these
_paesi già ridenti_ for their heavy losses and terrible experiences.
_Speriamo._
CHAPTER V
THE CORNICHE ROAD FROM CASTELLAMARE TO AMALFI
It is without any feelings of regret that we learn of the non-existence of
a railway line beyond Castellamare, so that our journey to Amalfi along
the coast must be performed in the good old-fashioned manner of long-past
_vetturino_ days. Three skinny horses harnessed abreast are standing ready
at the hotel door to draw our travelling chariot, each member of the team
gorgeously decked with plumes of pheasant feathers in his head-gear and
with many-coloured trappings, whilst on the harness itself appears in more
than one place the little brazen hand, which is supposed to ensure the
steed’s safety from the dangers of any chance _jettatore_, the unlucky
wight endowed with the Evil Eye. Nor is the swarthy picturesque ruffian
who acts as our driver unprovided with a talisman in case of emergency,
for we observe hanging from his heavy silver watch-chain the long twisted
horn of pink coral, which is popularly supposed to catch the first baleful
glance, and to act on the principle of a lightning-conductor, in
deflecting the approaching danger from the prudent wearer of the coral
trinket. Merrily to the sound of jingling bells and the deep-chested
exhortations of our coachman do we bowl along the excellent road in the
freshness of the morning air and light “through varying scenes of beauty
ever led,” for the Corniche road towards Amalfi is admitted to be one of
the finest in the world. Following the serpentine curves above the cliffs,
we have on our right hand the dazzling Mediterranean with classic capes
and islands all flushed in the early sunshine, whilst above us on the left
rise the steep fertile slopes of the Lactarian Hills. Convent and villa,
cottage and farmhouse, peep out of embowering verdure, whilst our road is
shaded in many places by the overhanging boughs of blossoming almond and
loquat trees. The whole region is in truth a veritable garden of the
Hesperides, where in the mild equable climate fruit and flowers ripen and
bloom without a break throughout the rolling year.
[Illustration: POZZANO]
“Tall thriving trees confess’d the fruitful mould;
The verdant apple ripens here to gold;
Here the blue fig with luscious juice o’erflows,
With deepest red the full pomegranate glows,
The branches bend beneath the weighty pear,
And silver olives flourish all the year;
The balmy spirit of the western gale
Eternal breathes on fruits untaught to fail.
Each dropping pear another pear supplies,
On apples apples, figs on figs arise;
The same mild season gives the blooms to blow,
The buds to harden, and the fruits to grow.”
A lovely and a fertile scene it is indeed, and thoroughly typical of the
peculiar charm of Southern Italy, wherein the rich well-tilled lands
appear in striking contrast with the near-lying stony fallows and
scrub-covered wastes.
Beneath the picturesque pile of Santa Maria a Pozzano, perched aloft above
the roadway, we pass along the edge of the sea-girt precipice, rounding
the Capo d’Orlando, until we reach the pretty little town of Vico Equense,
with its churches and gay-coloured villas nestling amidst groves of olive
and orange trees. Vico owes its prosperity in the first instance to the
patronage of “Carlo il Zoppo,” Charles the Dwarf, the lame son and heir of
King Charles of Anjou, who founded a settlement and built a villa upon the
site of the ancient Roman colony; and it was in the old royal demesne of
the Angevins that the hand of the deformed king’s daughter, the Princess
Clementia, was demanded formally in marriage by the French monarch, Philip
the Bold, who sought to marry her to his third son, Charles of Valois. The
match between the young prince of France and his cousin, the Neapolitan
princess, appeared suitable to all concerned in every respect save one;
for it was well known that the King of Naples had been lame from his
birth, and it could never be deemed fit for the expected heir of France to
marry any but a perfectly sound and healthy bride. Now the Queen of Naples
was too proud to accede to the hints of the French ladies, who evidently
were most anxious to acquaint themselves with the satisfactory condition
of her daughter’s “walking members,” though she went so far as to allow
the maiden to appear before them clad only in a flowing robe of gossamer
silk. The possible danger of losing her opportunity to become Queen of
France proved, however, beyond the ambitious young lady’s powers of
endurance, and to the horror of her haughty mother and the delight of the
foreign emissaries, the Princess Clementia then and there doffed her
silken robes and appeared before all in the historic garb of Lady Godiva.
