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AUTHOR: 
 
 MUNTHE , AXEL MARTIN 
 FREDRIK 
 
 TITLE: 
 
 LETTERS FROM 
 MOURNING CITY . 
 
 PLACE: 
 
 LONDON 
 
 DATE: 
 
 1887 
 
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 1 
 
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 LETTERS 
 
 FROM 
 
 A MOURNING CITY 
 
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 LETTERS 
 
 FROM 
 
 A MOURNING CITY 
 
 (Naples. Autumn, 1884) 
 
 BY 
 
 AXEL MUNTHE 
 
 • • w 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE SWEDISH BY 
 
 MAUDE VALERIE WHITE 
 
 LONDON 
 
 JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET 
 
 1887 
 
I / ■ I 
 
 /' ■ 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 ^^K 
 
 ^^^H'^ 
 
 Printed by R. & R. Clark, Edinburgh. 
 
 HESE letters date from a little trip 
 to Naples during the autumn of 
 1884. They were written by a 
 tourist who had given himself a 
 holiday, and who had made straight for the 
 place to which he felt himself most attracted. 
 The people amongst whom he moved were 
 hampered by no sort of authority, no more 
 was he; no sort of tie bound him to any 
 sort of recognised organisation whatsoever. He 
 went where he pleased as in former days. He 
 is an old traveller, and like most people who 
 have been a good deal abroad, has given up 
 writing his name in the Visitors' Book. Un- 
 known he arrived, and unknown, thank God, 
 he took himself off. 
 
 These letters, which first appeared in the 
 
 
 x.\> 
 
 <Sn^ 
 
 CO 
 
M I 
 
 VI 
 
 Preface 
 
 Stockholm Dagblad, were written under circum- 
 stances scarcely favourable to literary pursuits, 
 and in a frame of mind not calculated to inspire 
 polished phrases and well-turned figures of 
 speech, — they were written sur pied de guerre. 
 It was only after considerable hesitation that 
 the author consented to their publication in 
 book form, and then his first idea was to work 
 them out, correct their numerous deficiencies, 
 and suppress whatever struck him as unsatis- 
 factory. That plan, however, he was obliged 
 to abandon, for he soon discovered that were 
 he to carry it out, very few of them would sur- 
 vive the operation. He then made up his mind 
 to let them be, leaving the task of suppression 
 to the critic. Something might be allowed to 
 stand over, he hoped, his affectionate gratitude 
 to Italy if nothing else. 
 
 And let it be remembered that he rode a 
 broken-winded little donkey, no strong-winged 
 Pegasus — do not forget that the donkey was so 
 tiny that he could not prevent his legs from 
 dragging along the ground. 
 
 Besides which, Rosina is old and failing ; it 
 will not do to be too hard upon her, if only for 
 the sake of leaving her undisturbed in the 
 philosophical researches which she still con- 
 
 Preface 
 
 vii 
 
 tinues to pursue. He has no such eloquent 
 reasons to urge on his behalf; but before the 
 critics make up their minds to eat him up alive, 
 let them look out, for it is just possible that 
 they might swallow a few cholera microbes into 
 the bargain. ... 
 
 Paris, December 1886. 
 
 { 
 
I 
 
 J, 
 
 ' I 
 
 I 
 
 A R TENZA per Napoli ! " So 
 rang the cry through the rail- 
 way station in Rome. 
 We were a crowd of travellers gathered 
 together in the refreshment room, all busy 
 eating ; I was tired and hungry after my 
 long journey, and had just retired into 
 a corner where I was utilising the few 
 remaining moments in hastily swallowing 
 my Roman luncheon. The man who 
 had announced the train looked in at the 
 door, but no one stirred from their seat ; 
 he then came up to the table at which I 
 was sitting, and all the occupants of the 
 dining-room dropped their knives and 
 forks in utter astonishment, eyeing me 
 
 B 
 
9 
 
 n 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 ( ' I 
 
 
 
 with considerable curiosity as he said to 
 " inie : " Lei va a Napoli, e vera ? " 
 , , , Yes, I certainly was going to Naples, and 
 hurried off immediately to secure a good 
 place ; an unnecessary precaution, for when 
 the train started I was alone in the coup^, 
 at Marino I discovered that I was alone 
 in the carriage, and at Albano it became 
 quite evident that I was the only pas- 
 senger in the train. 
 
 An appalling stench of carbolic acid 
 filled the carriages. 
 
 Never before had I travelled at such a 
 pace in Italy. The train rushed madly over 
 Velletri, Segni, Anagni, Ferentino— all old 
 
 acquaintances of former travelling days 
 
 and before I knew where I was, we had 
 reached Ceprano, where there was a delay 
 of five minutes, as I found out from the 
 guard, who was bestowing all his attention 
 on me, seeing that there was no other hope 
 of a pourboire in the train. Ceprano is 
 the usual resting-place between Rome and 
 Naples; I just happened to remember 
 
 rft 
 
 k 
 
 A 
 
 . -••'*■ *■■ -' - ' — -Ti-^lg- .r-^ 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 3 
 
 that a particularly good old wine was 
 obtainable in this part of the world, and 
 ran hastily into the refreshment room ; 
 but it was empty, and an old woman 
 who sat outside spinning, informed me 
 that nothing was to be had there : " Non 
 vengono piic nesstmiy' said she sadly. 
 
 On we sped over Liris, the beautiful river 
 with the beautiful name, and to the left, 
 high up on the mountain, lay the gray old 
 convent of Monte Casino, greeting me with 
 peaceful recollections of bygone times, of 
 quiet working-days spent amongst the con- 
 vent archives, where I had turned over many 
 a monk -written chronicle and dreamed 
 thoughts, how different to the actual 
 thoughts of the present day. . . . 
 
 And the train rushed noisily on over 
 Teano, Sparanisi, Pignataro, over the valley 
 of Volturno, gradually approaching the 
 land of summer. Before us lay the Terra 
 di Lavoro in all the splendour of its gor- 
 geous colouring, the green elm-trees and 
 fragrant roses had quite forgotten that 
 
t 
 
 I i 
 
 4 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 summer was over, but the vines were 
 glowing in all their rich autumnal beauty, 
 and heavy clusters of ripe grapes were 
 waiting to yield their young wine. 
 
 It was just beginning to grow dusky, 
 and I suppose I must have fallen asleep 
 for a minute or so ; I recollect being 
 under the impression that the smell of 
 carbolic acid was increasing every moment, 
 and was gradually spreading through the 
 open windows all down the road along 
 which we were travelling. An icy draught, 
 as though some one had opened the door, 
 blew over me, extinguishing the lamp 
 that hung from the ceiling; I shivered 
 suddenly, an irresistible inexplicable feel- 
 ing that I was no longer alone, shot 
 through me, and I felt the cold perspira- 
 tion on my forehead. And at the same 
 time it seemed to me that the carriage 
 had turned into a coffin, flying rapidly 
 over the dusky plains, and that Death and 
 I were alone together, and beneath my 
 closed eyelids I felt my gloomy fellow- 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 5 
 
 traveller gazing fixedly at me from the 
 corner opposite. . . . 
 
 Slight carbolic acid poisoning + sleepless 
 night -f considerable nervous excitement, 
 eh, doctor ? But anyhow the lamp was out. 
 
 At Capua a man really did turn up 
 who was going on by the same train ; he 
 came to the door of my carriage, and, 
 contrary to my usual habits, I felt quite 
 sociably inclined. He had a head like 
 Augustus, and the proud mouth relaxed 
 into a derisive smile at the strong smell of 
 carbolic acid that met him as he opened 
 the door. I felt ashamed of my funereal 
 meditations, and thought to myself: here 
 at any rate is a fellow who does not know 
 what fear is. Such at least was the 
 impression he gave me ; he glanced at 
 me that very moment, as though he had 
 been able to read my thoughts — for an 
 instant only, but very contemptuously, it 
 seemed to me. 
 
 We made no attempt at conversation, 
 both of us were on our dignity, he reserved 
 
 1 
 
i 
 
 
 6 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 as a Caesar, I morose as a plebeian. The 
 train had now reached Caserta ; desolate 
 and deserted as all the other wayside sta- 
 tions. Suddenly the door of the carriage 
 next to ours was thrown open, and two 
 guards ran hastily towards the station-house, 
 carrying between them the conductor of 
 the train who had been in to look at our 
 tickets only an hour ago ; the light of the 
 lantern fell upon the waxen face, which I 
 hardly recognised, so great was the terror 
 that shone out of his wide open eyes. 
 The supercilious stranger and myself 
 glanced involuntarily at each other, and 
 the same words fell simultaneously from 
 our lips — il cholera I And I took back 
 all I had thought to myself when he had 
 first come up to the carriage sneering at 
 the strong smell of carbolic acid, for the 
 brave fellow grew paler and paler, retiring 
 into the furthermost corner of the carriage, 
 and binding his pocket-handkerchief 
 tightly round his nose and mouth. Pre- 
 sently the other conductor returned, and 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 7 
 
 I noticed, as he wiped the perspiration off 
 his brow, that, half surreptitiously, he made 
 the sign of the cross with his hand ; I 
 beckoned to him to come up to our car- 
 riage, and he then told me that the poor 
 man was the second conductor who had 
 sickened in the train during the last fort- 
 night ; he thought his companion would 
 be better here in Caserta than in Naples, 
 where the hospitals were already over- 
 crowded. 
 
 Naturally, since my companion had 
 wrapped his mouth up in his pocket-hand- 
 kerchief, there was less likelihood than 
 ever of our engaging in conversation, and 
 he looked angrily and suspiciously at me 
 into the bargain, especially after my little 
 chat through the window with the guard. 
 He got out at Cancello, and the new con- 
 ductor — who was now looking after me 
 with an amount of attention which was in 
 inverse proportion to the distance from 
 Naples, where the pourboire was to make 
 its appearance — informed me that he 
 
<1 
 
 i 
 
 8 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 believed it was // sindacOy the mayor of 
 Cancello himself, whom we had had with 
 us. It is in Cancello that the upward 
 mails from Naples are delayed for a whole 
 day to be disinfected — saturated with 
 sulphur, sprinkled with carbolic acid, etc. 
 I remember wondering how far il sin- 
 daco superintended this ceremony him- 
 self, and what he would look like during 
 the process. But it isn't fair to be 
 hard upon him, especially if he be no 
 exception to the rule that fear paves the 
 way for cholera, for in that case he may 
 be lying ill at this very moment — he 
 often came into my mind when reading 
 over the provincial bulletins. 
 
 And as I sat alone in the half-dark 
 railway carriage, bright memories of former 
 days began to light up the road along 
 which we were travelling. It was again 
 over Campagna Felice, over " the happy 
 fields " that the September moon was 
 just rising ; it was " Italy's paradise," and 
 all the joys of my youth that were again 
 
 ; 
 
 1V 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 9 
 
 stretching out their arms to me, and 
 ''Napoli la bella'' that was, as of old, bid- 
 ding me welcome to the sound of song 
 and guitar! Across the bay flew soft 
 breezes with greetings from Sorrento, and 
 far away, like the most beautiful /^/^ mor- 
 gana on earth, lay the blue island of 
 Capri floating in the distance. And the 
 repulsive smell of carbolic acid inside the 
 carriage oppressed me no longer, the 
 withered roses of past summers filled the 
 air again with all their fragrance, and 
 kindly thoughts of heartfelt gratitude to 
 the lovely country that lay before me, 
 awoke from out their winter's sleep, where- 
 in they had lain through many a busy 
 working-day, far ofl* from sun and summer. 
 Never before had I known the strength 
 of the link which bound me to this country 
 — it is not in the bright moments of life 
 that we realise how deeply we cherish a 
 friend, it is when we know him to be 
 unhappy and in distress, that the hidden 
 voices of our inmost hearts break forth 
 
i, 
 
 ' 
 
 lo Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 into their own language, which knows not 
 how to lie, and give utterance to the soul's 
 most silent thoughts. Naples lies mourn- 
 ing now, shall we not all hasten thither, 
 even as unto a fellow-creature in distress, 
 we who have spent such happy days in 
 her midst, we who have learnt to love her 
 simple, warm - hearted, poverty - stricken 
 children ; we who have heard the mando- 
 line sound across the bay to the strains 
 of "(9 dolce Napoli!" we who from Camal- 
 doli's convent heights have beheld the 
 loveliest vision that ever greeted the eye 
 of man, when the sun goes down behind the 
 Ischian hills, and when the roseate light, 
 which no brush can paint, floods the 
 mountains of Sorrento, when Capri spreads 
 her veil of ever-increasing blue across her 
 own fair island, and over the green-coloured 
 velvet slopes of Vesuvius, fall the tints of 
 that deep violet that can never be for- 
 gotten ! Dost thou remember the nightin- 
 gale's song in the groves about Sorrento, 
 when the orange-trees were in full bloom, 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City ii 
 
 when thou satest listening all through the 
 soft, still summer's night to the dreamy 
 songs from some poor fisherman's boat far 
 out on the bay, and fellest asleep to the last 
 sounds of ^^ Felicissima 7iotte! addiOy addio! " 
 still ringing in thine ears, like unto a 
 lingering farewell to the happiest days of 
 thy life ? 
 
 And now is the time to give back to 
 Italy a tithe of all she has given us ! 
 Here is room for every one, poor and rich 
 can be of equal use, here where the dis- 
 tress is so great and declares itself in so 
 many ways ; here strong arms are needed 
 to bear the sick, here strong heads are 
 needed to think over and carry out the 
 plans for allaying the misery that is stalk- 
 ing through the land. You need bring 
 nothing with you but pity for a suffering 
 so great that it has no name, and if the 
 love you bore to Italy still lives within 
 you, so much the greater will your patience 
 be, so much the softer the hands that 
 shall nurse the poor sufferers ! And 
 

 12 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 if it should cost you your life, well, what 
 of that ! Is it then so sweet to live, and 
 is it so hard to die, when one can die in 
 the land of one's dreams, knowing that 
 one has helped others to live, or if their 
 fate is sealed, that one has at least helped 
 them to die ! Ye who are rich, give, give 
 of your abundance, here are a thousand 
 mouths crying for bread ; and ye who are 
 poor, light ye in kindly thought a votive 
 candle on the altar of your silent inter- 
 cessions. 
 
 Pure nervousness + innate sentimen- 
 tality 4- blind love towards Italy + sus- 
 picious tendency to mysticism — is the 
 fellow a Catholic ? eh, doctor ? 
 
 The train glided into the Naples station. 
 The platform was empty, not a single 
 gesticulating facchino ready to tear the 
 things out of your hands, not a single one 
 of the drivers outside, standing up on the 
 box of their own cabs, cracking their 
 whips and crying, '' Ecco Signort, buona 
 carozzelluy buonissimo cavallo !'' no deaf- 
 
 \ 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 13 
 
 ening welcome from the street life of 
 Naples, in the shape of the hundred urch- 
 ins who swarm round every newcomer, 
 swinging their arms one moment, standing 
 on their heads the next, with outstretched 
 hands, crying, ^^ Date u soldoy eccellenza, u 
 bajoccOy Signorl ! " And my friend Pas- 
 qualino, who was all-in-all to me last time 
 I was here, why has he not come down to 
 carry my luggage home for me ? yet I 
 had certainly written to his mother, my 
 old padrona, asking her to prepare my 
 former room for me. What has become 
 of every one ? A dark and ominous silence 
 has fallen over all the streets, and it begins 
 to dawn upon me why my poor Pasqua- 
 lino has not come down to meet the 
 train. 
 
 Here we are at my old lodgings, over 
 the doorway I read the following words, 
 " Closed on account of cholera-infection " 
 — Pasqualino was dead, my dear old land- 
 lady was dead, her black-eyed little Tere- 
 sina was dead ! 
 

 * 
 
 i \ 
 
 r. 
 
 I 
 
 II 
 
 T is in times like these, in the 
 midst of cholera and unequalled 
 poverty, that the popular char- 
 acter is brought to light and exposed in 
 all its weakness, but also in all its beauty. 
 No doubt help has come from every 
 part of the country, from every part of 
 the world ; but even here, as is so often 
 the case, it is the poor who have exercised 
 the greatest charity, the silent self-sacri- 
 ficing devotion has come from those who 
 have next to nothing themselves. Who 
 has given most, the wealthy banker who 
 is publicly thanked for having presented 
 the town with looo francs, or the poor 
 contadino who comes up to the hospital 
 
 k^ 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 15 
 
 dragging his only goat along with him, 
 though he had meant to keep it for 
 Christmas, and the Mergellina fisherman, 
 who, after a whole night out at sea, silently 
 empties the contents of his net upon the 
 
 threshold of his sick neighbour's door 
 
 have you the heart to laugh because he 
 has reserved a few fish and sold them 
 under way, in order to buy the candle 
 which is burning now beneath the Blessed 
 Virgin's picture in the sickroom ! 
 
 All the praise falls to the share of those 
 aristocrats who have presented the Relief 
 Committee with so many pairs of sheets 
 and shirts, their names have figured in 
 all the newspapers, but have they all 
 together given as much as the obscure 
 young fishwife of Vico Grotta Santa whom 
 I saw last night ? The story is not long, 
 would you like to hear it ? 
 
 Anarella — for such is her name — had 
 already attracted my attention yesterday, 
 when I was up in the little lane in which 
 she lives; she had even then taken my 
 
i6 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 part in a discussion that had arisen be- 
 tween some of her neighbours and myself. 
 A fisherman, who shared her husband's 
 boat, had been struck down with cholera 
 the day before, and had been removed by 
 one of the ambulance societies, almost by 
 force, to the hospital, where I accidentally 
 came across him. He was still conscious, 
 but utterly exhausted ; he cried continually 
 for his wife and child, and as it was out of 
 my power to do anything for the man 
 himself, I promised him that I would at 
 least go and look after them. He died 
 shortly afterwards. By the time I reached 
 his home, both wife and child had been 
 attacked, and the wife died towards even- 
 ing. She must have been a general 
 favourite amongst her neighbours, as far 
 as I was able to judge by the poignancy 
 of their grief and the loudness of their 
 lamentations, and I heard a low mur- 
 mur of "^w^/^^^^^^^^," '' assassinol' etc.,^ run 
 through the crowd below. And I found 
 
 1 Poisoner, murderer. 
 
 . 
 
 i 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 17 
 
 It singularly difficult to convince them 
 that if I had not been able to save 
 her, I was at least innocent of her 
 death — her husband's death they had 
 expected from the moment he had been 
 taken to the hospital, from whence, accord- 
 ing to the popular belief, no one ever 
 returns. 
 
 It was then that Anarella undertook to 
 plead my cause, which consisted chiefly in 
 the assurance that she herself had seen me 
 taste the medicine before giving it to the 
 sick woman — this appears to have con- 
 siderably raised my value in the market, 
 and I was left in peace. 
 
 Meanwhile the house had become in- 
 fected from top to bottom, and two fresh 
 cases of cholera occurred that night. As 
 I happened to be on the spot, I glanced 
 round the room in which the mother's 
 corpse still lay. Some lighted candles 
 had been placed by the bed, and beside 
 her lay the child on a heap of rags inside 
 a fishing- basket — it was still alive, but 
 
 : \ 
 
 iMiiiiiB* 
 
i8 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 vavama} who was sitting there thumb- 
 ing her rosary, knew as well as I did that 
 it was dying, whether of starvation or 
 cholera, it was difficult to say. I sent the 
 old woman off to try and get some milk, 
 but she came back, having been unable to 
 procure any. Whilst I was endeavouring 
 to convey to the old grandmother how 
 more and more decidedly I inclined to the 
 double diagnosis of cholera and starvation, 
 — the poor old thing looked as though she 
 had had plenty of personal experience of 
 what the latter meant, — Anarella came into 
 the room. She looked at the child for a 
 moment, saying in an undertone, " Pover- 
 ina ! poverina ! " ^ then took it out of the 
 basket, and with a superb gesture, which 
 I shall never forget, she tore open her 
 ragged old fishing jacket and put the 
 child to her breast. 
 