A glance at the princess’s form _in puris naturalibus_ sufficed to
convince the inquisitive Frenchwomen that no hereditary taint from Il
Zoppo descended to his daughter; and accordingly the betrothal of the two
young people was celebrated that very evening amidst the usual revels and
feastings.
The clean cheerful town on the sheer limestone crags boasts a cathedral,
wherein, so the guide-book informs us, we shall find the tomb of
Filangieri, the great Italian jurist. But the building contains in reality
far more stirring associations than those connected with a prominent
lawyer. It is but a rococo structure of the usual Italian type, and its
painted series of portraits of past bishops is by no means an uncommon
complement of cathedral churches in the South. But here, amidst the long
rows of indifferent portraits, we note an omission, a space that is
occupied, not by a likeness but by a medallion, which represents a cherub
with the forefinger of his right hand laid as a seal of silence upon the
lips. Here-by indeed hangs a tale, obscure perhaps, but pathetic and human
to the last degree. We all remember the broad frieze filled with Doges’
faces which is carried round the great hall of the ducal palace in Venice,
wherein the place assigned to the traitor, Marino Faliero, contains a
black veil instead of the usual portrait. Here in little Vico Equense is
to be found a somewhat similar incident, but with this important
difference:—the bishop whose portrait is here omitted was the most worthy
of remembrance of all his peers.
The crime of Monsignore Michele Natale, Bishop of Vico Equense, to which
the silent cherub bears everlasting witness, was that of being a patriot
and a Liberal (in the truest sense of that term) during the anxious times
of the ill-fated Parthenopean Republic, that short-lived period of
aristocratic government which was set up in self-defence by certain
Neapolitan nobles, prelates and men of science after the abrupt departure
of their cowardly King and Queen to Palermo. We all remember the terrible
ending of that government: how the vile rabble-army of Cardinal Ruffo
assaulted Naples; how the city capitulated to the Cardinal on the express
condition that all life and property should be spared; and how Lord
Nelson, refusing to recognise the terms that Ruffo himself had agreed to,
and overruling the Cardinal’s protests, treated the unhappy prisoners. The
Bishop of Vico Equense was one of this band of martyrs, for he suffered
death under circumstances of exceptional brutality on the morning of
August 20th 1799, in the piazza in front of the church of the Carmine,
together with two Neapolitans of noble rank, Giuliano Colonna and Gennaro
Serra, and with the poetess, Eleonora Pimentel, a Portuguese by birth but
the widow of a Neapolitan officer. All went nobly to their doom amidst the
execrations of the demoralised bloodthirsty mob of _lazzaroni_, yelling at
and insulting the “Jacobins,” and kept back with no little difficulty by
the royal troops from mutilating the corpses of women, bishops and
princes. Monsignore Natale himself was hanged, and in his case the public
executioner—“Masto Donato” as he was nick-named by the populace—gave vent
to many pleasantries concerning the episcopal rank of his victim.
Blindfolded and with the cord of infamy depending from his neck, the
Bishop was led up to the fatal ladder amid deafening shouts of
“Viva la forca e Masto Donato;
Sant’ Antonio sia priato!”