 At that very moment her husband 
 entered the room ; he has been a pilot, 
 
 ^ Neapolitan dialect, la mia nonua — grandmother. 
 * Poor little one. 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 19 
 
 and there isn't much that he is afraid of, 
 still he shared the people's unutterable 
 dread of cholera, and had come to take 
 his wife away from the infected house. 
 When he saw her with the babe at her 
 breast he grew pale ; he knew that it was 
 at the risk, not only of her own life, but 
 at that of their own healthy child's, but he 
 said nothing, and only crossed himself in 
 silence. And if I remember rightly, the 
 doctor did the same himself 
 
 # 
 
 # 
 
 Ah yes, it is quite true that the popular 
 character is brought to light and exposed 
 in all its weakness in times like these. 
 But one friendly effort to look upon life 
 from these poor people's point of view, 
 will help you to understand and patiently 
 excuse, many things which would jar 
 upon you otherwise, and teach you at all 
 events to care for this crassly ignorant, 
 but warm-hearted and long-suffering 
 
 I 
 
20 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 people. And then will the aristocrat's 
 white hand no longer shun the lazzarone's 
 rags, then will the philosopher no longer 
 find it in his heart to raise a laugh at the 
 people's blind superstitions concerning the 
 Madonna and San Gennaro (the patron 
 saint of Naples), then will the doctor 
 refuse the revolver which he has been 
 advised to carry, in order to shield himself 
 from the outbreaks of popular fanaticism 
 during his night rounds in the poor 
 quarter. (The complaints that have been 
 so often raised of late are, alas, only too 
 well founded : doctors have been attacked 
 over and over again by the sick people's 
 relations, and have repeatedly been 
 obliged to defend their own lives.) But 
 I don't think the danger is so very great 
 after all ; a little patient sympathy with 
 the sick, a little bread to the hungry 
 crowd around, and a little forbearance 
 towards their attitude of defiant sus-. 
 picion, is more effective j than a pistol 
 shot or an escort of tjwo carabiniers 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 21 
 
 with their clanking swords at your 
 heels. 
 
 And a doctor must not be too particular 
 with regard to the consideration in which 
 his profession is held, nor must he be too 
 sensitive as to the amount of faith which 
 the poor people repose in his skill ; the 
 lazzaroni are as sceptical with regard to 
 the infallibility of his medicines as the 
 doctor very likely is himself in the inmost 
 depths of his heart. But they go a step 
 further, and are of opinion that all sorts 
 of horrors lie at the bottom of their mix- 
 tures — various poisons "the evil eye," ser- 
 pents' tongues, a few hairs off the devil's 
 head, etc. etc., ingredients which, to the 
 best of my belief, are not usually included 
 in the pharmacopoeia. The patient him- 
 self is as a rule too ill to offer much 
 resistance, but those who stand around 
 follow every movement of the doctor's 
 with the profoundest suspicion. I knew 
 a doctor who, every time he endeavoured 
 to dose a patient, was greeted with these 
 
 u I 
 
< 
 
 32 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 words, " Bevete vol primol' ^ and of course 
 he did so — the only objection to this mutual 
 drug -drinking (which may perhaps be 
 recommended to certain mixture -loving 
 physicians) being that the doctor, who is 
 not down with cholera, is pretty sure to feel 
 rather sleepy after all the opium drops. . . . 
 This introduction to doctors and 
 officials is, after all, so new an experience 
 for the inhabitants of the poor quarters, 
 that one can almost understand their 
 mistrust. At ordinary times no policeman 
 goes near the place — which no doubt 
 tends to impart a certain comfortable 
 sensation to many a black-eyed fellow, 
 whose conscience, may be, is no cleaner 
 than his face. And the inhabitants of the 
 fondaci, bassi, and sottoterrani of the 
 Mercato, Pendino, Porto, and Vicaria 
 quarters, come into the world and go 
 out of it without the doctor's assistance 
 in either one case — or the other. But 
 often enough through the little aperture, 
 
 ^ Taste it first yourself. 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 23 
 
 which in these sort of houses serves the 
 purpose of both window and door, a 
 lean old monk may be seen slipping 
 
 in. . . • 
 
 A propos of monks, as we have perhaps 
 
 had enough cholera for to-day, let me 
 wind up my letter by devoting a few 
 
 words to them ! 
 
 The critic shakes his head as he reads 
 the following words in the above para- 
 graph, "a lean old monk;" there isn't 
 a novel or a book of travels on Italy 
 in which monks are not invariably re- 
 presented as red-cheeked and corpulent, 
 and our Italian authorities and aesthetic 
 oracles at home — especially if they 
 happen to be fat themselves — refuse 
 point-blank to allow the monks to grow 
 thin ; but the poor old fellows have done 
 so all the same, since they have been 
 harried to death by United Italy, and 
 I beg to enter a protest against these 
 gentlemen's classical representation of the 
 typical fat monk. I know that it is part 
 
 1^; 
 
 ■ JJW 
 
 J : 
 
24 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 and parcel of a modern description of Italy 
 to have a hit at the monks. Every tra- 
 veller itching to reduce his impressions 
 to black and white (scribbling and malaria 
 are the two diseases which invariably 
 attack travellers in this part of the world, 
 more especially Northerners, and they are 
 both equally disagreeable to come across), 
 though he may know no more about Italy 
 than what he has read in Baedaeker's 
 handbook, though he may never have felt 
 the heart of Italy's ideal beauty beating 
 beneath the bark, is at all events able to 
 report on the number of round-faced 
 monks whom he has seen tossing off their 
 bumpers and gormandising ad libitum. 
 I am well aware that it isn't popular 
 to stand up for the monks, but I mean 
 to do so all the same — and indeed it is no 
 more than my bounden duty, for I number 
 many a good friend amongst the kindly 
 old brothers. As it is, they have such a 
 wretched time of it, these poor remaining 
 monks, they are so timid in the conscious- 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 25 
 
 ness that wherever they go they must 
 silently and uncomplainingly accept the 
 scorn and raillery which is their daily 
 bread ; perhaps it is on that account that 
 they get on best with the poor, who always 
 treat them kindly. 
 
 Poor old monks ! they are doomed to 
 extinction in any case, — why not let them 
 depart in peace? 
 
 And they are not my only prot^gh. 
 I have others besides them, and now that 
 we are on the subject I may as well pro- 
 duce them from the hidden depths of my 
 compassionate sympathy. Were I ruler 
 over a vast, vast kingdom, I would divide 
 the lands into three equal parts, and deal 
 it out to the three innocent victims of 
 modern civilisation : monks, Laplanders, 
 and Red Indians. But how would they 
 all get on together — that is the question ? 
 I wonder whether the Redskins would 
 modify their bad habits to the extent of 
 scalping one another only, or whether, 
 when their old inclinations were roused. 
 
 ^liiiimnmt 
 
26 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 they would try their hand on my other 
 subjects as well ? But I should wander 
 about my kingdom and try to keep 
 things straight, and of one thing I am 
 quite sure, I should be on good terms 
 with the whole lot ! — Or perhaps, all things 
 taken into consideration, I might abdicate 
 and turn monk myself. ... 
 
 * 
 
 ^1 
 
 III 
 
 FTER having raged for a whole 
 month with fearful rapidity, the 
 cholera began to diminish, and 
 the poor sorrow-stricken town of Naples 
 to hope that her days of mourning were 
 over. The voluntary ambulances granted 
 a sorely-needed holiday to part of their 
 staff, the great fires that had been lit at 
 night in all the squares were discontinued, 
 the strong smell of sulphur that had filled 
 the air for so long, diminished gradu- 
 ally, the shops in the Strada di Toledo 
 took down their shutters one after the 
 other, there was traffic in the streets 
 again, and the mayor telegraphed to the 
 king that the epidemic had come to an end. 
 
 I 
 
28 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 And the fruiterers began to smuggle 
 in fresh figs from Sorrento, the beautiful 
 blue luscious figs, of which the sale had 
 been forbidden since the outbreak of the 
 cholera ; and the little osterias, " hettolel' 
 which had been closed for more than 
 three weeks, began to lure in, one after 
 the other, the thirsty customers unable any- 
 longer to resist the temptation of drown- 
 ing the recollection of so many anxious 
 days and nights in a glass of vino nuovo. 
 
 Now October was just at hand, when 
 it was the people's custom to celebrate 
 their merriest holidays in the osterias of 
 Posilipo, in order to taste the first wine of 
 the year, which had just been got ready 
 about that time, Gragnano, Vino del Monte, 
 del Vesuvio, del Procida, and whatever 
 they are all called ; and last Thursday, on 
 the Ottobrata holiday, the sound of guitars 
 and mandolines was heard in Posilipo as 
 of old, and the tarantella's strains awoke 
 the slumbering gladness to new life again 
 — E morto il cholera^ evviva la gioia ! 
 
 I 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 29 
 
 Naples heaved a deep sigh of relief 
 after her long spell of anguish, every one 
 was in good spirits and on friendly terms, 
 and every one felt as if they must con- 
 gratulate each other upon the gloomy 
 days that were over at last. Whom to 
 thank for the fortunate and unexpected 
 turn that things had taken, they hardly 
 knew themselves ; every one had something 
 to say on the subject, and the newspapers 
 rang the praises of first one and then the 
 other. The official authorities thanked 
 the king, whose courage and energy had 
 put new life into every one, the middle 
 classes thanked the Municipality and the 
 Relief Committees, and the people, the 
 poor people who had suffered most — they 
 thanked the Mother of God. And I 
 think the people were right. They had 
 lit votive candles at her shrines when the 
 distress was at its height ; when death 
 had entered almost all their homes, they 
 had implored her assistance, and now 
 that deliverance seemed at hand, humble 
 
30 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 and grateful they kissed the hem of her 
 garment. 
 
 The present generation, grown old 
 enough to have outgrown its faith in God, 
 laughs at all this " superstition " ; but I 
 am one with the lazzaroni on that score ; 
 it is certainly very easy to live without 
 God Almighty in prosperity and health, 
 but I am beginning to realise that it is a 
 good deal harder to die without Him. 
 
 I wish I had a collection of new-fledged 
 young atheists out here, and that I were 
 able to take them with me through the 
 poor quarters of the town, where sorrow 
 and misery are at home. I would show 
 them the peace which the consolations of 
 religion are able to bring to the closing 
 eyes of even these poor creatures, who 
 might certainly be excused for thinking 
 that their debt of gratitude to God 
 Almighty is no large one ; I would show 
 them that the crucifix over the bed is 
 better able to soothe the pangs of death 
 than all the doctors' morphine syringes. 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 31 
 
 Ah, " there is more in heaven and earth 
 than our philosophy has dreamt of" — and 
 our science too for the matter of that ; and 
 perhaps such a sight as this might shake 
 their reasoned philosophies, no matter 
 from what source of wisdom they had 
 been drawn, and precipitate the pure 
 gold of their childhood's simple faith to 
 the bottom of their souls. 
 
 But still, even though philosophy were 
 silenced, we have the profound researches 
 of science to fall back upon, the mag- 
 nificent triumphs of medicine, and its 
 brilliant discoveries ! Well and good ! 
 amidst the olla-podrida of dead theories 
 and living microbes, of groping experi- 
 ments and troubled mixtures — ''la main 
 siir la conscience',' what poor insigni- 
 ficant charlatans are not we all the same, 
 and how little able to compete with the 
 the other Physician whose practice is so 
 large, and who goes about from bed to 
 bed with his one and only drug, his 
 eternal sleeping draught! 
 
ur 
 
 "H^ 
 
 32 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 The poor ignorant people here knew at 
 least to whom to carry their troubles and 
 anxieties ; they had from the first confided 
 all their sorrows to the Mother of God. 
 When every one else had abandoned them, 
 her arms had always been stretched out 
 to them ; no matter how ragged they might 
 be, she knew how to help them all. 
 
 And those who sneered at their super- 
 stitions and forbad their processions, what 
 had they to offer them in exchange for 
 their obscure but rock-like faith ? Ah yes, 
 sanitary rules, veritable sarcasms on their 
 poverty, printed advertisements, which 
 most of them were unable to read and 
 none of them were able to understand, 
 recommending them to live in airy rooms, 
 to avoid vegetables, and take to meat, to 
 disinfect constantly, either with carbolic 
 acid, which is an excellent remedy ac- 
 cording to one Sanitary Committee, but 
 no good according to another, or with 
 "corrosive sublimate," the most effective 
 microbe antidote according to Dr. Koch — 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 33 
 
 although the idea that it is useless is quite 
 
 worthy of consideration also. 
 
 And what has the obtuse brain of a 
 
 lazzarone to do with Koch and microbes, 
 
 he whose thoughts have never crossed the 
 
 bay beyond which the whole of the 
 
 remaining world is " Barbaria " to him, he 
 
 who knows a host of saints' days, a few 
 
 prayers that he has been taught as a 
 
 child, the names of a dozen fish he has 
 
 seen jumping in the nets at Mergellina, 
 
 he who can play at morra and sing 
 
 Santa Luciay and that is about all ! How 
 
 is he to manage to "air the room," he 
 
 who lives with ten or twelve others in 
 
 one of those fondaci^ into which the 
 
 light of day has never been known to 
 
 penetrate, where one of us is unable to 
 
 remain for more than a moment without 
 
 going out to take a breath of fresh air! 
 
 And he is, forsooth, to choose his food, he 
 
 whose expenses at the best of times never 
 
 exceed one or two soldi a day, he who 
 
 never in his life has had the chance of 
 
 D 
 
 - U'll» l ll il» ' 
 
34 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 tasting meat, and whom you may perhaps 
 see standing in front of the baker's shop, 
 watching, with the expression of a hungry 
 animal in his eyes, the piece of bread 
 which you have just given your dog, and 
 then fighting over the remaining crumbs 
 with a crowd of others such as himself!— 
 And as to disinfection ! what does he 
 know about that, he who, alas, shows so 
 little inclination to master the first great 
 rule of disinfection, the popular antiseptic 
 which consists in sometimes dipping one's 
 hands and face in water. . . . 
 
 Just give a thought to all this, and then 
 it will no longer strike you as so wonderful 
 that these poor people should believe more 
 in the censer's clouds than in the sulphur's 
 fumes, and more in holy water than in a 
 ten per cent solution of carbolic acid. 
 
 I had lingered in Posilipo last Thursday 
 evening, and it was already late as I 
 
 w 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 35 
 
 sauntered home towards the town. In 
 the Strada di Piedegrotta sat a boy sing- 
 ing La bella Sorrentina — 
 
 " lo te vidi a Piedegrotta 
 Tutta gioia, tutta festa. " 
 
 And a little further on I halted for a 
 moment at Mergellina to let the sea- 
 breeze blow over me, whilst I watched the 
 fishing-smacks as one by one they sailed 
 home from their day's work out on the 
 bay. From Villa Reale there were sounds 
 of music and dancing, and the Chiaia was 
 swarming with people as though it were a 
 feast-day ; and it was a feast-day in deed 
 and truth, the cholera had ceased, and it 
 was the first day of that year on which 
 they had been allowed to taste the new 
 wine ! E morto il cholera^ evviva la gioia I 
 
 But no — it was not dead. During the 
 night the grim guest had gone his rounds 
 again, and when Naples awoke next 
 morning, several fresh cases of cholera 
 were reported to have occurred the pre- 
 vious day, and the authorities were unable 
 
 
36 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 to conceal the fact that the epidemic had 
 broken out again with renewed virulence. 
 I see no reason for transcribing the official 
 bulletins published in the newspapers; 
 they have already been transmitted by 
 telegraph, and their numbers have no 
 other significance than that of announcing 
 the increase or decrease of the epidemic. 
 That the figures have always been kept 
 too low is a well-known fact here, and no 
 one has ever made a secret of it. That 
 the figures of the dead are as untrust- 
 worthy as those of the sick, I was able to 
 see for myself yesterday evening, when I 
 was up at the cholera cemetery ; I must 
 have remained there a good hour, and 
 during that time alone, eighty-three bodies 
 were left there (the official report of the 
 day announcing fifty-seven deaths and no 
 
 more). 
 
 The dead are laid in a row before 
 they are buried. We bent over every 
 one of them ; it was impossible to make 
 any mistake: they had all died that 
 
 M\ 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 37 
 
 day. After they have been lowered into 
 the grave, their names are written down 
 in the register. The impression produced 
 by the quantity of blank spaces in the 
 book is singularly uncanny, nothing but 
 a number to distinguish them, anony- 
 mous dead, homeless during their lifetime, 
 one common cholera grave after their 
 death ! 
 
 Several hundred of these nameless dead 
 lie sleeping there since the outbreak of 
 the epidemic ; ah yes ! they also had a 
 name of their own, which was about all 
 that society had ever bestowed on them — 
 but Death has grudged them even that. 
 They certainly had a name of their own, 
 which once upon a time was whispered 
 lovingly over them in the most melodious 
 language on earth, when they were infants 
 sleeping on their mother's knee ; but per- 
 haps the only one who knew it had pre- 
 ceded them to the grave, or perhaps the 
 hungry little orphans who at this very 
 moment are wandering about the filthy 
 
 M 
 
38 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 alleys of the poor quarter are the only 
 ones who might be able to tell us some- 
 thing about them — no one knows any- 
 thing about them up here, a number 
 round each one's neck in turn, no coffin, 
 no shroud, nothing but a covering of 
 quicklime. And so on to the next one. 
 
 1/ 
 
 
 \ 
 
 ) 
 
 \ 
 
 IV 
 
 HE unexpected reappearance 
 of the cholera last week led to a 
 fearful panic. In a single day 
 the town became as empty and as silent 
 as during the worst days of the epidemic ; 
 the streets again reeked of the horrid 
 smell of sulphur, and through the night 
 the fires burned as before in the public 
 squares ; the ambulance societies, which 
 had begun to disperse, again prepared 
 themselves for instant action, and to all 
 appearance the days of mourning were 
 about to recommence for the poor town 
 of Naples. The people began to lose 
 their power of endurance, and a certain 
 agitation of evil omen was noticeable in 
 
 '•ffDi 
 
•V 
 
 
 
 40 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 the poor quarters. The municipal autho- 
 rities did their best to compose the minds 
 of the multitude, and the newspapers 
 were again recommended to dissemble 
 the real state of affairs. Doctors here 
 have been speculating upon the reasons 
 of this violent and unforeseen increase of 
 cases, and the newspapers are still full 
 of such discussion. Most of them have 
 come to the conclusion that the real cause 
 is to be traced to il vino nuovOy which 
 was tried rather too often on the Otto- 
 brata feast-day, last Thursday. As one 
 proof of how the day was abused, a cor- 
 respondent quotes a merry party of four 
 lazzaroni who suddenly discovered them- 
 selves to be rich enough to buy twenty-four 
 litres of vitio di Posilipo^ and who, bewil- 
 dered perhaps at the novelty of the situa- 
 tion, and determined to wipe out every 
 trace thereof — tossed off the whole lot there 
 and then. The gay party wound up at the 
 Conocchia hospital, everyone of them being 
 struck down with cholera during the night. 
 
 / 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 41 
 
 The idea that the recrudescence of the 
 epidemic is due to the excesses of Thurs- 
 day's holiday is of course a reassuring, 
 but not, I am afraid, a correct one. I 
 cannot understand how doctors can bring 
 themselves to believe that one day's wine- 
 drinking is sufficient to account for so 
 sudden an increase of cases ; that 
 amongst the joyous crowd who up at 
 Posilipo on Thursday last drank a farewell 
 toast to the cholera, many were subse- 
 quently attacked, I am quite willing to 
 believe ; but allowing the minimum of time 
 for the incubation of cholera, it is never- 
 theless longer than the hours which trans- 
 pired between Thursday evening and 
 Friday morning, when most of the cases 
 were announced. Without wishing to enter 
 into this question, which is out of place 
 here, my own opinion is that the increase 
 of the epidemic may be traced to the 
 varied temperature of the last few days, (a 
 sudden fall of the barometer, a change of 
 wind, condition of the water underground, 
 
42 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 etc.) A careful observation of the patients 
 at the hospital — who had certainly nothing 
 to do with Thursday's merry-makings — 
 inclines me to this view, for the greater 
 part of them exhibited a considerable 
 change for the worse, coinciding exactly 
 in point of time with the outbreak in the 
 town. 
 