On reaching the top of the gallows, the hangman made fast the rope to the
cross-tree, and then an assistant (_tirapiede_) from below adroitly pushed
the unseeing prisoner into space, catching on to his legs meanwhile,
whilst “Masto Donato” himself adroitly leaped from the gallows-top upon
the prelate’s shoulder. With the hangman on his back, shouting aloud how
much he was enjoying his ride upon a real bishop, and with the other
ruffian clinging to his heels, Monsignore Natale swayed backwards and
forwards amidst yells of execration and gratified hate on that hot August
morning in front of the Church of the Carmine little more than one hundred
years ago. His body was left on the gallows to be insulted by the mob
throughout the long sweltering day, and then, stripped of all its
clothing, was finally flung with other corpses of noble men and women into
a charnel-house at Sant’ Alessio al Lavinaio. Who it was that placed this
quaint little memorial to the murdered prelate in his cathedral church we
know not; but here the speechless yet eloquent cherub tells Natale’s sad
story of brutality and injustice to all who care to listen. Happily the
spell of silence is at length broken, and the true history of that hateful
era of crime, cruelty, lying, and intrigue is gradually being revealed;
and the enemies of the Church in Italy learn with an astonishment, which
is perhaps feigned, that in that glorious army of martyrs of 1799 more
than one ecclesiastic of high rank suffered in the ill-starred and
premature cause of Neapolitan liberty.
Crossing the little river Arco, we proceed uphill through the region of
vines and olives, until we have passed the Punta di Scutolo, where begins
our descent into that famous tract of country, the Piano di Sorrento, a
plateau above the cliffs, some four miles in length by one in breadth.
Poets of antiquity and bards of the Middle Ages alike have sung the
delights of the Sorrentine Plain, and have painted in glowing colours of
inspired verse its race of happy peasants, its fruitful fields and
orchards, its luscious vines, its excellent flocks. Galen, the cunning old
physician, recommended to his nervous patients what would now be termed a
“rest cure” in these favoured regions; whilst the grateful Bernardo Tasso,
father of the immortal Torquato, speaks of the capital of this district as
“l’Albergo della Cortesia,” and in an ecstasy of delighted appreciation,
goes on to add: “l’aere e si sereno, si temperato, si salutifero, si
vitale, che gli uomini che senza provar altero cielo ci vivono sono quasi
immortali.” And though praise from Torquato’s courtly sire must not be
taken too seriously, yet few will deny that the beautiful plain deserves
many of the eulogies that have been showered upon it. At the small town of
Meta, the next place of importance after Sorrento itself, the road divides
at the Church of the Madonna of the Laurel: our way to Amalfi leading
southward over the opposing ridge—the “Sorrentini Colles” of Ovid—whilst
the other traverses the length of the plain by way of Pozzopiano and Sant’
Agnello, until it reaches Sorrento.
One prominent feature of this district has already attracted our
attention; the number of deep ravines with which the whole plain is
intersected. These natural clefts are marvellously lovely in their rich
luxuriance of foliage, and with their precipitous sides and verdure-clad
depths will recall the wonderful _latomiè_, the ancient stone-quarries of
Syracuse. Their depths are filled with orange and lemon trees, mingled
with sable spires of cypress and the tall forms of bays, which here bear
jet-black berries, such as are rarely seen in our northern clime; whilst
the edges of the cliffs are clothed with a serried mass of wild flowers;
red valerian, crimson snap-dragon, tall blue campanulas, the dark green
wild fennel, white-blossoming cistus, and a hundred other plants, gay with
colour and strong with aromatic perfume.
“The quarry’s edge is lined with many a plant,
With many a flower distilling fragrant dew
From brightly coloured petals. Almond trees
Give snowy promise of sweet leaves and fruit;
Here all the scented tangle of the South
Covers the boulders, calcined by the sun
To pearly whiteness; thorn or asphodel
Sprout from each cranny of the topmost ledge
To nod against the deep blue sky, or peer
Into the verdure-clad abyss below.”