 Besides, and this is an experience 
 corroborated by most people here, any 
 sudden change of temperature must inter- 
 fere with the process of digestion, and 
 must for that very reason predispose 
 reception of disease. Another fact not 
 willingly admitted but nevertheless indu- 
 bitable — a certain laxity has crept into the 
 Sanitary Society's administrations, extend- 
 ing even to the doctors themselves. As far 
 as these latter are concerned it is not to be 
 wondered at — human beings, like the rest 
 of us, physical exhaustion is bound to 
 assert itself sooner or later, and they have 
 had a hard time of it. For the first 
 weeks everything went without a hitch, 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City .43 
 
 most of them (and to the honour of the 
 medical staff of Naples be it said) went 
 to their duty through fire, risking their 
 own lives to save the lives of others. 
 To the sense of duty that bade them 
 stand at their post must be added the 
 scientific interest, which was the magnet 
 that attracted a goodly number; here 
 were many experiences to be gained, 
 many dark riddles to be solved — many 
 laurels to be won. It is as yet too early 
 in the day to decide how far Science has 
 been satisfied, but this much I can tell 
 you: if, as we are given to understand, 
 the deepest interest centres in the search 
 after Truth, then the doctors have every 
 reason to congratulate themselves, and 
 their zeal ought to be more ardent than 
 ever — for nothing has been discovered. 
 They have gone forward to meet this 
 epidemic with fresh weapons, with all 
 the most important results of recent ex- 
 periences, Koch's discovery of the cholera 
 microbes, etc. etc., but one can only bear 
 
 m 
 
I i 
 
 44 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 witness to the fact how much yet remains 
 to be discovered, ere we can hope to attain 
 to some positive practical result as to the 
 special treatment which the cholera patient 
 requires, — if such a result be indeed attain- 
 able at all. 
 
 And this outbreak has been if anything 
 more terrible than the last ; 1 0,000 cases 
 taken en bloc give a mortality of 6000 ; 
 and in certain infected quarters the mortal- 
 ity has increased to eighty per cent (at 
 Fuorigrotto, in the neighbourhood of 
 Naples, twenty -five out of twenty- nine 
 patients died; the death-rate of Torre 
 del Greco and several other suburbs has 
 been enormous). If the hygienic and 
 therapeutic conditions of the town are not 
 all that they might be, the hospitals, 
 on the other hand, have been well served 
 by able men, and eager investigators. 
 Everything has been tried, very little 
 headway made. I, who have casually 
 been brought into contact with some 
 hundred cholera patients, have arrived 
 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 45 
 
 at a very profound conclusion with which 
 I am quite willing to acquaint you here, 
 where there is no chance of the doctors 
 overhearing us. To my mind the cholera 
 patients may be divided into two large 
 classes : those who are going to live, and 
 those who are going to die. And only 
 towards the last is it at all possible to 
 decide in which class to include the 
 patient. The same curious characteristic 
 which distinguishes the epidemic itself, is 
 also discernible in the patient's case. We 
 are at a loss to understand why one 
 patient dies after a few hours, another 
 after a day or two, whilst the third re- 
 covers, notwithstanding the fact that the 
 disease has developed itself with pre- 
 cisely the same symptoms, and, as far as 
 one is able to judge, with precisely the 
 same virulence in all three cases ; why 
 one patient, who seems to have been but 
 slightly attacked, should suddenly fall 
 into the agonies of death, whilst another, 
 who lies in the last phase of cholera, and 
 
 \ 
 
i !k 
 
 46 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 whom the doctor has already made over 
 to the priest, should unexpectedly recover. 
 We stand here on unknown, untrodden 
 ground ; the usual indices, the patient's 
 power of resistance, age, etc., all are at 
 fault in this case. 
 
 And whatever may have been said con- 
 cerning cholera and other contagious dis- 
 eases, that the virus loses its intensity with 
 the actual decrease of the epidemic itself, 
 that the cases towards the end are of a 
 milder character — I cannot see that the 
 argument holds good here. The cholera 
 at the present moment is decidedly on the 
 wane, in spite of which there are a number 
 of these foiidroyaiit cases every day. 
 For instance, yesterday, during the morning 
 inspection (at eight o'clock), seven cholera 
 patients were received at the Santa Madda- 
 lena Hospital, all seven had been per- 
 fectly well the previous night, and by ten 
 P.M. six of them were already dead. People 
 are now being struck down in the streets, 
 just as they were during the worst days of 
 
 ^ 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 47 
 
 the epidemic, and the man who drove 
 me out to Granatello day before yester- 
 day, fell off the box whilst waiting 
 for me, dying four hours later — the 
 poor fellow never got his fare after 
 all. 
 
 And it was just the same last year in 
 Egypt, when the cholera was supposed to 
 be extinct in Alexandria ; after twelve 
 days, during which there had not been a 
 single case at the cholera hospital, the 
 disease returned with the same virulence 
 in the case of one of the French doctors, 
 poor Thuillier, who was roused at three 
 o'clock one morning by the first symp- 
 toms of cholera, and about whom at 
 eight o'clock the news had already been 
 telegraphed to Paris that he was at 
 the point of death ! True, that as far 
 as he was concerned, a sort of arti- 
 ficial life had been kept up for about 
 twelve hours, but it was absolutely useless, 
 and almost cruel under these circum- 
 stances, where the extinction of life is not 
 
 1 
 
 If 
 
48 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 synonymous with ceasing to live^ but with 
 ceasing to die. 
 
 As I write Thuillier's name I am re- 
 minded of a graceful act of Dr. Koch's, 
 the celebrated German savant. Koch 
 happened to be in Egypt at the same 
 time as the French doctors, pupils of 
 Pasteur, who had been sent out by 
 their Government to study the cholera 
 question. As is well known, Koch and 
 Pasteur have come to close quarters 
 on many a scientific battlefield, and the 
 discussion has been carried on with a 
 vehemence of which the origin, alas, can 
 be traced to political animosity ; for 
 Koch, no matter how great a man, is 
 nevertheless le Prussien in the sensitive 
 Frenchman's eyes. Even in Alexandria 
 some latent enmity existed between the 
 French and German emissaries. The 
 great German experimentalist had a fine 
 opportunity of proving that the echo of 
 these slight differences dies away when 
 face to face with death, and that the grave 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 49 
 
 is the neutral ground on which all men 
 meet. Dr. Koch was present when the 
 French physicians laid their colleague in 
 the grave, and in his own name and that 
 of the other German doctors, he laid two 
 laurel wreaths upon the coffin — "they 
 are simple," said he, "but still they are 
 made of laurel — they are those we offer 
 heroes !" 
 
 I wander from my subject, but Koch's 
 name is so intimately connected with 
 everything concerning cholera, that I may 
 almost be allowed to do so. 
 
 £ 
 
PROPOS of doctors, as I said 
 before, many of the Neapolitan 
 physicians had remained at their 
 post from a sense of duty, whilst others 
 had thrown themselves into the fray stimu- 
 lated by a certain amount of scientific 
 interest But there is a third sort of 
 physician out here, and it is impossible to 
 include him in either the former or the 
 latter series, i.e, the runaway. And he 
 deserves a special mention, but I will spare 
 him here. That society will bear him in 
 mind for some time to come, I think I 
 may safely venture to affirm, after what 
 has just happened .in the case of a 
 Neapolitan gentleman of some standing 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 51 
 
 in the town. Whilst all his colleagues 
 had looked upon it as their duty to remain 
 on the spot, and lend every possible assist- 
 ance in their power, he had kept away, 
 excusing himself in a public letter ^ from 
 returning to the town, on the plea of family 
 matters! He took this opportunity of 
 mentioning that he was an excessively 
 courageous fellow, and as a proof thereof, 
 he modestly reminded those of his oblivious 
 countrymen who dared to question his 
 heroic attributes, that "alone with six 
 bersaglieri he had taken a cannon from the 
 Austrians at Villafranca." But this was 
 not of much avail — time seems to have 
 somewhat rusted the cannon — and the tide 
 of popular feeling rose so high, that he 
 was requested to resign his appointment 
 without further delay. The matter grew 
 so serious that at last he was compelled 
 to put an end to his villegiatura. He 
 came back on Thursday and found that it 
 would be impossible to regain the people's 
 
 1 Printed in the Piccolo newspaper. 
 
52 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 confidence, unless he reported himself that 
 very day as volunteer ^^infirmier" at the 
 cholera hospital. As was to be expected, 
 this new act of heroism was immediately 
 advertised ; the " Villafranca cannon " was 
 again lugged out of its arsenal of oblivion, 
 and dragged with rattling phrases across 
 the columns of every newspaper in the 
 town, pouring great broadsides into all 
 those who dared to entertain a single 
 doubt as to the worthy gentleman's cour- 
 age, — and public opinion was again satis- 
 fied. Such are the galantuominiy the so- 
 called better classes out here, ostenta- 
 tious and ridiculous. I hold more and 
 more to my poor lazzaroni, who are far 
 more interesting as a study, and infinitely 
 more sympathetic in themselves. 
 
 It irritates me to think that they actu- 
 ally complied with his request to be 
 allowed to play the rdle of infirmier at the 
 cholera hospital. No doubt it was a con- 
 venient platform on which to enact a re- 
 conciliation scene with his discontented 
 
 I 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 53 
 
 fellow townsmen, but in my opinion far 
 too solemn a place to desecrate by such a 
 farce. (The director of the hospital is 
 nevertheless a very able man, and a mem- 
 ber of Parliament into the bargain ; here, 
 as in France, the medical faculty furnishes a 
 number of representatives to the Chamber.) 
 The Villafranca hero (he is also a 
 colonel of the Reserve Force) is now and 
 again to be seen up at the hospital. He 
 absolutely reeks of camphor, which is, I 
 suppose, his ideal disinfectant. He often 
 slips out into the corridor or into the 
 garden, where fearless friends or news- 
 paper reporters are to be found paying 
 their tribute of admiration to his infir- 
 mier's costume. I wonder if it ever strikes 
 him that he ought to be proud of being 
 allowed to wear the simple gray blouse, 
 which is perhaps more deserving of 
 medals than the gold -laced coat of his 
 colonel's uniform ! I know some one who 
 saw him the other day helping to put one 
 of the cholera patients into a bath, and it 
 
54 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 seems that, according to all appearances, 
 the gloved infirmier might have been hand- 
 ling nothing short of a fiery shell itself. . . . 
 
 If he would like to know how heroes 
 conduct themselves in battles such as 
 these, let him go into the next room 
 where lies Soeur Philom^ne, the brave 
 sister of charity, who, without flinching, 
 has nursed the cholera patients day and 
 night ; she has fallen at her post, and 
 now lies calmly waiting there for death. 
 
 It is a different sort of courage to that 
 with which cannons are taken that is re- 
 quired here — the silent, unsung courage 
 which Napoleon, the great taker of can- 
 nons, valued at so high a rate, the courage 
 which he called, " le courage de la nuitr 
 
 As far as the municipal authorities are 
 concerned they have certainly done their 
 duty during these hard times, if not at 
 the beginning, at any rate during the last 
 period of the epidemic. And the work 
 that had to be got through was gigantic, 
 it was a case of beginning from the be- 
 
 
 ,V 
 
 ,U] 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 55 
 
 ginning, for Naples is absolutely innocent 
 of anything like sanitary arrangements ; 
 I shall take some other opportunity of 
 returning to the question of the sanitary 
 conditions of Naples — it is interesting 
 enough. There is no doubt that the 
 king's visit during the worst days of the 
 epidemic had a most stimulating effect 
 upon the official authorities. But I am 
 bound to admit that during these last 
 times they have somewhat relaxed in 
 their efforts, and I reckon this factor to 
 be one of considerable importance in the 
 discussions that are still going on as to 
 the reason of the recrudescence of the 
 epidemic last week. Fortunately the 
 cholera did not wait for the doctors to 
 finish their discussions, it took the matter 
 into its own hands, and diminished 
 rapidly. To-day the tramontana^ is blow- 
 ing, sweeping away a large quantity 
 of cholera virus from amongst us, and 
 in about a week it is my belief that the 
 
 1 North wind. 
 
 X 
 
56 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 cholera returns will be no more numerous 
 than they were a fortnight ago. And it 
 is high time, for Naples is as near her 
 complete ruin as possible. 
 
 I know for a fact that a petition has been 
 sent up to the Home Office in Rome, for 
 permission to discontinue the publication 
 of the cholera cases, for it is a question of 
 life and death to Naples that the epidemic 
 should come to an end — officially at all 
 events. A continued publication of these 
 cholera cases will be enough to scare 
 away all foreigners for the whole winter ; 
 and as foreigners are the only real source 
 of income to Naples, it is an absolute 
 necessity that silence should be kept on 
 the subject of the epidemic, and that 
 every endeavour should be made to forget 
 all about it as quickly as possible. 
 
 But in such hotbeds of infection as the 
 fondaci of the Mercato and Porto quarters 
 — dark damp holes into which neither air 
 nor light ever penetrates, and where so 
 many people, reduced to the most frightful 
 
 Ir 
 
 / 
 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 57 
 
 misery, are so closely packed together — 
 the cholera may easily retain its vitality 
 for many a day to come. 
 
 And it isn't much better in the suburbs 
 of Naples than in the surrounding villages. 
 I went again to-day to the Bagno di Grana- 
 telloy the convict prison, situated between 
 Naples and Portici, where the infirm 
 convicts and those who are chronic in- 
 valids are kept. There had been several 
 cases of cholera during the past week, 
 but they had been hushed up, and nothing 
 had been done for the poor prisoners, of 
 whom the greater part are old and 
 crippled. The cholera patients have not 
 been isolated, but are obliged to lie with 
 the rest in the terribly small room where 
 260 unfortunate wretches are huddled 
 together. The cholera has cleared a 
 space for them now, for many of their 
 companions have died, and many will 
 be dead ere long. These prisoners are 
 human beings like ourselves, and are not 
 ruffians at all, their crimes for the most 
 
 i 
 
 \ 
 
— , 
 
 .1 
 
 58 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 part consist of smuggling, of having re- 
 peatedly deserted the coral fishing-boats, 
 etc. — perhaps at one time when the blood 
 was young and the quarrel violent, a knife 
 may have glistened in one of the hands 
 so withered now. One can imagine the 
 despair of these chained witnesses of the 
 cholera's invasion, as one after the other 
 succumbs to the disease. 
 
 I went there to-day for no other reason 
 than that of being present during the adver- 
 tised inspection of the prison. I am still 
 indignant at the remembrance of all I saw 
 as I write these lines. Since yesterday 
 there have been seven fresh cases, and 
 four people died whilst I was there to-day. 
 It would have moved a stone to have 
 seen the despair of the poor captives as 
 they kissed the clothes of the fine gentle- 
 men around, and to have heard their 
 agonised entreaties for succour and relief 
 — it was well that I was no inspector 
 of prisons, for I would have thrown the 
 doors open to every one of them ! 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 59 
 
 But the inspectors, more accustomed to 
 the dark episodes of prison-life, were of a 
 different opinion, and they were pleased 
 to attest **that the sad condition of the 
 locality itself and its overpopulation, had 
 made isolation and disinfection impossible, 
 rendering every other hygienic ameliora- 
 tion equally so." 
 
 And the long-looked for and anxiously- 
 awaited deliverance was reduced to this, 
 that one of the members of the committee 
 very carefully and very solemnly filled a 
 little flask with drinking water, drawn 
 from the prisoners' well, to be taken up to 
 Naples for analysis — and then they took 
 themselves off! 
 
 But this, however, was no question of 
 finding, or not finding microbes in the 
 water next morning ; the sick ought to 
 have been removed that very day to the 
 cholera hospital, and — as it was impossible 
 to disinfect the miserable hole — all the rest 
 ought at once to have been put under 
 inspection in some other isolated place. 
 
 li 
 
(i 
 
 60 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 I am out of all patience with the heroes 
 of the day, the wretched microbes, for 
 human beings are being forgotten for 
 microbes. As the actual returns were 
 too inconveniently high to suit the 
 inspectors and sanitary commissioners, 
 it was thought desirable to take a middle 
 course, and to advise the public of forty- 
 two cases and thirty deaths — and these 
 were the figures with which the morning 
 papers reported the inspection of il Bagno 
 di Granatello. 
 
 I heard in the meantime that the 
 member for Portici had telegraphed to 
 the Home Office for immediate assistance, 
 and I only hope, for the poor prisoners* 
 sakes, that the help will come soon, and 
 will take a more energetic form than that 
 of lax inspectors and microbe hunting 
 chemists. 
 
 A good deal has come under my notice 
 during these last times, but my experience 
 of the Granatello prison was certainly 
 dreadful. The most appalling stench all 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 61 
 
 over, dark cellars, with damp, moss- 
 covered walls — this last is not to be 
 wondered at, considering that the prison 
 is situated at the water's edge. There 
 are not many people who have seen the 
 Bagno di Granatello, for the old building 
 cannot be distinguished from either Portici 
 or Resina. When the sea is rough, as it 
 was day before yesterday, when I was out 
 there, the water runs down the walls, and 
 an icy draught blows through the so- 
 called gloomy halls, inside which several 
 hundred of these unfortunate prisoners 
 dwell. Even one of the Neapolitan news- 
 papers admitted that the place was one 
 which might be turned to account as a 
 Scuola di piscicoltura} but was altogether 
 unfit to harbour human beings ! 
 
 If you think that my description of an 
 Italian prison is altogether too gloomy, 
 just read one of the recently-published 
 official reports concerning the penal estab- 
 lishments of Italy, by " Commendatore " 
 
 ^ Piscicultural establishment. 
 
62 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 Beltrani Scalia, a book which the news- 
 papers speak of as " interessantissimay" but 
 which, in my opinion, is ghastly. 
 
 The book fell accidentally into my 
 hands yesterday. I looked in vain for 
 anything worthy of remark concerning the 
 Bagno di Granatello, but on another page 
 the following paragraph caught my eye : 
 "The medical duties of the . . . prison 
 are confided to a barber, who is a 
 " bleeder " into the bargain."— Well, that 
 is enough, is it not ? 
 
 # 
 
 I felt I must have a breath of fresh air 
 after all this — I had become so embittered 
 inside that wretched prison, and so de- 
 pressed at the idea of all the misery one 
 is obliged to witness in this weary world, 
 and which one can do nothing to relieve. 
 I went out to Resina, and came home on 
 foot. And as I tramped along, I began 
 to wonder whether, after all, there might 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 63 
 
 not be something in the old legend that 
 maintains that we shall all meet again in 
 another planet, where a sort of mutual 
 transmigration of souls is to take place, 
 where all the roles are to be reversed ; 
 where all those who have been unhappy 
 here below are to be happy, where the 
 poor are to feast whilst the rich stand 
 looking on, where those who have had the 
 lash down here are to hold the handle of 
 the whip in their own hands, where the 
 hard-hearted jailors of this world are to 
 sit in the cells, whilst their former prisoners 
 go round inspecting them ! And in that 
 promised land animals should be allowed 
 to go about illtreating human beings, all 
 the little birds and butterflies should fly 
 about on free wings, and in their turn see 
 the sportsmen sitting stuffed and shut up 
 in enormous glass cases, and all the butter- 
 fly catchers in long rows dangling their 
 legs, with long pins stuck through their 
 bodies — but would they be half so good 
 to look at as their former victims, the 
 
 4^11^ 
 
64 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 butterflies ? And this planet's steep hills 
 should swarm with all the broken-winded 
 old cab-horses, who should also, in their 
 turn, sit on the coach-box, returning every 
 bloody stroke of the whip dealt out to 
 them by their former tyrants, the cabmen 
 of this world. . . . Except that animals 
 are much kinder - hearted than human 
 beings, and would not care to torture the 
 " lords of creation " for very long. 
 
 But I myself, what would become of 
 me up in this remarkable planet ? 
 
 If, at this very moment, I were to find 
 myself translated from this vale of tears 
 and transported thither, and my future 
 destiny were to depend upon what I had 
 been doing during this last period of my 
 earthly existence, I really don't know what 
 I ought to expect ! I don't think I have 
 had much occasion to quarrel with my 
 fellow-creatures just lately, but I am very 
 much afraid I might be accused of cruelty 
 to animals. For I do nothing but torture 
 animals all day long. Either I " catch them 
 
 I 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 65 
 
 alive," or I bring them up with every 
 cunning precaution by means of cultiva- 
 tion-tubes, feed their little ones, in just the 
 right degree of warmth, on what they most 
 prefer, such as Pasteur's bouillon, gelatin, 
 etc., and all that for the sake of illtreating 
 them as much as possible later on, for the 
 sake of fumigating, cooking, drying, poi- 
 soning them, and afterwards peering at 
 them through the microscope, to make 
 sure that I have really succeeded in tor- 
 turing them to death, the poor uncon- 
 cious (I had almost written innocent ^ but 
 I dare not on account of Dr. Koch) 
 microbes, who have no idea of my evil 
 intentions towards them ! Shall I, all 
 things taken into consideration, be turned 
 into a cholera microbe myself, to be tor- 
 tured after the same fashion by one of 
 that planet's physicians, who shall peer at 
 me through his gray spectacles with the 
 same sinister intentions ? 
 