It is not surprising to learn that these romantic glens, filled with
greenery, are reputed locally to be the haunts of fairies, _Monacelli_, as
the Sorrentine inhabitants name them. Like the “good folk” of certain
country districts in England, the pixies of Devonshire, and the “Tylwyth
Teg” of rural Wales, these elfin people of the ravines are not malicious
or unkindly in their nature, but they are particular and somewhat exacting
in certain matters. They appreciate the attentions of mortal men, and
offerings of fresh milk or choice fruit are not beneath the notice of the
Monacelli. Borrowing the idea from the votive offerings they make in the
churches to the Virgin and the Saints, the peasants sometimes place little
lamps in the fern-draped grottoes of these gullies, and to such as
punctually perform these acts of courtesy, the Monacelli frequently show
signs of favour. The _padrone_ of a local inn has assured us that he and
his wife stood very high in the good graces of the little people, who had
on one occasion actually written them a letter, although as the characters
employed were unknown to any person in the village, the object of their
communication by this means seems somewhat of a mystery. Another and a
more practical instance of their patronage was then related, for the
favoured landlord assured us that on one occasion, when he and his wife
descended downstairs in the morning, they found the house cleared, the
hearth ready swept, and all the contents of last night’s supper-table
relaid on the brick floor, but _d’un modo squisito_, such as no human hand
could ever have been deft enough to contrive. Just a simple innocent
trifle of Sorrentine folk-lore, but how closely does it resemble the
old-time gossip of rustic England, of which the great poet has left us so
charming a picture!—
“Tells how the drudging Goblin sweat
To earn his cream-bowl duly set,
When in one night, ere glimpse of morn,
His shadowy flail hath threshed the corn
That ten day labourers could not end.”
For, as we have already said, the Monacelli show themselves grateful to
those who anticipate their wants, and will serve their votaries with
industry and fidelity. _Fuore avra il Monacello in casa_—perhaps he has
had the Fairy in the house—has passed into a local phrase to designate a
neighbour’s unexplained prosperity. But, again, the lucky recipient of
these favours must never blab or even hint at the origin of his good
fortune, for all gossip is highly distasteful to the fairy folk; and that,
we suppose, is the true reason why so little authentic information can be
gleaned as to the methods of the Monacelli.
In direct contrast with the Monacelli of the ravines, who are, on the
whole, well inclined towards mortals, are the Maghe, first cousins
evidently to the terrible _ginns_ of Arabian folk-lore; perhaps the
Saracenic pirates themselves may have introduced their oriental sprites to
the Neapolitan shores. In the popular mind the Maghe are supposed to
possess vast treasures hidden in caves by the seashore, or on the bleak
mountain side, and it was doubtless concerning these spirits that the
guide’s tale, given in a previous chapter, relates. The most celebrated
Maga of all is the demon who haunts a certain underground corridor near
Pozzuoli, containing an immense hoard of gold and jewels, which he is
willing to present to anybody that is ready to give in exchange a new-born
baby, presumably for purposes of devouring. Nor was the general belief in
the cave-dwelling monster at Pozzuoli limited to the poor peasants and
fisher-folk, for rumour persistently asserted that King Francis of Naples,
father of Bomba of impious memory, more than once attempted to negotiate
with the guardian of this buried treasure; but the Maga’s terms, it seems,
were too bloodthirsty and extravagant even for a Neapolitan Bourbon to
comply with, and in that case they must indeed have been pretty startling.
Malignant fairies are, in short, quite common upon the Sorrentine plain,
where exasperated mothers are sometimes in the habit of frightening their
squalling children into silence by threatening to introduce them to
_Mammone_—perhaps a corruption of the old Greek word _mormo_—a terrible
ghost, that must be a near relation to the “Big Black Man” of English
nurseries, who is ever ready to carry off naughty boys and girls in his
sack.
But the whole of the Sorrentine Peninsula is full of local superstitions,
the vast majority of which can easily be traced to the influence of
Catholicism, whilst comparatively few seem to be the legacy of ancient
Greek or Roman mythology. Belief in witchcraft is universal in these
parts, but the witch herself (_strega_) is regarded somewhat in the light
of a beneficent “wise woman,” who can arrest the far more dreaded spell of
the Evil Eye, rather than as the malevolent old hag of bucolic England in
the past. Certainly there has never been recorded in Southern Italy any
such popular persecution of poor harmless old crones as once disgraced
English countrysides; nor has any Italian jurist, like the erudite Sir
Matthew Hale, ever condescended to supply legal information concerning the
peculiarities of witches, and the best methods of prosecuting and burning
them. But the _strega_, though not as a rule dangerous to mankind,
provided she be not disturbed or insulted, has the same supernatural power
of transit on a broomstick that is possessed by her northern sister. On
many a dark night have the peasants crossed themselves with fear on
hearing the witches flying through the storm-vexed air to keep their
unholy tryst beside the famous walnut tree of Benevento, which has been
described for us by the learned Pietro Piperno in his mysterious treatise,
entitled _De Nuce Beneventana_. Even snatches of the witches’ song can
sometimes be distinguished above the howling of the gale—
“Sott’ aero e sopra vento,
Sotto la Nuce di Benevento!”