 A propos of doctors, I wonder what will 
 become of them up there ? Will they by 
 
 \ 
 
il 
 
 I 1 
 
 f 1 
 
 I 
 
 66 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 any chance be made to exchange places 
 with their former patients? That were 
 a hard punishment ! 
 
 But supposing I am not turned into a 
 cholera microbe, what then? Perhaps I 
 shall be condemned to sit and read in 
 print, all the rubbish that has flitted across 
 this poor, restless brain of mine — that 
 would be rather too much of a good thing, 
 I think I would vote for the microbe. 
 
 
 VI 
 
 ERHAPS it was stupid of me to 
 make fun of the cholera mi- 
 crobes in my last letter : I really 
 begin to think that I am wrong and Dr. 
 Koch is right, as far as their being danger- 
 ous is concerned — at any rate the cholera 
 microbe must be a vindictive little beast 
 Since last I wrote, two weeks ago, I have 
 had plenty of time for reflection — it is 
 astonishing what serious thoughts come 
 into one's head now and again.^ 
 
 It were interesting enough to write an 
 account of the cholera in its march across 
 the world, but I don't happen to know it 
 by heart, have no source of information 
 
 ^ Between this letter and the last one, the author had 
 been ill.— M. V. W. 
 
 . ■ji.''jdm«j<*j^^^ 
 
 
68 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 to draw from here, where I am now laid 
 up, and the consequence is I really have 
 nothing to write about. Here is what I 
 remember, and for the matter of that, it 
 is all that concerns us for the present, as 
 I mean to limit myself to the Neapolitan 
 cholera — about which I do know something. 
 We are aware that cholera is an Indian 
 disease, that it is at home on the delta- 
 land of the Brahmaputra and Ganges, 
 where it reigns as an endemic. It 
 began to travel round the world in 
 1 817, appeared the following year in 
 British India, Siam, Tonquin, China, 
 Persia, the Mediterranean coast of Syria, 
 etc., but left off between 1823 and 1824 
 without having spread to Europe. In 
 1827 it again recommenced its march 
 across India. . . . nay, I think we'll go 
 no further, I have been ill, am still weak 
 in the legs, and quite incapable of " march- 
 ing" along with the cholera any longer. 
 To cut the matter short, Naples was visited 
 by this epidemic for the first time during 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 69 
 
 the autumn of 1836 ; it broke out in one 
 of the quarters that has been most severely 
 tried this time, i.e. Porto, spread rapidly 
 over the whole of Naples, and came to an 
 end in February 1837. 
 
 As regards the epidemic of 1884 (the 
 seventh since then), it is as yet too early 
 in the day to cast up the accounts ; the 
 cholera is still in existence, though there 
 are but few cases, and it is likely to hang 
 about for some time to come. I do not 
 inclose the bulletins — they are already 
 well known. One need not be specially 
 quick-witted to arrive at the conclusion 
 that these figures are inadequate to gauge 
 the actual extent of the damage done by 
 the disease. There are manifold reasons 
 for keeping these oflficial bulletins so low. 
 First and foremost, attention must be 
 drawn to the fact that, as long as it is 
 possible, the people refuse point-blank to 
 have anything to do with the municipal 
 authorities ; and no one who has set foot 
 in the poor quarters during the days of 
 
70 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 the epidemic will attempt to deny that 
 many of the sick and dead of Mercato, 
 Porto, Pendino, and Vicaria were never 
 reported to the municipality at all. And 
 of course this was more than ever the 
 case whilst the epidemic was at its 
 height, when there were neither cabs nor 
 stretchers in sufficient numbers to trans- 
 port the sick, and when the town authori- 
 ties were compelled to hire the Portici 
 omnibuses to convey the dead up to the 
 churchyard. 
 
 Another explanation of these low 
 figures: the municipal authorities dared 
 not publish the real amount of reported 
 cases, they even diminished them con- 
 siderably in order to avoid a panic. The 
 highest official entries of the sick and 
 dead are respectively 966 sick, and 474 
 dead (in twenty-four hours) ; but there 
 are others besides myself who share the 
 belief that during not one^ but four or 
 five daysy there were about 1000 cases 
 per diem. 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 71 
 
 One proof of the absolute insufficiency 
 of these bulletins can be obtained by the 
 perusal of the reports issued recently by 
 the "White Cross." During the twenty 
 days* existence of this voluntary ambulance, 
 there had not been, according to the official 
 statistics, more than 9689 cases, and 
 $356 deaths — well and good, during these 
 self-same days, this association alone pro- 
 vided medical assistance for 7015 cholera 
 patients. If it be taken into considera- 
 tion that at the same time the "Red 
 Cross" and "Green Cross" (the other 
 two ambulances of importance) had as 
 many sick on their hands as they were 
 able to attend to, added to which the 
 medical staff of the municipality, although 
 it had been doubled, was quite insufficient 
 to attend to all the town cases brought 
 before the authorities, and if the above- 
 mentioned fact be remembered, that for a 
 great, and very great quantity of the sick 
 in the poor quarters no medical assistance 
 of any kind had been sought — then it will 
 
If 
 
 72 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 easily be understood, by virtue of these 
 proofs alone, that the official numbers 
 were invariably below the mark, did not 
 perhaps correspond to half the actual cases. 
 
 The people's inveterate dislike to every- 
 thing concerning the municipality — which 
 strikes us as so strange — is a fact that I 
 shall try and explain to you another time ; 
 I think I understand it somewhat. 
 
 If you wish to know which parts of 
 the town have been most severely tried 
 by the cholera, you will find that, during 
 this epidemic as during the previ- 
 ous ones, the four poor quarters are pre- 
 cisely those in which most cases have 
 occurred. 
 
 The expression used by the Prime 
 Minister Depretis, Bisogjia sventrare 
 Napoli!^ has become the watchword of 
 the day ; these miserable poor quarters 
 must be done away with, for they are a 
 standing danger, not only to the rest of 
 Naples, but to the whole of Italy and 
 
 ^ Naples must be disembowelled ! 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 73 
 
 Europe into the bargain. Hotbeds more 
 favourable to infection are not to be found 
 in any other European city, and here the 
 epidemic, which otherwise might possibly 
 have decreased, takes a new lease of life 
 with which to continue its journey. And 
 this does not apply to cholera alone. 
 
 Strangers are always afraid of the 
 Roman malaria, but one never hears 
 a word about the Neapolitan typhoid 
 fever — by far the most dangerous in my 
 opinion. Typhoid fever is endemic out 
 here; it is a permanent disease, which, 
 with its large death-percentage, craves an 
 annual number of victims, more especially 
 amongst the new arrivals, whose power of 
 endurance is less. And it is from these 
 self-same quarters that this atmosphere of 
 contagion spreads out over Naples. This is 
 not the only malady which flourishes here ; 
 there dwells another creeping disease in 
 these regions which is not sufficiently well 
 known, which may be compared to the 
 Roman malaria, and which goes by the 
 
 I- 
 
1 1 
 
 K I 
 
 p 
 V 
 
 V if: 
 
 ■ ^ 1 
 
 ¥' . 
 
 74 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 name of febbre napoletana} And do you 
 wish to know what that is like, you need 
 only take a turn in the alleys and "fondaci " 
 of the poor quarters, and you will be brought 
 into contact with more specimens of this 
 disease than you care to see. Here never 
 shines the sun, but should you come upon 
 some corner into which a stronger light 
 than usual has found its way, then look 
 into it closely — it is there that you will 
 most surely discover your new patients, 
 for they think that is the sun, and they 
 are shivering with cold ! Look at the 
 attenuated little children as they stretch 
 out one hand, dry as a skeleton's, to 
 beg a soldo ; the little one puts the 
 other in his mouth for you to under- 
 stand how hungry he is — if he speaks at 
 all it is to say " muoj'o difame " / ^ Look at 
 the jaundiced, faded little face in which two 
 large eyes are glowing with fever — and you 
 have a picture of febbre napoletana before 
 you. Look at it closely — but give him a 
 
 1 Neapolitan fever. ' I am dying of hunger ! 
 
 V 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 75 
 
 soldo, he needs it so sorely, he is, alas ! so 
 often right when he tells you how hungry 
 he is— poverty and fever go hand in hand, 
 and I hardly know whether I wish la febbre 
 did not exist, it is perhaps more merci- 
 ful than we, for it so often bears the poor 
 little one far from hunger and distress up 
 to the pauper's burial-ground. 
 
 # 
 
 # 
 
 The laws of hygiene teach us how close 
 a connection exists between the sanitary 
 conditions of a locality and the density of 
 its population. The history of the Nea- 
 politan epidemic furnishes us with an 
 example of this law concerning density 
 of population. Upon a surface of eight 
 square kilometres (amount of surface that 
 has been built over), there dwell no less 
 than 461,962 human beings. And ac- 
 cording to the official statistics no less than 
 128,804 of these people inhabit under- 
 ground dwellings and cellars. But there 
 
i 
 
 |: 
 
 76 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 IS something worse than these " hassi " and 
 " sottoterrani " ; another step down the 
 shelving ladder of society and we come 
 to a still more wretched form of habitation 
 — to the " fondaci." You have often heard 
 me speak of these places as the scenes of 
 the most appalling misery out here — I 
 mean to tell you what a fondaco is 
 when we have come to the end of our 
 medical inspection. There are eighty-six 
 fondaci in Naples at the present moment ; 
 formerly they were still more numerous, 
 but more modern constructions have done 
 away with a good many of them. Three 
 of these fondaci (in the Chiaia, S. Ferdi- 
 nando, and S. Guiseppe quarters) are 
 pretty clean, that is to say in comparison 
 with the others ; and as this is only a 
 question of the most ghastly human habi- 
 tations on the face of the earthy I do not 
 include these three. Of the eighty-three 
 remaining fondacos, the Mercato quarter 
 contains 13, Porto 19, Pendino 12, 
 Vicaria 17, and all the other quarters 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 77 
 
 put together 22. As many as ^84.6 in- 
 dividuals dwell ill these fondacos, all of 
 whom are included in the enumerated 
 population (a distinction which has not 
 been conferred upon a good many of the 
 other poor creatures — in consequence of 
 which the figures run low). 
 
 A third sort of dwelling-place consists 
 of the so-called locande where lodgers 
 are received for the night at two and three 
 soldi a head. (I have even seen locande 
 where they are received for one soldo 
 a-head, but there the people sit and lean 
 their arms and heads against a rope that 
 is stretched across the room from one wall 
 to another, not a bad idea for accommo- 
 dating a crowd). It is quite impossible 
 to say how many of these locande are to 
 be found out here ; the only statistics on 
 the subject are of ancient date, and they 
 report 105 locande in Porto, with space 
 for 2793 beds; 81 in Mercato, con- 
 taining 276 rooms, and space for 13 19 
 beds, etc. etc. 
 
 ^.k i»i:a^«i..aigag«.wr fe3g£: 
 

 78 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 Fondaci and bassi I know well enough, 
 but my acquaintance with locande is some- 
 what limited, although once, with a Ca- 
 morrist for guide, I went over every 
 locanda in the Mercato quarter, in 
 order to look up an old guitar-player, a 
 former friend of mine — I mean to tell 
 you that story some day. 
 
 There is a fourth class of human beings 
 here in Naples who live neither in houses, 
 in bassi, in fondaci, or in locande — a 
 very numerous class indeed, but they do 
 not come into the reckoning, as we on our 
 solemn sanitary inspection go the round of 
 the houses, in order to calculate afterwards 
 the extent of space occupied by each in- 
 habitant, and the cubic metres of air ex- 
 hausted by each of them per diem. No, 
 they do not come into the reckoning, these 
 representatives of the fourth class, but they 
 are old favourites of mine, and they are, if 
 not from a hygienic point of view, at all 
 events from an artistic point of view, the 
 most interesting of the whole lot, and that 
 
 
 f 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 79 
 
 IS why they are included in my classifica- 
 tion of the Neapolitan poor. This fourth 
 class of human beings — well yes, good- 
 ness only knows they have space enough 
 to dwell upon, and how many cubic metres 
 of air they exhaust is more than I can 
 say, for they have the starry heavens 
 above them and — the sewers beneath 
 them. 
 
 This is the class of Neapolitan poor 
 who have no home at all. / 
 
 What their numbers are, no one can 
 tell ; the individuals of which this class is 
 composed shun all statistics, stand entirely 
 outside the reach of the census. If you 
 want to inspect them, you must set about 
 it at night. Go out for a few hours when 
 the noise of the day is over, and you will 
 find them everywhere. Your foot stumbles 
 accidentally against a soft bundle, the 
 bundle moves away, and with a *^ scusate, 
 Signori " — not with an oath as would be 
 the case at home — the poor wretch whom 
 you have awoken draws his legs beneath 
 
 1^ 
 
II.: 
 
 t 
 
 80 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 him, and rolls himself up in his rags again. 
 He begs your pardon because he has no 
 home but the streets to sleep in ! Be- 
 neath the lamp which lights up the 
 Madonna's picture in the corner, on all 
 the church steps, beneath the upturned 
 boats at Mergellina, beside the newspaper 
 kiosques, beside the acqiiafrescaid s stand, 
 on the benches of every public place and 
 garden — everywhere do you come across 
 them ; mothers with their babes at their 
 breast and a couple of little ones half- 
 concealed beneath the ragged old shawl, 
 cripples whom you will find on the same 
 spot early next morning, in order to beg 
 their way through the day, half- grown 
 boys, some of them sitting alone rolled 
 up like hedgehogs to keep themselves 
 warm, others lying in a heap under 
 one common shelter, an old cloak, a sail, 
 one or two old sacks, and the like. 
 
 It is incredible how much can be stowed 
 away under one of these old cloaks ! I 
 had been out to one of the Mercato fondaci 
 
 T 
 
 I 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 81 
 
 the other night, and was going home to- 
 wards morning, it must have been between 
 three and four o'clock, it was still dark. 
 Meditating profoundly. Heaven only knows 
 on what subject, I crossed the Piazza del 
 Carmine, when suddenly I stumbled 
 against the old church steps. At the 
 same time I trod upon something soft 
 which happened to be lying on the ground 
 — and in the twinkling of an eye, seven 
 startled urchins sprang to their feet. I 
 told them how sorry I was to have 
 awoken them, and they laid themselves 
 down again in the best of tempers, con- 
 scious that they had very unexpectedly 
 earned enough to keep them going for 
 the next twenty-four hours — '' morgon- 
 stund har guld i mim " ^ — or at any rate 
 copper ! I, who lie awake so long before 
 I can get to sleep, gazed wistfully at the 
 fourteen legs as they kicked about for a 
 few seconds under the ragged old cloak ; 
 
 ' S>^adish proverb— "The morning hour has gold in 
 its mouth. "—M. V. W. 
 
 G 
 
 I' i 
 
 ',VJ 
 
il~ 
 
 
 82 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 the next moment all was still and quiet — 
 the positions were familiar, and had often 
 been rehearsed — and the seven homeless 
 little lads slept on in peace, upon the 
 tumble -down old steps of Santa Maria 
 del Carmine. 
 
 VII 
 
 ASSISTANTS 
 
 v « 
 
 
 AST time I wrote I promised 
 to tell you what a ''fondaco'' was. 
 Well, I ought to have no diffi- 
 culty in describing one of these homes of 
 misery and distress, they are familiar 
 enough to me. But now let me suggest 
 a plan, which, if you have no objection, 
 will suit us both equally well, for then I 
 shall be spared the trouble of describing it 
 to you, and you will be spared the trouble 
 of listening to me — come and see one for 
 yourself! I am going down to one of the 
 Mercato fondaci this very evening to look 
 after a patient — come ! let us go together. 
 We begin by driving down to // La- 
 
 i 
 
 mmt 
 
Tf -^r 
 
 n I 
 
 
 m 
 
 84 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 vinaio ; no cabman cares to go further at 
 this time of day, and it would be no 
 easy matter to do so, for the streets have 
 become so narrow that we are obliged 
 to go the rest of the way on foot. 
 
 You are surprised to see how well I 
 know my way about this labyrinth of 
 lanes and alleys, but then, you see, I have 
 been here so often ; we are now going 
 through streets the names of which you 
 have never even heard, and which you 
 would certainly be unable to find on any 
 map of Naples ; no stranger has ever 
 set foot in them before, and very likely no 
 Neapolitan either for the matter of that. 
 However, it is not very long before I 
 come to the end of my own acquaintance 
 with them, but it is of no consequence, 
 for over there in the corner, just where the 
 little lamp is burning beneath the Blessed 
 Virgin's picture, is the Vicolo Duchesca,^ 
 
 ^ The cholera was fearful in this alley. According to 
 one telegram, thirty cases were reported to have taken 
 place in one hour alone. 
 
 I 
 
 E/ 
 
 s* 
 
 
 mmssssmsstiik 
 
 m 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 85 
 
 where we shall find a cicerone to guide 
 as further. Do you see the boy standing 
 over there, holding a tiny little donkey by 
 the bridle? It raises me considerably in 
 your opinion, does it not, to hear that I 
 am the proud possessor of both boy and 
 donkey. They are the only survivors of 
 a whole family who used to live in this 
 street ; the boy's father and mother and 
 two sisters are lying at rest up in the 
 Campo Santo. The father was a green- 
 grocer {yerdtimmaro as the Neapolitans 
 say), and the little donkey used to trot 
 round with him, bearing the travelling shop 
 upon her back. But everything went 
 wrong when the hard times set in, and 
 then the cholera attacked him and he 
 died up at the hospital ; and a couple of 
 days later, his wife and two other children 
 sickened and died in their own home. 
 I heard the sad — and alas, the usual — 
 story that very same day from a woman 
 in the neighbourhood, and being so close 
 at hand I thought I would go round. 
 
msmtim^iiiimdmmaimiA, 
 
 ill 
 
 Iflfi 
 
 86 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 A miserable hole as usual ; the little 
 lad was sitting on the cold damp floor 
 crying bitterly, and in the corner stood a 
 wretched -looking little donkey who had 
 not been included amongst the survivors. 
 She had evidently been quite forgotten, 
 and was almost dying of starvation, her 
 last meal having consisted of a portion of 
 the straw mattress, on which the dead 
 woman was still lying. 
 
 The boy and donkey are now under 
 my special protection. Peppino (the boy) 
 lives with a woman in the neighbourhood, 
 and the donkey has set up a separate 
 establishment of her own, in the tumble- 
 down old place which did duty for the 
 family abode, and which is certainly more 
 suitable for a stable than for a human 
 habitation. I don't flatter myself that I 
 have done much for them — it is so easy 
 to play the role of patron here ! The boy 
 costs me four soldi a day, the donkey two, 
 six soldi altogether ; the cigars we have 
 just lit cost eight soldi apiece — so you see 
 
 U 
 
 ;i 
 
 :/t 
 
 V 
 
 » > 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 87 
 
 the sacrifice can hardly be called a great 
 one. Well yes, no doubt a good deal of 
 pleasure is to be got out of smoking, but 
 those six soldi procure me something 
 I like even better than that — look at the 
 boy's graceful limbs, look at his pretty 
 curly head, at the soft outlines of a face 
 almost feminine in delicacy, and at the 
 large melancholy eyes that look you 
 straight in the face down to the inmost 
 depths of your soul ! Antinous must have 
 been just such a child at that age. We are 
 now such good friends, Peppino and I, that, 
 did I not think it would be a positive sin, 
 I would take him back to Paris with me. 
 And then you can't imagine the amount 
 of pleasure I have got out of the tiny, 
 thoughtful, melancholy, little donkey ! I 
 certainly have not as yet contemplated 
 taking her back to Paris with me, but I 
 look after her in the meantime as well as 
 I am able. And she tries, after her own 
 fashion, to show me how grateful she is ; 
 she grinds away like a saw (I suppose 
 
 "^^ 
 
88 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 you are familiar with a donkey's usual 
 way of expressing itself — I at any rate 
 know of no better comparison) every time 
 I go in to have a look at her ; since I 
 have been ill she has found a more prac- 
 tical way of proving her gratitude, for it 
 is she who carries me about on all these 
 nocturnal expeditions, whilst I am still so 
 weak in the legs. The boy follows in 
 the wake, he knows the Mercato quarter 
 by heart, and has procured me many a 
 patient. You won't be able to under- 
 stand a word he says, and I doubt 
 whether he will be able to make out your 
 refined Italian either ; " lamo ncopp al 
 marnzzaro ?"^ asks Peppino. Yes, amico 
 mio, we are on our way to the poor 
 fellow's bedside — we were up there yester- 
 day and he was bad enough then, but I 
 have not had a moment to give him till to- 
 day. Well ! I mount my charger, Peppino 
 gives the word of command, "iaaah, iaaah !" 
 the donkey does a little grinding, and off 
 
 ^ "Are we going up to the maruzzaro ? " 
 
 1. 
 