Perhaps it may afford some consolation to those who have a dread of
witches that the word “Sabato,” solemnly pronounced on these awful
occasions, is of real service to the utterer; whilst such as have had the
good fortune to be born on a Friday in March are permanently placed
outside the evil power of their spells, since our Saviour was crucified on
a Friday in that month.
But at length we have finished the ascent of the ridge, and our driver
halts for a moment at the inn of the “Due Golfi.” A smiling damsel,
dressed in the picturesque native costume, advances to offer us the
national drink of Italy, sweet vermouth that is frothed up with a little
fizzing water in a narrow tumbler; and though carriage exercise is not
liable to produce thirst, yet we cannot be so churlish as to refuse the
draught, especially as the delay allows us to take our farewell look at
the Bay of Naples. For here we have reached the peak of the rocky saddle
that divides the two famous gulfs; and before us we now behold the wide
crescent of the Bay of Salerno with its sunburnt vineyards and its
precipitous cliffs. To our right we perceive the craggy headlands
stretching southward till they culminate in the Cape of Minerva:—how much
more attractive sounds the good old classical name than the new-fangled
Punta della Campanella, so called from the alarm bell which used to be
tolled in the ruined fortress at the approach of the Moslem pirate
galleys! Vastly different is the aspect on this side of the peninsula to
that which we have just left behind us. There is the plain below us,
thickly dotted with farms and villas set amidst crops and orchards, a
fertile scene of industry and population; here on the Salerno side are
wild stony tracts affording only pasturage for a few sheep and goats, and
covered for miles with broom, cytizus, coronella, myrtle, and numberless
fragrant weeds, all struggling fiercely for existence on the dry barren
soil, and filling the clear air with an incense-like perfume. Such is our
first acquaintance with the Costiera d’Amalfi, that wonderful stretch of
indented rocky coast-line once containing the Republic of Amalfi, which
was the forerunner of the glorious Commonwealths of Florence and Venice.
From the grey cliffs of Capri to the west, as far as the headland beside
Salerno, stretched this diminutive state, composed of a confederacy of
sister-cities, whereof Amalfi herself was the queen and metropolis. Its
glories have long vanished, but the Costiera d’Amalfi remains an enchanted
land, not only on account of its natural beauties, but also by reason of
its historical associations which give an additional charm to every breezy
headland and every little town upon this wonderful shore.
Below us, as we rapidly descend the slopes by the curves of the Corniche
road, lies the little beach known as Lo Scaricotojo, whence in the days
previous to the construction of this splendid highway all visitors were
wont to embark for Amalfi;—that is, unless they attempted the expedition
by way of the mountain roads leading thither from Castellamare or La Cava.
It raises a smile in these days of swift and luxurious travelling to learn
from an early Victorian guide-book that “the most elegible mode of going
from Sorrento to Amalfi is either to ride or to be carried in a _chaise à
porteurs_ to that part of the Colli where begins a rapid descent, and
thence descending on foot to the Marinella of the Scaricotojo on the Gulf
of Salerno.... The ride occupies about an hour and a quarter, and the
descent which, though steep, is not dangerous, occupies about an hour.”