 > 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 89 
 
 we go. I have no donkey to offer you, but 
 your legs are strong enough, and you will 
 not find it difficult to keep up with us ; 
 besides which, we are not going quickly, 
 the donkey is in the sere and yellow leaf 
 ("/ antical' says Peppino), and a bit of 
 a philosopher into the bargain. Every 
 now and again she comes to a sudden 
 standstill, to meditate upon the " missing 
 link" — which she will certainly never 
 be able to account for. That there 
 is something very unintelligible in the 
 system of things in general, and some- 
 thing utterly unfathomable in life's dark 
 riddle, is all she has made out as yet^ — I 
 have got no further than that myself, 
 and it isn't likely that either of us ever 
 will. However, I uphold liberty of thought 
 on every subject — besides which, she isn't 
 the first donkey that has plunged into 
 philosophy, and I daresay she is quite as 
 likely to find the philosopher's stone as 
 any one else; therefore I allow her to 
 follow the bent of her own inspirations, 
 
 1 
 
90 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 and make no objection to her standing 
 stock still when overwhelmed by reflections 
 on the subject of the missing link ; on 
 the contrary, I sit calmly on her back, 
 meditating on the prospects of my own 
 life, which are about as gloomy as the 
 donkey's. I tell you all this so that you 
 may not be afraid of being left behind. 
 As I ride along my thoughts turn involun- 
 tarily to Don Quixote — there must be 
 some point of resemblance, I imagine, as I 
 sit there, mounted on the scraggy little 
 animal, dragging both legs along the 
 ground, thin and wretched-looking myself, 
 as I am told on all sides. But if I am 
 the knight-errant, then it is certainly the 
 faithful Sancho who is following close 
 at our heels. He is by far the most 
 respectable member of the company, and 
 must come in for his share of attention, 
 since it is he who chronicles the day's 
 adventures, and signs his name to these 
 letters.^ And if you think that he 
 
 ^ When these letters were first published, I made an 
 
 i 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 91 
 
 has no special vocation of his own, just 
 glance at the basket round his neck, 
 we shall be obliged to have recourse to 
 it by and by ; do you know what it con- 
 tains ? Well, you will find both wine and 
 brandy inside it, and if that is not suffi- 
 cient to entitle him to a full description 
 on his own account, let me tell you that 
 there are plenty of other things besides — 
 ether, morphine, a Pravaz syringe, a Dieula- 
 foy's ditto, etc. etc. 
 
 The relations between him and my 
 gallant steed are, as yet, dashed with a 
 certain amount of mystification on either 
 side ; he is an extremely well-bred indi- 
 vidual, who never fails to salute the 
 donkey in the same way his Creator 
 taught him to salute his own species, — a 
 fact which always bewilders the donkey in 
 the highest degree, as she evidently doesn't 
 know what to make of it all. They are 
 
 unsuccessful attempt to shift the responsibility of author- 
 ship on to my faithful companion of the last ten years, 
 my trusty dog Puck. I only wish I might be allowed to 
 dilate upon this subject. 
 
92 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 about the same size, and she has never 
 seen anything the least like him before ; 
 that he isn't a donkey is about the only 
 thing of which she is quite sure. Her 
 lawful owner Peppino sympathises with 
 his protegee in her complete inability to 
 classify the species of creation to which 
 this new comrade belongs, and has finally 
 come to the conclusion that he is a 
 "/?//^"i — an opinion, moreover, which 
 is shared by all the surrounding neigh- 
 bourhood. Somehow or other I have 
 managed to make these poor friends of 
 mine believe in me, they are thoroughly 
 persuaded of my good faith, and of the 
 fact that I mean to help them as far as 
 it lies in my power — but that the big dog 
 who follows me everywhere is not a wolf, 
 of that I have been quite unable to con- 
 vince them. And perhaps, all things 
 taken into consideration, it is just as well 
 that they should think so, for he has 
 inspired a certain amount of wholesome 
 
 1 Wolf. 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 93 
 
 fear which has been far from useless, — 
 unfortunately it is only too true that 
 these regions are not particularly safe 
 after dark. But we know each other 
 so well now, I don't think there is any 
 fear of danger — besides, we hardly look 
 as if there was anything about us likely 
 to tempt the poor hungry eyes. An 
 empty stomach, some one lying ill at 
 home, for whom the doctor has ordered 
 good strong soup, not a farthing where- 
 with to procure it, — all these things are 
 hardly conducive to the honesty that 
 seems so natural to us. And that watch 
 and chain of yours glittering in the dark — 
 well, perhaps you, being a stranger, would 
 have done as well to have left them at 
 home in their case, if for no other reason 
 than that of exposing one of these poor 
 souls to one temptation less. However, 
 Peppino, the donkey, and "il lupo " are 
 watching over us ; here and there the 
 dusky alley is illuminated by the tiny 
 lamp that hangs beneath the Blessed 
 
94 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 Virgin's picture — besides, our errand is 
 a good one, there is no danger, believe 
 me, so ''avvanti!" And if you do not 
 happen to be a Catholic — or a fatalist, like 
 myself, — above all, if your mind has been 
 unsettled by the daily accounts in the 
 newspapers relating to the insecurity and 
 danger of the poor people's quarter, and 
 the constant accidents and attacks to 
 which a stranger is likely to be subjected, 
 — then come a little closer and I will 
 whisper something in your ear : 
 
 ** Don Salvadore Trapanese is watching 
 over us ! " You have no idea to what I 
 am alluding ? Well, just keep your eyes 
 open and look about you as well as the 
 darkness will permit, and you will soon 
 see what a powerful ally we have on our 
 side. The old woman sitting there in 
 the corner — no, it is not she who shall 
 solve the riddle for you, though she is 
 well able to do so ; see how she nods 
 to us; she is one of my firm friends, 
 although I never could make up my 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 95 
 
 mind to become one of her customers ; 
 she is a vendor of chestnuts and '' chioc- 
 ciolV,^ ^ and her goods are, alas, far from 
 appetising — I used to give her a soldo 
 now and again when business was bad 
 (I have had some experience on that 
 score myself), and the cholera had just 
 robbed her of her daughter. Just glance 
 for a moment into yonder corner — the 
 light cast by the old woman's lantern 
 will help you to penetrate the darkness 
 — do you see that figure over there, half- 
 concealed by one of those projecting 
 doorways ? He looks uncanny enough, 
 does he not, lying there in wait for us, 
 as it were? But you have nothing to 
 fear from him ; on the contrary, it is 
 he who will prove our safeguard. Do 
 you hear how he greets us — " Biiona notte^ 
 Eccellenzar? The reporter, running be- 
 hind us, is the only one who refuses to 
 acknowledge his greeting — he growls, and 
 an expression the reverse of amiable comes 
 
 ^ Snails. 
 
 
 I! 
 
 M ' "..j^°"s ' i' y 
 
•> 
 
 96 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 across his face — but that is often the way 
 with newspaper correspondents ; besides, 
 there is a certain amount of reason in his 
 mistrust, for the fellow really has a sus- 
 picious look about him. As you see, he is 
 wholly unlike the type that is usually to 
 be met with in the poor quarter ; a long 
 cloak is thrown over his shoulders, he 
 wears his hat on one side, has a stick in 
 his hand, and his clothes are perfectly 
 good — a distinguished -looking fellow, in 
 fact, but a bad face for all that. Ask 
 Peppino — he will soon tell you who he is. 
 The boy looks round to make sure of not 
 being overheard, and then he whispers, 
 " Signoriy i a Camorra." You have read 
 that the Camorra is a thing of the past — 
 but you have been misinformed, my friend, 
 the Camorra is still alive ! And perhaps it 
 IS owing to the Camorra that we also are 
 alive at the present moment ! The man 
 you saw just now occupies no high rank ; 
 he is not even a masto^ he is a simple 
 subordinate — a picciuotto di sgarro ; but 
 
 W 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 97 
 
 he has orders to watch over us, and 
 therefore, although we are now in the 
 very heart of the thieves' quarter, we can 
 go along as safely as though we were at 
 home in our own rooms. You think that 
 it would be as well to call for the police, 
 but there are no policemen within a good 
 half-hour's walk, and if you manage to 
 come across a single official during the 
 whole night's expedition, I will give you 
 all my worldly goods — and the guardian- 
 ship over Peppino and the donkey into the 
 bargain ! The only discipline in this 
 quarter is still such as the Camorra chooses 
 to enforce — and that is the secret that 
 makes its existence possible. I also was 
 under the impression that the Camorra 
 was dead, but this year has taught me that 
 it is still in full force, and some day I will 
 give you a description of this wonderful 
 institution, and provide you with an ex- 
 ample which will show you how useful it 
 is at times to be on good terms with the 
 
 Camorra. 
 
 H 
 
98 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 But let us get on. The darkness is 
 falling fast around us, the streets become 
 narrower and narrower at every step, so 
 the donkey and I go ahead, Peppino be- 
 hind (perhaps you know where an Italian 
 donkey-driver usually holds his animal !) 
 then you, and, last of all, " il lupo ! " 
 
 The whole neighbourhood presents a 
 deserted appearance. You ask what has 
 become of every one. Well, you see, the 
 cholera has been terribly busy here, and 
 has robbed the streets through which we 
 are now passing, of well-nigh all its in- 
 habitants. The only living creatures about 
 the place are a few lonely pipistrelli} 
 fluttering round in the thick, repulsive 
 air, and innumerable rats, the size of half- 
 grown cats, jumping about from one slimy 
 puddle to the other all down the filthy 
 
 street I candidly confess I was afraid of 
 
 them at first. We are now in the very 
 centre of the poor quarter, and the dirt, 
 which is, alas, the inseparable companion 
 
 1 Bats. 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 99 
 
 of poverty such as this, has increased 
 to a degree that is almost unbearable. 
 You would like to turn back, would you 
 not? You are unable to control your 
 disgust at the sight of all this filth and 
 squalor ! Well, you don't suppose that I 
 take much pleasure in it either, do you ? 
 But we will push on for all that ; we have 
 done harm enough in the world, perhaps 
 this is the only chance we shall ever have 
 of doing any good ! 
 
 And then, you see, when one can get rid 
 of a thing so easily, the harm cannot be 
 great, there is not much danger in the 
 stains that can be washed away by soap 
 and water. I have dwelt long enough in 
 the midst of all this misery ; my hands 
 have touched the rags of these poor 
 creatures over and over again — well, look 
 at them, are they not as clean as yours ? 
 
 And when the night's hard work is over 
 we will do down to Mergellina, and there, 
 at daybreak, we will inhale the pure, fresh 
 air in long, deep draughts, and the blessM 
 
100 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 sea-breezes shall blow over our faces, 
 cleansing and purifying our lungs, and 
 then we will bathe in the glittering blue 
 waters before Naples shall have awakened 
 from her slumbers and dimmed the trans- 
 parent loveliness of her crystal mirror by 
 a single breath — and of the remembrances 
 of last night's horrors there shall remain 
 no single trace ! 
 
 And then we shall go home and lay 
 us down to rest, and we shall sleep 
 like kings ! And the painful memories 
 of the night shall take the form of 
 dreams ; thou shalt dream that thou art 
 diving deep, deep down to the lowest 
 cave of the ocean of life, where, buried 
 beneath the sand and slime, the ship- 
 wrecked mariners of life lie wrapped in 
 in death's last slumber ; thou shalt search 
 with anxious eye amidst the corpses and 
 amidst the shattered planks, to see if, per- 
 chance, one single heart be beating still ; 
 thou shalt grope about, striving to haul 
 some of these poor drowned souls to the 
 
 
 , 
 
 t 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City loi 
 
 light of day again — but alas, their battle 
 with the cruel waves is over for ever and 
 ever, it is out of thy power to restore 
 them to life again — and just as in thy 
 dream, it seemeth to thee that thou art 
 being borne to the surface, thou shalt 
 awaken to find the sun, the morning sun 
 of Italy, streaming into thy room ! Thou 
 shalt awaken, but thy dream shall not 
 have faded into nothingness, for see, thy 
 hands are full of shells from which the 
 dirt has fallen, disclosing the pearls within, 
 the pure pearls of the good thou hast 
 striven to attain, of the generous thoughts 
 that have passed through thy mind ! 
 And thou shalt twine those pearls with 
 loving hand, into the garland of those 
 Italian roses of thine, whose fragrance 
 fills the air of a spring that never wanes ; 
 and of those pearls shalt thou fashion 
 the rosary that thou shalt clasp within thy 
 hand, when, like the Publican of old, thou 
 shalt fall upon thy knees before the God 
 whose wrath thou hast provoked so often ! 
 
I02 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 And perhaps up in the happy fields 
 one or two of these same pearls may find 
 their way on to the collar that shall, some 
 day, adorn the neck of PuCK. 
 
 
 VIII 
 
 PATIENTS 
 
 E have arrived at our destination ; 
 Peppino and the donkey come to 
 a standstill, whilst you and I and 
 the assistant with the basket round his neck, 
 pass on through the arched doorway leading 
 into the fondaco. The municipality is a 
 good sort of institution after all, it is the 
 municipality that pays for the fire that is 
 burning now in the middle of the court, and 
 lighting up the picture for your benefit — the 
 fire is intended to purify the air, a highly 
 necessary operation, as you will readily 
 admit. One might fancy oneself in a cave, 
 or, at anyrate,at the bottom of some dried-up 
 well — this is the courtyard of the fondaco ; 
 
n 
 
 r 
 
 104 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 it is surrounded by dwelling-places, hovel 
 upon hovel, one hole after the other, all 
 provided with the tiny aperture that serves 
 the purpose of both door and window. As 
 often as not, several families live together 
 in one of these holes, and to come across 
 one in which less than six or eight people 
 are gathered together, is the exception. 
 
 And what a terrific exhibition of chil- 
 dren, eh ? We have always been taught 
 to look upon them as an expression of 
 God Almighty's good will — if so, to what 
 a terrible extent have not these poor 
 starving people been blest! A child 
 seems to creep out of every available cor- 
 ner, every woman has a babe at her breast, 
 the whole court swarms with boys playing 
 about the burning pile. A long row of 
 children sit crouched round the fire, of 
 which the red glow, falling across their 
 faces, lends a sort of momentary colour to 
 the poor little cheeks — you should see 
 how pale they look by daylight ! They 
 do not appear to pay the least attention 
 
 h 
 
 u 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 105 
 
 to the games and frolics of the other 
 children, there they sit staring into the 
 fire like so many old people, half of them 
 are probably fatherless and motherless, 
 but all of them are down with la fehhre. 
 The boy close by, who turns to greet us 
 with that soulless expression on his face, 
 and the imbecile smile which is for ever 
 on his lips, is suffering from spine-disease, 
 and has been a cripple for about two 
 years. He is carried down to the fire 
 every evening, and told me himself that 
 he had never had such a good time as 
 since the cholera broke out. His father is 
 a convict, and his mother and two sisters 
 died last week. Both girls died the same 
 night — and well do I remember the 
 mother's unwitting cruelty, as she pointed to 
 the poor cripple — who, unable to be of the 
 slightest use to any one, was sitting all of 
 a heap on the only chair the family pos- 
 sessed, following us about the room with 
 eyes in which there was no other expres- 
 sion than one of complete indifference to 
 
 i 
 
 I 
 
io6 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 all that was going on around him, — well 
 do I remember her continuous cry, " Solo 
 questo, il Dio non si lo piglia^^ ^ At 
 the same time I glanced towards the 
 cripple ; the awful tragedy of the night, 
 the sight of his sisters' fatal struggle with 
 death, must have awakened some portion 
 of his dormant intelligence ; for, as the 
 mother's voice fell upon his ear, the reflec- 
 tion of a soul flew across the faded, mean- 
 ingless face, and the veiled understanding 
 seemed to grasp the purport of her words, 
 — he was a human being again, for sor- 
 row had touched him, and he knew what 
 it meant! But that did not last long, 
 there he sits with the same soulless ex- 
 pression on his face as of old ; and if you 
 happen to ask him what has become of 
 his parents, he will tell you with an 
 imbecile laugh at every word, ^^ Papd, 
 e al Bagno e mamma sta al Campo 
 Santo ! " ^ The woman standing beside 
 
 ^ " This one alone God Almighty will not take away." 
 * "Father is at the galleys, and mother is up at the 
 churchyard." 
 
 i 
 
 I 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 107 
 
 him with the babe at her breast, has taken 
 him into her own house since his mother 
 died, although she herself has hardly 
 enough to keep body and soul together. 
 
 The boy dancing round the fire over 
 there, has lost both parents, and is now 
 left with eight brothers and sisters ; the 
 eldest girl is sixteen years old : there 
 she stands roasting chestnuts over the 
 fire — the little ones are to dine off* them 
 by and by. The little fellow does not 
 look a bit sad, he is far too young to 
 realise what he has lost, although he 
 is quite capable of understanding that 
 for the first time in his life he is pos- 
 sessed of a decent garment, and you 
 may be quite sure he is thoroughly en- 
 joying the novelty of the situation. As 
 you see, the whole costume consists of a 
 shirt, which he drags after him, and the 
 length of which considerably interferes 
 with the joyous patter of his little feet ; 
 but if you look at the youngsters by whom 
 he is surrounded, you will then understand 
 
 sm. 
 
lliljiMiir ■ 
 
 "niiir-iinl'BiBiWHa 
 
 j:^^ 
 
 1 08 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 that a shirt is an extremely distinguished 
 garment in this part of the world, and if 
 it happens to be a new one, such as his, it 
 attracts considerable attention. Dozens 
 of his small admirers are skipping about, 
 just as God Almighty sent them into the 
 world, — but they are quite happy for all 
 that. The Relief Committee has provided 
 our little friend with his new garment. 
 A distribution of 200 shirts had taken 
 place a few days ago, in the Piazza 
 Mercato; I happened to be there (not 
 as a competitor, but simply as an eye- 
 witness of the tragi - comic scene) — 
 indeed there were aspirants enough and 
 to spare, for they considerably outnum- 
 bered the shirts. The various toilettes were 
 performed there and then, for the orders 
 were that all the rags which presented 
 too doubtful an appearance, were to be 
 burnt at once. (A fire had been lit on 
 the spot, from which the distribution was 
 taking place, and several hundred street 
 boys were gathered round it; the effect 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 109 
 
 of the whole scene was whimsical in the 
 extreme.) 
 
 The same odd destiny, which at con- 
 scription time at home, presides over 
 the distribution of uniforms intended for 
 the new recruits, and which humorously 
 bestows on a small conscript a coat 
 just twice his size, presenting the full- 
 grown warrior with another which, owing 
 to its inadequate length and breadth, 
 exposes the graceful outlines of the burly 
 fellow's natural charms to full view — this 
 same mischievous-loving destiny seemed 
 to be presiding over the distribution of 
 shirts in the Piazza Mercato. Great big 
 lazzaroni, who had come up with their 
 omnia mea mecum porto^ and had already 
 confidingly given over the whole of their 
 wardrobe to the flames, stood now buried 
 deep in thought, trying to solve the 
 problem as to how they should stow away 
 their great, brown bodies into the baby- 
 shirt that had fallen to their lot ; half- 
 grown boys tripped unceasingly over the 
 
ttmrnn 
 
 1 10 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 long baggy shirts with which the munici- 
 pality had presented them, whilst tiny 
 babies crawled all over the ground com- 
 pletely hidden from view amongst the 
 wide folds of shirts that would have fitted 
 their fathers. 
 
 But let us go up to the fondaco. 
 
 There stands our patient's wife warming 
 a tattered old blanket over the fire — so 
 her husband the "maruzzaro," whom we 
 are about to visit, is still alive. But do 
 you see the way in which she answers my 
 silent question, she makes the sign of the 
 cross and points upwards — he is dead ! 
 But why then is she heating the blanket ? 
 " Carmela Vha presa stanotte" ^ sobs the 
 mother. Carmela is her daughter, she 
 had been so good to her father, had watched 
 so tenderly over him. Well, up we go ! 
 In one corner lies the father's corpse, and 
 in front of it, on the floor, stand two 
 lighted candles, some half-withered flowers 
 have found their way even up here, and 
 
 ^ "Carmela was taken ill to-night." 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 III 
 
 lie strewn about the dead man's head. 
 The corpse is quite uncovered, for it was 
 the family's only blanket that the mother 
 had been warming down below for her 
 daughter, who must be cold, for she is 
 shivering so. The girl lies opposite the 
 wall, in such close proximity to the corpse, 
 that were she to stretch forth her hand, 
 she would be able to touch it. 
 
 Poverty, awful, incredible, unspeakable 
 poverty ! is then the misery that follows 
 in thy footsteps not sufficiently heavy a 
 burden wherewith to have laden these 
 poor creatures, must they then be com- 
 pelled to receive into their midst the 
 most ghastly of all diseases, until the very 
 measure of their suffering be running over ! 
 To be reduced to taking the mattress on 
 which the dead father is lying, in order to 
 put it beneath the sick child, to be obliged 
 to cover, with the same filthy blanket that 
 has been thrown over his corpse, the 
 daughter who now lies struggling for life, 
 face to face with death in its most repulsive, 
 
 J 
 
 •mtm 
 
112 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 horrible aspect ! No pillow to lay beneath 
 her head, no rag wherewith to rub her, no 
 spoon into which to pour the medicine, no 
 sort of utensil in which to warm the wine ! 
 And here comes the mother with the 
 heated blanket, wrapping it round the 
 girl with all the tenderness which a 
 mother alone is capable of lavishing 
 on her suffering child. She, poor mother, 
 has watched over her husband for three 
 nights, and this last night over her 
 daughter, and now, exhausted with fatigue, 
 she drops on her knees beside the bed 
 and sobs, " Vergine sanctissima delle grazie^ 
 salvami la figlia mia ! Tu sei tanto bella 
 Madonna mia ed ai fatto tante grazie, che 
 queste ad unapovera madre nan la recuserai! 
 La senti Madonna, come si lamenta ! Dim- 
 mi che cosa vuoi da me per farla giiarire ? 
 Vuoi il mio sangue, il mio cuore ? " ^ 
 
 We begin to understand something 
 about cholera, you and I, and we shake 
 our heads, she looks very bad, no pulse, 
 
 1 "O Holy Virgin, full of grace, save thou my 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 113 
 
 the extremities are quite cold, and the 
 unconscious-looking eyes are half-open. 
 
 And now to work ! There is so little 
 space in the wretched hovel that we are 
 obliged to stand the corpse almost upright 
 in the corner, so as not to trample it 
 underfoot. 
 
 The only thing to be done is to restore 
 some sort of warmth to the poor sick child ; 
 if you can find nothing else, off with your 
 coat, and rub the frozen limbs therewith ! 
 And you, doctor, now is the time to make 
 use of all you have brought with you ! 
 
 And with what sympathy does not your 
 heart go out to the poor half-dead child, 
 how earnestly do you not watch for every 
 favourable sign that encourages us to 
 hope that we are on the right road, how 
 gladly you welcome the first return of 
 
 daughter ! Thou art so lovely, Blessed Virgin mine, 
 thou art so gracious that thou could'st not find it in thy 
 heart to deny a poor mother's prayer ! Dost thou hear her, 
 Holy Virgin, how she moans ? What shall I give thee 
 to induce thee to spare her life ? Is it my blood, my 
 life, that thou requirest ? 
 
^ 
 
 114 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 life, penetrating at last through the cold 
 and steel-like eyes, which tired, only half- 
 open, and disfigured by the deep black 
 rings beneath them, are slowly gazing 
 upon your own in the endeavour to follow 
 every movement ! There, they grow 
 brighter now — it is the return of con- 
 sciousness, it is the soul that has awak- 
 ened ! You bend over her, realising that 
 she has recognised you, and then you tell 
 her that all shall yet go well ; you see 
 that she has understood you, and that she 
 wishes to speak, although she is unable to 
 do so. And then the lips begin to move, 
 and her first words are that she cannot, 
 will not die ! You wipe the cold perspir- 
 ation from off her brow, saying unto her 
 that she shall live ! " Si, tuguarirai, si, si"^ 
 Then she begins to grow restless, throw- 
 ing herself wildly about the wretched bed, 
 succumbing with the returning dawn of 
 consciousness to the overpowering dread of 
 death and pain, and crying aloud "Salva- 
 
 1 "Yes, thou shalt live, yes, yes." 
 
 I 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 115 
 
 temi ! salvatemi ! ma mi salver ete ! Non 
 e vero che sarebbe un peccato se morissi ? " '^ 
 And then, exhausted with the heat, she 
 cries unceasingly for something to drink. 
 " Ho sete ! briicio ! nevCy neve ! io ardo I " ^ 
 You were prepared for all that, and 
 have brought ice with you in the basket, 
 and there you sit, wondering from whence 
 the patience has come that enables you, 
 so restless as you are, to sit there, hour 
 after hour, dropping pieces of ice from 
 time to time into her mouth. The large 
 eyes meet your own so trustfully and yet 
 so interrogatively, striving to detect in 
 every glance, in every change of counte- 
 nance, whether you are anxious, whether 
 you still think all is going well. 
 
 And should she recover ! No one will 
 ask to whom she owes her life. You need 
 not expect any thanks for your tiny, tiny 
 share of credit in the matter — and none 
 
 1 " Save me ! save me ! is it not true that it would be a 
 sin to let me die ? " 
 
 2 " I am so thirsty ! I am burning ! ice, ice ! " 
 
ii6 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 will be bestowed upon you either. The 
 mother has her own belief that it was the 
 Blessed Virgin, not you, who saved her 
 child, and the more you have to do with 
 sick people the more likely are you to 
 come round to the mother's way of think- 
 ing. Neither are you in the humour for 
 taking medical notes ; you do not feel the 
 least inclined to announce to the world that 
 you have just "saved" a cholera patient, 
 or to publish the " case " with a series of 
 theoretical reflections setting forth the 
 various merits of certain treatments, Can- 
 tani's, " hypodermoclys," and " enteroclys," 
 etc. etc. — leave all that to others, or wait 
 at least until you shall have settled down at 
 home again, and until, in your own study, in 
 dressing-gown and slippers, you find your- 
 self thinking over all you have gone through. 
 
 Here you are a human being and 
 nothing more. 
 
 Do not you disturb your peace of mind 
 with thoughts of adorning the altar erected 
 to the demigod of Medicine with the faded 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 117 
 
 herbs of your medical experience, or of 
 illuminating it with the tiny flame of your 
 scientific light — there are so many crowd- 
 ing round it, each one trying to extinguish 
 the other's candle, leave the care of that 
 altar to those more worthy of adorning it 
 than yourself! Do you go bravely up to 
 the High Altar of Humanity, and light the 
 little tallow candle of your slight know- 
 ledge there, and lay your simple flowers 
 upon its lowest step ; they boast no brilliant 
 hue, no high-sounding Latin name dis- 
 tinguishes these flowers of yours — but at 
 all events they have sprung from the same 
 soil as Goethe's lines — 
 
 (( 
 
 Grau, teurer Freund, ist alle Theorie, 
 Und griin des Lebens goldner Baum ! "^ 
 
 ^ "All theories are gray, dear friend, 
 And green the golden tree of life." 
 
IX 
 
 TWO PESSIMISTS 
 
 OU recollect the little donkey I 
 took down to the fondaco the 
 other night, do you not ? You 
 recollect my telling you what a philosopher 
 she was, and the way she would stand 
 stock still every now and again, to muse 
 upon the ** missing link," whilst I turned 
 over the problem of my own existence, 
 not particularly easy of solution either ? 
 
 Thus have we sat together for many an 
 hour, buried deep in thought. For the last 
 few days Rosina (for such is her name 
 — every Italian donkey goes by the name 
 of Rosina) has been more sociable and more 
 communicative, the sorrowful expression 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 119 
 
 in her face has somewhat diminished, and 
 now and then a gentle breeze of humour 
 has set her melancholy ears a-flapping. 
 Yesterday morning we had both gone 
 down to Mergellina, to see the sun rise 
 behind Vesuvius, and whilst we sat there 
 waiting, I ventured — after having endeav- 
 oured to inspire her with a §avoury 
 cauliflower — to touch upon the Past, 
 which I had every reason to suppose 
 had stamped itself indelibly upon the 
 little donkey's soul with many a mournful 
 recollection. At last I asked her to tell me 
 the story of her life, she should hear mine 
 afterwards, — she must not run away with 
 the idea that donkeys have a monopoly of 
 all the suffering in this world ! Rosina 
 smiled bitterly, and whilst we sat there 
 watching the awakening bay, she let me 
 into the secret of her wretched life. Would 
 you like to know what she had to say for 
 herself, as she gazed over the water with 
 those lustrous unfathomable eyes of hers ? 
 
120 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 With gay ribbons at her bridle, her 
 flower -decked saddle resting lightly on 
 her shiny back, she had in bygone days 
 borne many a smart young English 
 miss up to Camaldoli's Convent (she 
 was stationed on that line). And whilst 
 the fine gentleman in attendance had 
 tried to show off his own cleverness by 
 insisting on the stupidity of the asinine 
 species, she had tramped along, flapping 
 her ears and thinking to herself, that had 
 she chosen she could have delivered her- 
 self of quite as many platitudes as this 
 short -eared individual, but she was too 
 sharp for that — and the consequence was 
 she held her tongue. And the young 
 lady was no doubt of the same opinion, 
 for she often patted her gently on the 
 back with her little gloved hand, suffering 
 her to rest awhile in order to feast upon 
 the grass that here and there sprang up 
 between the stones ; and from time to 
 time she would even drop a luscious fig 
 into her mouth. 
 
 k 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 121 
 
 And the donkey looked out upon the 
 world with her pretty bright eyes, and 
 came to the conclusion that life was very 
 sweet, and that her older companions up 
 in the stables were altogether mistaken in 
 looking at things from such a gloomy 
 point of view. " But do not let us linger 
 over those happy days — Nessim maggior 
 dolore che ricordarsi del tempo felice nella 
 miseria!'' quoth the donkey, as she de- 
 scribed her youthful experiences — *' let us 
 get on with our story ! " 
 
 And thus a couple of years passed over 
 her head. Conscientiously and patiently 
 she bore her burdens up the hill, where 
 everything looked so bright, and where 
 she herself was often given a draught of 
 sparkling water, and never once in coming 
 down did she miss her footing, no matter 
 how slippery the stones. It was hard 
 work sometimes, "but that is part and 
 parcel of the battle of life," thought the 
 donkey, and forthwith plucked up fresh 
 courage. 
 
 'wmmmtttm 
 
122 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 As time went on their care for her 
 steadily diminished, whilst the soft down 
 upon her back was gradually worn away 
 by the friction of the hard saddle. One 
 day a large wound formed upon her 
 shoulder, but no one took the trouble to 
 dress it, and when she tried to shake off 
 the flies that settled upon it, they only 
 thrashed her for her pains. But she held 
 out bravely and did her duty patiently 
 nevertheless, although she burned beneath 
 the saddle. And men and women seemed 
 to her to grow heavier and heavier, as she 
 herself grew thinner and thinner. She, 
 whose pride it had always been to head 
 the cavalcade, as it wound its way up the 
 steep hills, began to find herself in the 
 middle, and finally towards the tail end, 
 surrounded by those companions who 
 held such sombre views on life in general, 
 and dragged themselves along with heads 
 bent low. No flowers were laid upon her 
 saddle now, the ribbon -covered bridle 
 was hung upon the neck of a newcomer. 
 
 W ' • " 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 123 
 
 and after a while, a dirty, worn-out bit of 
 leather fell to her share for ever. 
 
 Few and far between the caresses now, 
 rarer and rarer the tit-bits on the journey, 
 whilst heavier, ever heavier fell the whip. 
 
 "What if I returned their blows!" 
 thought the donkey one day, as one cruel 
 stroke after the other fell from the whip 
 of the great lumbering fellow she bore 
 upon her back, whilst the driver thrashed 
 her unmercifully from behind ; but an old 
 donkey, who was limping along beside 
 her, tried to dissuade her — " they always 
 manage to prove that we are in the 
 wrong," said she, mournfully. 
 
 But Rosina lashed out with her hind 
 legs for all that, endeavouring at the same 
 time to shake off her tyrant, saddle and 
 all. But it was of no avail, the girths 
 were bound so fast, and during the rest 
 of the journey they beat her more than 
 ever. And when she got home that 
 night, tired and hungry after the hard 
 day's work, the manger was empty, not 
 
 / 
 
J f 
 
 124 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 a drop of water was to be had, and there 
 she was obh'ged to lie the whole night 
 through, in spite of which they made her 
 work harder than ever the following day. 
 That was her last attempt at kicking. 
 But it began to dawn upon her that the 
 world was not the pleasant place she 
 had imagined at the outset, neither were 
 human beings as good as they professed 
 to be. And thus she became bitter and 
 hypochondriacal, inclining ever more and 
 more unto that school in which the elder 
 donkeys held forth their desperate and 
 pessimistic philosophy. 
 
 One day they put no saddle on her 
 back, but harnessed her to a great cart 
 full of stones ; she dragged it round for 
 a couple of years till her strength was 
 almost exhausted, but the blows fell just 
 as hard as ever. She wasted gradually 
 away, lost all her interest in those things 
 that had attracted her in bygone days, 
 and became indifferent to the fact that no 
 one ever decked her now — what did it 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 125 
 
 matter to her that she became dirtier and 
 more wretched -looking every day, they 
 always beat her regardless of circum- 
 stances. Patiently and submissively she 
 held her peace and dragged her heavy 
 load after her, and when the whip fell 
 heaviest she would silently raise her eyes 
 to her tormentor's face. 
 
 And thus she fell into a complete state 
 of decadence. One day they led her to a 
 large square in which many of her dis- 
 tressed companions were gathered to- 
 gether ; plenty of people passed by her, 
 some of them opened the poor sore 
 mouth, grown so sensitive from the chaf- 
 ing of the bridle, and examined her 
 teeth, so worn by the dried-up straw on 
 which she had been obliged to live — but 
 further than that no one appeared to take 
 the faintest interest in her. At last, 
 towards evening, a man turned up, leading 
 a little boy by the hand ; after a few 
 moments' conversation with her oppressor, 
 he took her by the bridle and led her to 
 
 :>Ht 
 
126 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 his own home, and then she began to 
 understand that she had been handed 
 over to another master. She was now 
 in the service of Peppino's father, and 
 went round selling vegetables with him ; 
 no doubt they beat her as before, but at 
 all events the work was nothing like as 
 hard. 
 
 " And so on to the bitter end," 
 finished the donkey, "till at last I 
 thought I would really have to wind 
 up my laborious, honourable career, by 
 slowly dying of starvation, after having 
 been reduced to eating up that old 
 straw - mattress, cholera microbes and 
 all ! But then you appeared on the 
 scene, doctor." . . . Here I interrupted 
 the donkey with the assurance that no 
 thanks were necessary, begging her at 
 the same time to use no compromising 
 titles — for were it to get abroad that a 
 doctor was actually to be found philoso- 
 phising for hours together with a little 
 donkey at Mergellina, not even a veter- 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 127 
 
 inary surgeon would condescend to recog- 
 nise him as a colleague. I thanked her, 
 however, for her story, and felt ashamed 
 of my own bitter thoughts, — she had a 
 much greater right to be bitter over her 
 destiny than I had to be over mine ! And 
 the poor little donkey had certainly every 
 reason to meditate upon life's insoluble 
 riddle ! 
 
 And thus we got on to philosophy. 
 She told me she began to fear she would 
 never be able to raise the mysterious cur- 
 tain which hides the future from us, and 
 that she would die without having dis- 
 covered what truth meant — '' Arcano e 
 tuttOy fuor che il nostro dolor ! " quoth she. 
 
 I had for some time suspected my little 
 donkey of being an inveterate pessimist, 
 and was not in the least surprised to hear 
 her quote Leopardi, the poet of despair. 
 I asked her if she knew anything about 
 Schopenhauer. No, she knew nothing 
 about him ; but two donkeys of her ac- 
 quaintance had mentioned him one day. 
 
128 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 after having been up to Camaldoli with 
 two German professors on their backs — 
 their conversation under way had turned 
 exclusively on Schopenhauer, and the 
 donkeys had endeavoured to follow it as 
 closely as possible. But they had re- 
 turned home more soured than usual ; 
 they had been flogged more unmercifully 
 than ever by their drivers, who had re- 
 ceived no pourboire that day — and the 
 consequence was, that as far as donkeys 
 were concerned, they didn't think much of 
 Schopenhauer. (I verily believe the sly 
 little donkey wished to allude to the fact 
 that Schopenhauer was as stingy as he 
 was surly — but as I have a weakness for 
 him myself, and did not feel the least 
 inclined to quarrel with Rosina, I pre- 
 tended not to have understood what she 
 was driving at) 
 
 No, according to her ideas Leopardi 
 was much nearer the truth, the noble 
 Italian poet whose pessimism never led 
 him into revolting against the principle of 
 
 •■'■<^'mifermimm<»i.iii «W 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 129 
 
 hfe, but on the contrary, to resignation, 
 to silence, to contempt ; she reminded me 
 of that saying of his : " Nostra vita a die 
 val ? solo a spregiarla ! " 
 
 I advised her to discontinue her search 
 after truth, assuring her, that even if she 
 found it, she would be all the more un- 
 happy on that account, for truth is sad 
 in itself! She would do much better to 
 cling to the illusions that adorn this life, 
 and to make it a solemn duty to try 
 and forget that they are nothing but 
 illusions, 
 
 *' But what then is the object of that 
 process which we call Life?" cried the 
 donkey; "if what Kant says be true, that 
 morality is its object, why, then, it is our 
 duty to approach this object day by day, 
 the principle of goodness and its de- 
 velopment ought to be seen penetrating 
 deeper and deeper into every grade of 
 society, and men ought to become better 
 and better! 
 
 This, however, is not the case — all I 
 
 K 
 
'f 1 
 
 130 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 know is that the longer I live, the more 
 mercilessly am I beaten ! " 
 
 I had at first intended to take up the 
 cudgels in Kant's defence, but face to face 
 with this slashing argument I held my 
 tongue, and as my eyes fell simultaneously 
 upon her poor, lacerated back, I made up 
 my mind to abandon the philosopher of 
 Konigsberg to his fate. 
 
 " And besides all that " — continued the 
 donkey — " if our object in life is the con- 
 tinual endeavour to raise our intellectual 
 standard, to further the development of 
 our thinking and feeling powers, well, 
 then we are doomed to a still greater 
 consciousness of sorrow and sadness, 
 for does not this very consciousness 
 keep pace with the development of our 
 brain, and the refinement of our nervous 
 system ? " 
 
 " Thou'rt right enough, my poor friend," 
 I answered, ** and that is the very reason 
 why the power of suffering diminishes the 
 lower we descend in the scale of creation, 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 131 
 
 till at last we reach the solitary calm of 
 all sensation, where unconsciousness begins, 
 and where life slumbers on in painless 
 repose. 
 