_Nous avons changé tout ça_; yet there are still living amongst us those
who lament the passing away of the old-fashioned days of Italian travel,
when inns were bad but picturesque, and expeditions to such remote places
as Amalfi were not only difficult but even dangerous; since in
compensation for slow progress and risk of brigands every town owned a
primitive charm which is now rapidly disappearing before the modern
irruption of locust-like swarms of tourists with their motor cars, their
luncheon baskets, and their kodaks. Well, to the majority of travellers
the value of natural scenery is not a little enhanced by the sense of
comfort, and here on the Costiera d’Amalfi the most particular can have no
cause to complain, since it is one of the few lovely spots of Southern
Europe that has not yet been invaded by the dividend-paying railway. No,
the old Republic retains to a great extent its ancient atmosphere of
unspoiled beauty and remoteness from the bustling world. It is still a
stretch of glorious and historic country wherein one can obtain a pleasant
and valued respite for a time from the overpowering improvements of an
industrial age.
As we look southward across the breadth of the Bay, our eye is at once
caught by the group of the Isles of the Sirens, which, though in reality
fully a mile distant from the nearest point of the coast, seem in this
clear atmosphere as though they were lying within a stone’s throw of the
beach. Around these bare bluffs of rock, seemingly flung by the hand of
Nature in a sportive mood into the blue waves, lingers one of the most
insidious of all the old Greek legends, for it was past these lonely
cliffs that the cunning Ulysses sailed during his long career of mazy
wanderings in search of his island home and his faithful Penelope. In
those days, so the Greek bard tells us, there dwelt upon these islets
strange sea-witches with the faces and forms of most beautiful maidens,
although their lower limbs had the resemblance of eagles’ feet and talons.
Two sirens only, says Homer, dwelt upon these coasts, although later poets
have increased the number of the fatal sisters to three or even four.
Singing the most enchanting songs to the sound of tortoise-shell lyres,
there used to bask in the sunlight beside the gentle ripple the Sirens,
their nether limbs well hidden from the gaze of passing seamen, who,
attracted by the tuneful notes, hastened hither to discover the
whereabouts of the musicians. Innocent eyes, angelic faces, flowing golden
locks and white beckoning hands had every power to draw the curious
mariner nearer and nearer, until he came within reach of the fell
enchantresses. For the Sirens loved the flesh of mortals, and bleached
skulls and bones of digested victims lay in heaps upon the sandy floor of
their azure-hued caverns. Gold and jewels, too, the spoils of many a brave
galley that had been lured to destruction by these charmers, likewise
littered their retreat, and perhaps it was as much the glittering of this
gold as their own lovely features that in certain cases enticed the wary
merchant into this fatal trap. Gold and a pretty face: what male heart
could be proof against the double temptation the Isles of the Sirens
offered to the navigator in the days of the Odyssey! Only one sailor over
these seas proved himself a match for the wiles of the cruel goddesses of
the Amalfitan coast; for Ulysses, as we know, stopped the ears of his
companions with wax on their approach towards this dangerous spot, whilst
he himself, always eager to hear and see everything yet perfectly well
aware of the Sirens’ magnetic power, had himself tightly bound by cords to
the mast. So whilst the deaf rowers stolidly tugged at their oars,
oblivious of the weird unearthly melody around them, the clever King of
Ithaca gained the honour of becoming the only mortal who had listened to
that subtle song without paying the penalty of a hideous and ignoble
death.
It is strangely disappointing to find that no recollection of Sirens or of
Ulysses lingers in the lore of the present dwellers upon these coasts.