 And wert thou an ordinary little don- 
 key, Rosina, I would tell thee that thou 
 art far less unhappy than I myself A 
 moment ago thou quotedst Leopardi, but 
 dost thou remember his Canto notturno di 
 un pastor errante, where a shepherd, wan- 
 dering about the Himalayas, turns to the 
 moon, condemned like himself to everlast- 
 ing unrest, and takes her to witness that 
 his flock is happier far than he himself! 
 For animals at least ignore the extent of 
 their unhappiness, the memory of their 
 anguish fades speedily away, they do not 
 know what real sorrow means ! " 
 
 "The idea of asking me whether I 
 remember those splendid lines ! " answered 
 Rosina, and forthwith the verses which I 
 had that instant alluded to, fell upon my 
 ears in the language of Petrarch and 
 Dante : 
 
I ^^^S^p^,.,& :-^...-..:^„i„,ii^,^ 
 
 V-M-i^^ifilmms:. fcMiOf.«jMw 
 
 132 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 " Che fai tu, luna, in ciel ? dimmi, che fai 
 Silenziosa luna ? 
 Dimmi, o luna : a che vale 
 Al pastor la sua vita, 
 La vostra vita a voi ? dimmi : ove tende 
 Questo vagar mio breve 
 II tuo corso immortale 
 
 • • • • • 
 
 O greggia mia che posi, oh te beata 
 Che la miseria tua, credo, non sai ! 
 Non sol perche d'affanno 
 
 Quasi libera vai ; 
 Ch'ogni stento, ogni danno 
 Qgni estremo timor subito scordi 
 Ma piu perche giammai tedio non provi 1 " 
 
 " And dost thou remember La Ginestra ? — 
 
 * E tu, lenta ginestra 
 Che di salve odorata 
 
 > » 
 
 "Thou must declaim all that another 
 time," interrupted I, '* for see, the morn- 
 ing-sun is already rising over Sorrento's 
 hills — we must be off, my friend. We 
 will continue our conversation to-morrow." 
 
 " But then stones ought to be happier 
 than we ? " hazarded the donkey, as we 
 prepared to be off. 
 
 " So I believe," answered I, " provided 
 that all life and capability of perception 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 133 
 
 be absolutely extinct, — though I have my 
 doubts on that subject, and so had Heine, 
 for the matter of that — and just imagine, 
 if they be indeed capable of feeling, how 
 much unhappier is not their lot than ours ! 
 For flowers at all events shed tears of dew, 
 and we are able to confide our sorrows to 
 one another, but they are condemned to 
 silence ! " 
 
 " Well, but look at idiots," ground out 
 the donkey, " they are always happy ! " 
 
 " No doubt, my little donkey, for the 
 power of suffering is an intellectual function, 
 and is directly connected with the develop- 
 ment of our intelligence." 
 
 "Just one word more," said the donkey. 
 " We two, who have never been particu- 
 larly happy, why then, our brains must be 
 singularly developed, and we are no doubt 
 misunderstood geniuses, both of us ! " 
 
 " No, my poor little friend," answered I, 
 " neither of us are shining lights, perhaps 
 we are rather smaller donkeys than some 
 of the rest — voila tout !" 
 
X 
 
 "THE PHILOSOPHY OF THE UNCONSCIOUS" 
 
 {Something that occurred to me on retiirnhig 
 from the poor quarter^ 
 
 HAT was it thou wert mutter- 
 ing to thyself as we went 
 home the other night?" said 
 the donkey to me a few days ago. 
 
 " I thought I overheard the name of 
 that well-known author who has written 
 so extensively on the subject of poor life, 
 who, with his harrowing description of 
 distress, has done so much to increase the 
 general feeling of compassion for the poor, 
 — and the editions of his own romances," 
 " Ay, thou hast guessed rightly, Rosina, 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 135 
 
 but no names ; we discuss everything in 
 a general sort of way, we see things en 
 grand, thou my little donkey and I. 
 
 But thou knewest well enough about 
 whom I was thinking, about him, the cele- 
 brated writer of the new school, whose 
 works are all * founded on fact ' ; who sits 
 there in his comfortable arm-chair at his 
 well-appointed writing-table, running his 
 pen swiftly over the paper. We will not 
 disturb him, we will only watch him for 
 a few moments — his time is very pre- 
 cious, his manuscript must be finished 
 in a day or two, and it isn't so easy to 
 limit oneself when the publisher is pay- 
 ing at the rate of so much a line. See, 
 now he lays his pen aside, thoughtfully 
 passing his hand across his forehead — the 
 forehead wherein so many charitable 
 thoughts abide, the hand that signs the 
 protestation of oppressed misery against 
 its cruel fate in so many volumes. The 
 fixed eyes are riveted intently upon 
 some distant object, which the busy 
 
■■■■■ 
 
 136 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 thoughts are in the very act of shaping — 
 it is to be hoped he has not caught sight 
 of either of us, our forlorn appearance 
 might easily lead him to suppose we were 
 beggars, and then there would be an end 
 to our observations, — he does not approve 
 of beggars. He is a theorist. Rousing 
 himself suddenly he begins to wander up 
 and down the thick-pile Persian carpet — 
 what can he be thinking about ? Ah ! I 
 have it ! There has already been some 
 talk about a certain new novel that is to 
 see the light of day ere long — that's what ' 
 he is brooding over. The book is said to 
 be harrowing in the extreme, full of the 
 most distressing scenes gleaned from the 
 lives of the poor. Le cloUy the culminating 
 interest of the book, is to centre in the 
 touching story of a mother who dies of 
 starvation with her babe at her breast. 
 It is this very chapter which he is now 
 revising, and which, according to all ap- 
 pearance, is giving him such a world of 
 trouble. He paces up and down the room, 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 137 
 
 his nerves strung to the utmost, talking 
 to himself, and stopping short every now 
 and again to dot down a few notes on the 
 margin of his manuscript. Let us see 
 what he has to say for himself, and take a 
 peep over his shoulder at those memoranda 
 of his." 
 
 ** The youngster must be done away 
 with — it is absolutely necessary, — that is 
 what the whole plot hangs upon ! 
 
 I've worked up the mother to my entire 
 satisfaction ; that scene where the light 
 falls upon 'the countenance that anxiety 
 and distress have rendered unrecognisable ' 
 {Mem, ! but on which tJie traces of rare 
 beauty were still discernible) is excellent ; 
 but the youngster, the youngster! 
 
 She must be found holding a dead baby 
 in her arms, it simply doubles the pathos 
 of the situation, and the child must appear 
 to be sleeping. 
 
 {Mem. I trade as much as possible on tJie 
 mother's desperate agony y which has betrayed 
 itself in tJie convulsive embrace with which 
 
 I i 
 
 "a I 
 
 in 
 
138 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 she has strained the child to her breast. 
 Mem. ! latter removed with considerable diffi- 
 culty.) I have two or three different sorts 
 of deaths at my finger-ends — we modern 
 authors are obh'ged to read up everything, 
 medicine into the bargain — but I cannot 
 quite inake up my mind whether this 
 death from starvation, which is what I hold 
 to most, will allow the brat to look as if he 
 had merely fallen into a deep sleep ! And 
 this new book of mine must be absolutely 
 faultless as regards the minutest details of 
 this description, for I let it be understood 
 in the preface that the distressing story is 
 not only a true one, but one that has come 
 under my own immediate notice. But 
 how the devil is a fellow to know what 
 a youngster looks like who has just died 
 of starvation !" 
 
 Here the donkey grinds into my ear : 
 " He should have come down with us to 
 the Vicolo del Monaco this evening, and 
 then he would have had an excellent 
 opportunity of judging for himself" — " Be 
 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 139 
 
 quiet, Rosina, and pay attention — this is 
 all extremely interesting in case we should 
 ever go in for novel-writing ourselves." 
 
 The celebrated author cuts short his 
 peregrinations, pulls up before the great 
 marble chimney-piece, and pokes the fire. 
 " Were it possible to allow of the child 
 being frozen to death, it would simplify 
 the whole thing. I know for a fact 
 that people do fall asleep under such 
 circumstances, but it is out of the 
 question in this case, as the scene is laid 
 in Italy, and it is summer time into the 
 bargain, {Mem. ! corpse surrounded by a 
 few rose-trees in full bloofn, nightingales ? 
 
 something might be made out of this /) 
 
 though, hang it all ! I should be repeat- 
 ing myself, there would be a certain 
 amount of monotony about it, seeing that 
 no less than three children were frozen to 
 death in my last novel. 
 
 How to despatch this wretched child 
 into the next world is really worrying 
 me out of my senses. The medico-legal 
 
 
 
I. 
 
 140 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 handbook maintains that the vitality of 
 children at the breast is something ex- 
 traordinary, and that they are able to 
 exist for several days together without 
 food of any sort. What if I were to 
 hurry up the mother's death by a week 
 or so, pbstponing the discovery of both 
 corpses till the child has had time to die, 
 according to the medical authorities — ah ! 
 but then the mother would be too far gone ; 
 there would be no more poetry about the 
 corpse, and I should be obliged to bar the 
 whole of that telling scene where Rudolf, 
 throwing himself beside her, kisses her 
 {Mem. ! cold lips I) No one feels inclined 
 to kiss a corpse of several days' standing ! 
 No, that scene must remain untouched 
 — it is unique — there isn't a man alive who 
 could have written anything to touch it ; 
 the whole of modern literature contains 
 nothing to equal that passage in which 
 Rudolf cries, * O cruel and inexorable power 
 that art nought but fatCy blind fate ; may 
 I not ransom her dear life with inine own^ 
 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 141 
 
 may not Jur closed eyes be once again 
 allowed to . . .' " 
 
 (Here the donkey took to grinding so 
 sardonically and noisily that it is still a 
 matter of astonishment to m^e that we 
 were not overheard ; but when authors 
 are in the act of declaiming their own 
 works, they are capable neither of hearing 
 nor seeing.) 
 
 " I am delighted with the description of 
 the corpse, I believe it to be quite com- 
 plete (eleven pages are dedicated to the 
 shade of the face alone). No one can 
 beat me at a corpse — no one ! 
 
 What a pity it is I cannot make up my 
 mind to inspect one for myself, my intense 
 dislike to anything of the sort is really most 
 unfortunate, as corpses figure so very suc- 
 cessfully in these sort of pictures, and are 
 no doubt one of my strong points. And 
 I don't believe that any one, as far as my 
 handling of the subject is concerned, will 
 be able to find fault with a single detail ; 
 besides, I have again consulted my new 
 
 ;; 
 
 
j68»iW''SN»4s»» * ' *! « #W«M ^#WiPt ■>Wift^te 
 
 ■Hi-.i, ii-J«S^fl#tW!«[3fKJS)K!^';*W , .,*'l**^5S1i' * 
 
 142 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 handbook, and am fully persuaded that no 
 alteration is necessary." 
 
 "What sort of a handbook?" asked 
 the donkey ; I pointed silently to the 
 book-case, whereon there lay a 
 
 " Handbook 
 
 of 
 
 Anatomy^ Physiology, Pathology, and 
 
 Therapeutics for the use of Novelists and Poets, 
 
 followed by a 
 
 supplement containing in alphabetical order 
 
 a full description of all the various 
 
 deaths suited to fictitious and 
 
 dramatic purposes^ 
 
 **But the youngster! the youngster! 
 To suppress him altogether, is out of the 
 question, the whole plot would fall to the 
 ground, the exchange of the two infants 
 by the bribed nurse, the mark upon the 
 child's arm, which eventually leads to the 
 discovery of the rightful heir." 
 
 (" That is an old story," ground out the 
 donkey, who was no doubt a novel reader 
 herself) — 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 143 
 
 "No, the child must live, must die, 
 and what is more, must die now, as the 
 tragic element in the story unhesitatingly 
 demands." 
 
 Just as our author reaches this point, he 
 is interrupted by the entrance of a foot- 
 man, bearing a message from the chef 
 to the effect that the soup was growing 
 cold — the dinner-bell had already been 
 rung twice. 
 
 Such is the force of inspiration, such 
 are the giddy heights to which the soul 
 of man is sometimes borne upon the wings 
 of idealism, that he has actually been 
 known to forget his rapidly-cooling soup ! 
 But ecstasies such as these cannot possibly 
 last long, and the author wends his way 
 into the dining-room, where we slip in 
 after him. Nothing particular occurs 
 during the meal, silently and reveren- 
 tially our genius devotes himself to his 
 dinner, a dinner upon which the starving 
 family might easily have been kept alive 
 for a fortnight. But the pdt^ de foie gras 
 
« jF-'f'^^^y^.-^y-av-^i'MsrejWffi wMiJ^ 
 
 144 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 has hardly been served before he again 
 begins talking to himself: "the more I 
 think of it, the more I hold to the idea of 
 starving them to death — it is not only 
 original, but effective into the bargain, 
 and tHere are few passages in contem- 
 porary literature that come up to that 
 death scene of mine!" — ("Are they all 
 equally modest?" asked the donkey. — 
 "Yes," gnswered I, " every one of them ; ") 
 ** if the thing cannot be managed any other 
 way I must just dash off something like 
 this at the beginning of the sentence : 
 * Strange to say, the child, according to all 
 appearances, had not survived his mother 
 more than a few moments/ 
 
 " {Mem. ! child naturally delicate, mother 
 utterly exhausted by previous suffering, and 
 incapable of nursing it herself child ill 
 towards the last — of what 7) " 
 
 And dinner over, he goes back to his 
 study, the busy author — towards even- 
 ing he devotes himself to another work, a 
 sea-story, in which a ship goes down with 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 145 
 
 all hands, except a little cabin-boy and a 
 Newfoundland dog. The dog howls so 
 piteously and miserably through the night, 
 that he is overheard by fishermen on the 
 coast ; but the sea is rough, and no one 
 will venture to the rescue — " what was he 
 but a dog after all ! " 
 
 Here the author smiles complacently to 
 himself; he sees the tears start to the 
 eyes of every lover of dogs, as he reads 
 the account of the poor beast's death- 
 struggle, and the final words, " What was 
 he but a dog after all;' fill him with entire 
 satisfaction. 
 
 The surviving cabin-boy must of course 
 be rescued, for he is the illegitimate son 
 of a very great personage indeed, who, 
 in order to get rid of him, has shipped 
 him off to Australia ; he is to return after 
 a while to revenge himself, etc. etc. Of 
 course he is driven out to sea by the 
 wind, and is left for twelve days without 
 a morsel of food. . . . 
 
 Here the author's pen stops short — 
 
 L 
 
146 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 "let me see, twelve days without food 
 of any sort ; is not this a trifle too long 
 according to the handbook ? " 
 
 The cabin-boy, of course, lives upon the 
 fare with which novelists are in the habit 
 of supplying their shipwrecked victims, i.e. 
 shoe-soles and leather straps, and, of 
 course, the sentimental tortoise, who, out 
 of sheer compassion, lays herself upon her 
 back and allows herself to be caught, is like- 
 wise introduced upon the scene — but twelve 
 days ? He cannot possibly be allowed 
 to have any wine about him (salt water is 
 the only thing put at his disposal), for 
 the wreck occurred at midnight, and as 
 the ship went to the bottom at once, there 
 was no time to collect provisions ; but 
 something or other he must have to fall 
 back upon, to pull him through those 
 twelve days ! 
 
 Buried deep in thought our author lights 
 his Havannah cigar — and whilst he puffs 
 the thin blue smoke across his manuscript, 
 he allows the poor little castaway to dis- 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 147 
 
 cover a packet of tobacco at the bottom 
 of the boat. 
 
 # 
 
 # 
 
 Oh ye authors, who in thrilling and 
 high-flown romances portray the lives of 
 the poor, you need not draw on your 
 imaginations in order to describe the 
 misery of this world, you need not 
 strain after "effects" or search after a 
 combination of appalling situations, you 
 need not shed a single artificial tear over 
 fictitious sorrows ! Go back to the " old 
 school," when pictures were not painted in 
 the studios after hired Paris models and 
 dressed-up lay-figures, when artists went 
 straight to the Nature they wished to 
 paint, and authors lived amongst the 
 people they wished to describe ! 
 
 Go out among the poor, look their 
 misery straight in the face, and lay your 
 hands upon their rags and tatters ! And 
 you will bear witness to the fact that 
 
 ■e- 
 
148 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 there is no romance so stirring, so thrilling 
 — and so heartrending as Life's great epic ! 
 And you will blush at the remembrance 
 of your own heroes of romance, you 
 will guard against the creation of more 
 poor than are already to be found in this 
 weary world, you will not have the 
 courage to allow your imaginations to feed 
 upon new victims of starvation and poverty, 
 for the sake of leading them later on to 
 literature's market, shut up between the gilt 
 covers of your own volumes, to be ex- 
 hibited for money like wild beasts ! The 
 greater the smoothness, the more remark- 
 able the finish of the literary bars behind 
 which the poor imprisoned victims writhe, 
 the higher the entrance fee across the 
 threshold of the title-page on which the 
 publisher sits, rubbing his hands. But 
 the victims themselves — " the wild beasts," 
 whilst you are heaping up your gold, 
 they roar aloud for food — but what do 
 you care about that ! 
 
 I see, that according to Rosina, I have 
 
 / 
 
 \ 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 149 
 
 rather overshot the mark in my descrip- 
 tion of these illustrious authors, and that 
 my wholesale condemnation of their cold- 
 blooded copying system is rather too exag- 
 gerated—but I can't help that ! Have ye 
 no pity for your models, ye celebrated 
 annalists of the lives of the poor ? 
 
 I speak as I feel, and away with all 
 metaphors ! 
 
 I have no love for you, ye sentimental 
 chroniclers of want and destitution, ye who 
 rant about poverty and distress at two 
 francs a line ! Too well do I know these 
 literary friends of Naples, these enthusi- 
 astic admirers of the bay's clear waters, 
 of the people's poetry and song, ye, who 
 write long stories, the heroes of which are 
 chosen from out the crowd of children 
 who swarm in Santa Lucia, ye, who feast 
 upon your description of the handful of 
 chestnuts which keeps the lazzarone alive, 
 ye, who buy your silks and velvets with 
 the rags of the half-clothed children of 
 whom you have drawn so bright a picture ! 
 
I50 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 What has become of your poetical ad- 
 miration for Italy, of your oft -repeated 
 wish, ^^Vedere Napoli e pot morire ;'' has 
 she then disappeared from off the face of 
 the earth? Have you nothing to write 
 in behalf of sorrowing Naples, in behalf of 
 her hunger and desolation, you who are 
 able to write at such length about her 
 songs and the tinkle of her guitars? 
 Not one appeal to enlist sympathy on her 
 behalf, not one fond word of gratitude 
 for all you owe to Italy, not one hand 
 stretched out towards your fellow-creatures 
 in distress, if only to give them a scrap 
 of bread, ye who have so often stretched 
 out your hands to pluck her summer 
 roses and drink the wine of her gladness ! 
 But there is no one to understand me — 
 and it isn't the first time that that has 
 happened either. It is no longer the 
 proper thing to have an ideal, and dare 
 to acknowledge it before the world — all 
 our ideals have vanished before the up- 
 rising sun of so-called modern culture, and 
 
 \ 
 
 \' 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 151 
 
 people seem to have lost their faith in 
 them, as they have lost their faith in fairy 
 tales. 
 
 But thou, Rosina, thou wilt surely 
 understand me ! Thou art a neglected 
 little donkey who has realised that it is 
 not her mission to flaunt along the sunny 
 walks of life with all the rest, and I 
 am a poor devil who has also been re- 
 jected as unfit to figure in the great 
 review of Life ! And now we wander up and 
 down the dingy alleys of the poor quarter 
 — it is not worth while to show ourselves 
 in the open streets, we are not welcome 
 anywhere, my poor friend ! Thy legs 
 are tired, and my head is tired also, but 
 thou trampest along as bravely as thou 
 art able, and I strive to make the best of 
 the little I know in the endeavour to be 
 of some use. No one knows whence we 
 come, no one knows whither we are 
 bound, and no one asks us who we are, 
 but we get along just as well for all 
 that. But every now and again we stand 
 
 A 
 
 I 
 
 J 
 
f 
 
 1^1 
 
 A 
 
 152 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 still to philosophise awhile, and it is then 
 we grow so bitter, old friend; but thou 
 art right, 'tis best to hold one's peace! 
 Thou art right with thy plaintive utter- 
 ances which I now regret having compared 
 to the grinding of a saw ! Now, do I realise 
 how much more lies hidden beneath the 
 rasping sigh I misunderstood so often, and 
 reach thou hither that drooping melan- 
 choly ear of thine, and I will whisper 
 unto thee my own interpretation thereof 
 in human language, and in words that 
 apply unto thee, even as they apply unto 
 me, 
 
 " Seul le silence est grand, tout le reste 
 est faiblesse ! '* 
 
 # # 
 
 No, there is no romance so stirring, so 
 thrilling, and so heartrending as life's 
 great epic ; but its fate is the same as that 
 of the Bible — there are but few who care 
 to read it. But hast thou once looked 
 through a page or two thou shalt discover 
 
 I- 
 
 w 
 
 ) 
 
 A 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 153 
 
 how impossible it is to lay it down ; thou 
 readest on till the book falls from thy 
 hands, until the advent of Death, who ex- 
 tinguishes the lamp by which thou work- 
 est. And how empty and tiresome do 
 not all other books appear ! How sharp 
 hath now thine eye become to detect the 
 strings by means of which the writers of 
 romance succeed in dancing their miser- 
 able marionettes across the boards of that 
 literary puppet show which, according to 
 them, represents life ! 
 