They have no more notion of the aspect of a Siren than they have of a
pleisosaurus, and, as a modern writer naïvely complains, they are not
sharp-witted enough to invent fanciful tales to please the enquiring
foreigner. Nor is this lack of intelligence to be wondered at, when we
recall to mind the clean sweep of all classical learning and tradition
which that period of time, truly known as the Dark Ages, made throughout
Italy; if Petrarch found it necessary to explain to King Robert the Wise
with the greatest tact and delicacy that Vergil was a poet and not a
wizard, what must have been the appalling ignorance prevailing amongst the
peasant and the fisherman? And yet these barren rocks were known as the
Isles of the Sirens centuries before the verses of the Aeneid immortalized
the mythic voyage of the Trojan adventurer, who passed along this
iron-bound coast on his way towards the mouth of Tiber. Their modern, or
rather medieval name of I Galli is somewhat of a puzzle. Erudite scholars
affect to derive it from Guallo, a fortress captured during a war between
King Roger and the Republic of Amalfi, but this explanation, we confess,
does not sound very reasonable. Others prefer to imagine that the word
Gallo (a cock) contains an allusion to the claws and feathers of the
Sirens themselves, for certain of the ancient writers endowed these dire
Virgins of the Rocks with the wings as well as the claws of birds;—in
fact, they represented them as Harpies, those horrible fowls with women’s
faces that appeared upon the scene at Prospero’s bidding to spoil the bad
king’s supper party. But why, if the Sirens were female,—and on this point
all their critics agree with an unanimity that is wonderful—should their
ancient haunts be called “The Cocks?” The untutored natives themselves,
understanding nothing of Sirens or of Odysseys, hold their own theory with
regard to the disputed name, which they connect with the construction of a
harbour at distant Salerno, and though this legend sounds foolish enough,
it is scarcely less flimsy than the notions already quoted. A certain
enchanter, one Pietro Bajalardo, undertook—in modern parlance,
contracted—to build in a single night the much needed breakwater at
Salerno on the strange condition that all cocks in the neighbourhood
should first be killed; for the wizard, so the story runs, had a special
aversion to Chanticleer on account of his having caused the repentance of
St Peter by his crowing. In any case, the reigning Prince of Salerno
gladly complied with the eccentric request, and at his command every cock
in or near the place was accordingly slaughtered, with the solitary
exception of one old rooster, who, being very dear to the heart of his
aged mistress, was kept concealed beneath a tub and thus escaped the
general holocaust. Throughout the livelong night Bajalardo was busily
engaged in superintending the work of building the harbour, whilst the
fiends who carried out his behest were actively conveying huge blocks of
broken cliff from the Cape of Minerva to place in the waters of Salerno.
But at daybreak the cock imprisoned beneath the tub, the sole survivor of
his race, according to natural custom announced the dawn, to the despair
of Bajalardo and the terror of his attendant fiends, who in their
precipitate flight dropped into the sea near the Punta Sant’ Elia the huge
masses of stone they were then carrying; and these rocks are called by men
I Galli in consequence to this day.
But, to be strictly impartial, it was not the Sirens alone who were
responsible for all the victims who perished on these arid rocks. _Homo
homini lupus_; man is always ready to prey upon man, and many of the dark
tales concerning the Galli go to prove the truth of the terrible old
adage. At what period the Sirens abandoned their ancient retreat and swam
or flew away to more congenial haunts is unknown to history; but certain
it is that the rulers of proud Amalfi committed many a cruel deed of
murder or torture upon their deserted islets. For here, many a hapless
political prisoner languished for years in abject misery, a prey to the
heat and glare of summer and to the fierce gales of bitter winter nights.
Rock-cut steps and ruined towers still remain as mementoes of those dark
days, when callous human gaolers worthily filled the places of the absent
Sirens. It was in a chamber of yonder turret, still standing, that the
Doge Mansone II., blinded by a brother’s vengeance, dragged out years of
utter misery in pain and darkness, until the Emperor of the East, suzerain
of Amalfi, at last took compassion upon the prisoner’s wretched plight and
allowed him to be removed into honourable confinement at Byzantium. For
many hundreds of years the Isles of the Sirens have lain untenanted, nor
are they visited nowadays save by a few inquisitive travellers or by the
fishermen of the Scaricotojo, who find safe shelter under their lee during
the sudden squalls of the Mediterranean. For, strange to relate, there are
no dangerous currents, no treacherous whirlpools close to these rocky
islets, such as we might expect to give some natural interpretation to the
ancient myth, the origin of which remains unexplained and constitutes a
very pretty mystery as it stands.
We bid farewell to the group of ill-omened rocks, as we proceed rapidly
under the rocky slopes of the Monte di Chiosse towards Positano, which
extends in a long curving line of cheerful-tinted flat-roofed hou
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