 And how severe are not thy literary 
 criticisms now, how bare the shelves on 
 which thy favourite books were wont to 
 lie ! Thou flingest them away, one after 
 the other, their contents satisfy thee no 
 longer, their heroes are dead, of that 
 thou art assured, for thou hast held the 
 mirror of truth before their lips, and no 
 breath of life has dimmed its surface ; 
 their descriptions of Nature are like the 
 countries that surround the Dead Sea, 
 where no flowers scent the air, and no 
 
 / 
 
 •-mmm 
 
 latr: 
 
i» 1«JtiMfl-l»w>-*«'-**t ■'**^ ■ 
 
 154 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 birds sing, their pictures are like Pom- 
 peii's faded frescoes, which dissolve when 
 the sun of life shines down upon them ! 
 
 And neither the "old school" nor the 
 " new school " is able to satisfy thee now — 
 thy judgment falls as heavily on the one 
 as on the other, thou wilt have nothing 
 to do with either idealists or realists. 
 
 And you, ye realists, reformers of the 
 new school, you, ye heaven-scaling Titans 
 who in your own estimation have already 
 reached the summit of Art's temple, who 
 strive with outstretched hands to over- 
 throw the spire thereof, shaped by the 
 bravest thoughts of centuries into the 
 likeness of a cross — you fall to the ground 
 with all the rest ! 
 
 Think you, ye modern authors, who, 
 until we have bestowed our undivided 
 admiration upon you, are content to wor- 
 ship at your own shrine, think you that 
 your celebrated "studies after Nature," 
 your photographs, obtained by means of 
 all the apparatus of modern realism, are 
 
 1^ 
 
 
 \ 
 
 M 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 155 
 
 truer to life than the na'fve pictures of the 
 old " idealists '* ? 
 
 You talk of a return to Nature in 
 literature as in art, but you entirely for- 
 get that Nature herself is not realistic but 
 idealistic! Where will you find a sym- 
 phony of which the romance can be 
 compared to the murmur of the sea, 
 where will you find a tragedy so im- 
 pressive as the vast solitude of a pine 
 forest, where will you find a poem so 
 pure as the silent language of the violets, 
 where will you find a sonnet so tender as 
 the nightingale's song about Sorrento! 
 And where will you find a greater idealist 
 than the sun, where will you find a more 
 incorrigible, sentimental, old enthusiast 
 than the moon who, at this very moment, 
 floats the glittering interpretation of her 
 dream across the slumbering bay ! 
 
 # 
 
J 
 
 156 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 CONVERSATION WITH ROSINA 
 
 Donkey : " What on earth art thou driv- 
 ing at with those merciless criticisms of 
 thine that refuse to approve the works of 
 either the old school or the new ? Are we 
 to leave off writing altogether ? " 
 ' / .• " Yes, that is about it." 
 Donkey : " But thou thyself art always 
 scribbling, and often have I watched thee 
 as, seated on a stone, thou wrotest all 
 those letters down at Mergellina ! " 
 
 / .* "I should never have expected thee 
 to classify those letters as literary works. 
 Their utility is so evident, their purpose 
 so practical, that they ought hardly to be 
 considered from a literary point of view. 
 
 What has enabled thee to stand here 
 philosophising with me by the hour to- 
 gether, what has provided thee with the 
 clean straw on which thou liest at night, and 
 the fresh cabbages and lettuces on which 
 thou feedest morning and noon ? What 
 but these very Mergellina letters to which 
 
 [ 
 
 Letters frofn a Mourning City 157 
 
 thou wert just alluding ! And Peppino, 
 whose transformation has surely not 
 escaped thee — of what thinkest thou 
 does his new suit consist ? Of nothing 
 more nor less than one or two of these 
 self-same Dagblads stitched together, my 
 friend ! " 
 
 The Donkey : "If that is the case, I am 
 of course reduced to silence." 
 
 /; "And a very good thing too, 'tis 
 always best to be silent ! And silently 
 should we pursue our way, watching the 
 immortal thoughts that sail like clouds 
 above our heads, and silently should we 
 congratulate ourselves upon being allowed 
 to follow their lofty course from here 
 below — but we ourselves would do well 
 to be silent always." 
 
 Tke Donkey : " But if every one is to 
 leave off writing, what is to become of 
 critics and reviewers ? A good many of 
 my colleagues have devoted themselves 
 to criticism, — what is to become of them ? 
 
 And into what channels would'st thou 
 
 \\ 
 
158 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 turn that immense ocean of ink which 
 threatens to flood the newly-ploughed 
 fields of civilisation, on which an ever- 
 increasing number of mariners venture 
 out for the purpose of taking part in the 
 regatta of Fame ? Boats of every descrip- 
 tion are to be found cruising about this 
 ocean, the pleasure boats of easy, grace- 
 ful diction, heavy barges of solid know- 
 ledge, toiling wearily along, laden with 
 great blocks hewn out of hidden strata, 
 men-of-war and inoffensive merchant- 
 men, amateur yachts and clumsy ferry- 
 boats, etc. etc." 
 
 /.• "I understand thy metaphor as 
 regards ' the ocean of ink,' and will carry it 
 on. Well! Yonder sits the self-elected jury 
 — having prudently determined to remain 
 on shore — watching the race through 
 criticism's telescope; let us only look at 
 the brightest side, let us endeavour to 
 forget the boats that have run aground, 
 all those that have collided, and all those 
 that have foundered, and let us take for 
 
 ■' xv 
 
 ; 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 159 
 
 granted that thou reachest the haven of 
 Fame, and succeedest in hoisting the flag — 
 what then ? The goal appointed by the 
 jury is not thy journey's goal — thou hast 
 a longer journey before thee. And after 
 thou hast journeyed for a while, the sea 
 appeareth unto thee to become narrower 
 and narrower, the shores appear to draw 
 closer and closer together, and soon thou 
 discriest land — the isle of Immortality, 
 thinkest thou, — not so, my friend, 'tis 
 but the other side of the river of life over 
 which thou'rt bound to pass. Thou who 
 hitherto hast only looked forward, thou 
 turnest back to gaze upon the road which 
 thou hast just traversed, and which seemed 
 to thee so endless. How startled art 
 thou on discovering that close behind 
 thee there is also land, how great thy 
 astonishment on realising that 'tis but 
 a little river, after all, on which thou hast 
 been struggling for so long, till at last it 
 begins to dawn upon thee that thy first 
 glimpse of the great ocean will be obtained 
 
 \\\ 
 
 / 
 
' t 
 
 I 
 
 1 60 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 on reaching the other side. And now do 
 the distances appear but short to thee ; 
 thou who hadst deemed thyself so far 
 ahead of thy unsuccessful, flagless rivals, 
 discernest now that they have caught thee 
 up, are close behind thee — for they, like 
 thee, must also cross the stream. 
 
 And then an ugly old ferryman rows 
 up in a rotten boat ; thou askest him to 
 tell thee who he is, and he answers that he 
 is the pilot who shall conduct thee to the 
 other shore where the great distribution 
 of prizes is to take place. Thou rejoinest 
 that thou'rt able to steer thy boat thyself, 
 that hitherto thou hast not discovered the 
 necessity of any landmark, that thou 
 would'st rather sail alone, indeed, thou 
 would'st return if possible. Thou askest 
 him if he would care to see thy medals, 
 thou pointest to thy waving flag, and 
 tellest him that thou hast carried off a 
 prize — but this impresses him in nowise ; 
 he hauls down thy fluttering rag, and 
 hoists a black flag in its stead. And 
 
 KSHSr- " 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 161 
 
 then he bids thee step into his boat, for 
 he has orders to ferry thee over to a place 
 where thou shalt be detained awhile in 
 quarantine — he insists upon the fact that 
 thy papers are not in order, and that thou 
 comest from an infected port. Thou art 
 afraid of being put into quarantine, thou 
 hast been told how strong a smell of sul- 
 phur pervades those regions, and thou 
 remindest him that a celebrated Witten- 
 berg doctor, whose name is Luther, has 
 decided that quarantine is out of date and 
 quite unnecessary — but it's my belief 
 thou'lt be detained there all the same. 
 And then. . . ." 
 
 The Donkey : " I am obliged to interrupt 
 thee now, no longer am I able to keep 
 pace with thy obscure language. What 
 is the name of this place of quarantine, 
 what is the name of the other shore, 
 who is the traveller, and who the ferry- 
 man ? " 
 
 / .• " Dear little donkey, thou shalt have 
 the answer to the riddle ; we have taken 
 
 M 
 
iS^tofi9Mtii«^4»iii^>iw^»s^ 
 
 '■^ "^ «*«pi«"w w^i^swiff'^''' 
 
 162 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 a few liberties with mythology, and have 
 introduced boats upon the scene, in order 
 to enable thee, who art but an indifferent 
 swimmer, to accompany us on our travels. 
 There is no need for thee to meditate 
 upon this place of quarantine, for thou 
 shalt surely escape it, but its name is 
 * II Purgatorio'; the ferryman's name is 
 Charon. . . ." 
 
 The Donkey : " And the river, the dark 
 river's name ? " 
 
 /: " The river's name is Styx, my friend, 
 — the river of oblivion ! " 
 
 \ 
 
 
 » 
 
 i 
 
 XI 
 
 E who live in a well-regulated 
 and enlightened state of society, 
 are scarcely able to credit the 
 ever- recurring complaints of the news- 
 papers with regard to the people's ill- 
 feeling ; we find it difficult to believe 
 that they prefer to live and die in their 
 abandoned poverty, rather than apply to 
 the authorities for assistance. Yet this is 
 nevertheless the case. The upholders of 
 order and discipline were perfectly right 
 in believing themselves to be in danger 
 during their inspections of the poor quar- 
 ters, and doctors have often seen their 
 best intentions split on the rock of the 
 universal distrust inspired by their medi- 
 
I i 
 
 164 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 cines and themselves. That a popular 
 belief existed to the effect that doctors 
 received a premium on every cholera 
 patient they were able to report, is an 
 indisputable fact. The idea that they 
 were paid by the Government for the 
 express purpose of spreading the disease, 
 is now exploded, and I have never heard 
 it broached save in the case of a few old 
 men who had picked it up during the 
 epidemic of 1836 ; as a rule it has been 
 modified to the extent of believing that 
 the town authorities, desirous of reducing 
 the surplus population (it is in this form 
 that the echo of the long-continued dis- 
 cussions on the over-population of Naples 
 has reached the alleys of the poor quar- 
 ters) had let the cholera loose in order to 
 give more room ! This view was univer- 
 sally held by the people, and was unfor- 
 tunately often interpreted by acts of hos- 
 tility and violence. But the very enormity 
 of such suppositions is in my eyes suffi- 
 cient to absolve the ignorant and hapless 
 
 
 •r-«l** 
 
 ■ r 
 
 lit 
 
 I 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 165 
 
 creatures by whom they were conceived — 
 they are wholly irresponsible — as little to 
 blame for their ignorant want of confidence, 
 as the fever-stricken patient who tries to 
 turn his doctor out of doors, or the lunatic 
 who with delight sets fire to the hospital. 
 
 And this is why I am unable to under- 
 stand how this undisguised contempt of 
 his medical capabilities can succeed in 
 wounding the professional pride of any 
 doctor, or how the peevish, irritable atti- 
 tude of the poor people can possibly cause 
 any diminution of his sympathy whilst 
 working on their behalf Any way it is a 
 good thing to be in my position and to 
 have nothing to be proud of — for my 
 sympathy has never flagged. Yet have I 
 never met with so little consideration as 
 in this part of the world, where they have 
 thrown my wonderful mixtures out at the 
 door, tried to send me after them, and 
 thrashed me into the bargain. 
 
 Were they to draw the line at throwing 
 one's medicines away, it would not be so 
 
.iaBaWlEWiW^^lTw''*W^Ti-^^^ 
 
 .!aji*..^->|h**»»s* 
 
 t 
 
 1 66 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 bad, but do you know how an old crone 
 up at Pendino once treated me? The 
 old lady, who belonged to the ancien regime, 
 was struggling with all her might to oppose' 
 the efforts that we were making on her 
 behalf, and was so exhausted that she was 
 hardly able to speak ; after several un- 
 successful attempts, when we had finally 
 succeeded in pouring the medicine into 
 her mouth, she made a sign which I failed 
 to understand, but which the commare at 
 her side interpreted as a wish to speak to 
 me. I bent over the poor old thing, who 
 looked inoffensive enough, for the matter 
 of that, but scarcely had I lowered my 
 head to the level of hers— than she spat 
 the medicine back into my face. That 
 was her way of treating doctors, and it 
 was certainly not worth while endeavouring 
 to lead her benighted ideas into new 
 grooves— so I just wiped my mouth, and 
 we continued to be as friendly as before 
 
 Often whilst wandering through the 
 poor quarters, one would come across a 
 
 T 
 
 "r** 
 
 
 I <l 
 
 o 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 167 
 
 crowd of women in front of one of these 
 squalid little houses, some of them warm- 
 ing blankets and articles of clothing over 
 a fire, whilst others knelt on the threshold 
 in fervent prayer— a sure sign that cholera 
 was within. To the question whether 
 any one was ill, or whether medical as- 
 sistance was required, the same churlish 
 answer was invariably returned: '' Siete 
 del municipio ? — qui 7ion v'e nessun am- 
 malato / " ^ I soon discovered that there 
 was nothing for it but to go in quite 
 quietly, to look as unofficial as possible, 
 and, above all, not to allow one's own 
 remedies to interfere with the application 
 of theirs. As often as not a couple of 
 sick people were to be found within, 
 buried, head and all, beneath everything 
 they had been able to scrape together in 
 the way of blankets and old clothes (the 
 most striking characteristic of cholera, le. 
 the rapid diminution of temperature, is 
 
 ^ "Are you sent by the municipal authorities ?— there 
 are no sick here." 
 
"tusAfBlltwM^r.t 
 
 mmmmtm 
 
 . i. 
 
 I ^ 
 
 1 68 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 naturally what impresses the people most). 
 Could one help them in no other way, one 
 was at least able to give them a little 
 wine, some ice to quench their terrible 
 thirst, and a few soldi wherewith to pur- 
 chase bread for the starving family around. 
 And often enough as one turned to go, 
 the threatening, suspicious expression in 
 the eyes had softened, and ^' Iddio vi 
 befiedica ! la Madonna vi accompagna ! " ^ 
 sounded kindly after one down the dingy 
 little street. 
 
 # # 
 
 You have read in all the newspapers 
 full accounts of the voluntary ambulances 
 out here, Croce Bianca, Croce Rossa, 
 Croce Verde, etc. etc., you have been 
 informed of their extraordinary exertions, 
 for which indeed no praise is high enough. 
 It is but fair that I should mention them 
 in my turn. 
 
 * " May God bless you ! may the Blessed Virgin be with 
 you ! " 
 
 ■ 
 
 /m 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 169 
 
 Yes, they have done their work 
 splendidly, these ambulances. First and 
 foremost stands the Croce Bianca, by 
 virtue of its inexhaustible resources, its 
 large stock of ready money — and its 
 vast advertisement system. The perpetual 
 struggle for notoriety, the continual men- 
 tion in all the newspapers of its own heroic 
 deeds, is so striking with regard to this 
 association, that it disturbs the impression 
 of all the great and good work it has 
 actually accomplished. Nobody wishes 
 to deny that the White Cross is worthy 
 of every benediction — but after all ? the 
 whole thing is so simple it ought never to 
 have been mentioned by any other name 
 except its own, which is fine enough, in 
 all conscience, — they were doing their 
 duty, voild tout ! 
 
 That the work undertaken by these 
 ambulances was no child's play, can be 
 testified by the recent reports issued by 
 the White Cross; the tenth part of its 
 members, and the seventh part of its 
 
■;M 
 
 Txrrsrr "iTs^sas***. 
 
 170 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 doctors were attacked by the disease 
 against which they were struggling. The 
 same report contains an announcement 
 to the effect that this ambulance has 
 nursed 70 1 5 cholera patients and salvato 
 3500. Happy Croce Bianca! I know 
 doctors who have given all the help that 
 it was in their power to bestow, and who 
 hardly venture to assert that they have 
 " saved " a single soul — at most murmuring 
 to themselves at intervals ^^ guerir qiiel- 
 quefoisy soulager souvent^ consoler toujour s!^ 
 The White Cross came to an end after 
 twenty days' existence, not alone on 
 account of the cholera's diminution, but 
 also, to a certain degree, owing to the 
 strained relations that had sprung up 
 between itself and the medical staff of the 
 town. These latter, who were doing their 
 duty as bravely as the former, began to 
 weary of the incessant and exclusive men- 
 tion of the White Cross, and of the news- 
 papers' continuous and undivided admira- 
 tion of all its sayings and doings. 
 
 1- 
 
 H 
 
 ■ 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 171 
 
 The extraordinary readiness of the 
 press to celebrate the deeds of the White 
 Cross is easily explained by the fact that 
 its president happened to be one of the 
 principal journalists in the town, the editor 
 of the Piccolo (a member of parliament 
 and well-known author, a clever fellow for 
 the matter of that, and vastly superior to 
 most of his vain -glorious colleagues of 
 the White Cross). 
 
 I defy you to read a single Nea- 
 politan newspaper written within the 
 last few months, in which you do not 
 come across some of these advertisements. 
 I firmly believe that very soon there 
 will be no inhabitant of the town who 
 will not have seen his own name 
 followed by a superlative of some sort, 
 ** wonderful," "superb," "heroic," etc. A 
 chemist who, knocked up one night for a 
 bottle of laudanum, gives it away gratis, 
 awakes next morning to find himself 
 famous (name, address, and everything), 
 and the appreciative newspapers weave a 
 
 li 
 
.Jw« 
 
 ,««WK»««»W»:BW!|^M»«,4aSi«:«:iai»(i 
 
 *.'.^''.'"*Ht'^-"1 iilB»» 
 
 172 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 laurel wreath about his brow, quite large 
 enough to enable him to dispense with 
 the usual autumn outlay on bay-leaves for 
 his apothecary shop. 
 
 The wine merchant who sends a few 
 bottles of Marsala to the Relief Committee 
 is dubbed ammirabile^ and should he re- 
 fuse to take back the empty bottles will 
 no doubt be ainmirabilissinio. 
 
 The lady who forwards a dozen shifts 
 is at once pronounced an aiigelo, and 
 so successfully enveloped in the flowing 
 drapery of these celestial beings — that it 
 becomes an easy matter to make over the 
 rest of her terrestrial wardrobe. And her 
 husband who despatches three pairs of old 
 boots — requires his own no longer, for he 
 is flying on newspaper wings far above 
 the dust of this workaday world. 
 
 One was continually told to be on the 
 look-out for pickpockets, but to my mind 
 newspaper correspondents and reporters 
 were far more dangerous — the greatest 
 amount of prudence, I may say cunning. 
 
 f**??:'^ ', Ti;':irttMiaw.iBJ*r«rii 
 
 I 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 173 
 
 was necessary, unless one wished to pose 
 alongside the apothecary's apotheosis and 
 boot-donee's ascension into heaven. For 
 the matter of that I was once caught my- 
 self, and it was only the merest chance 
 that prevented me from becoming famous 
 — a stately apparition of myself would 
 indeed have put the finishing touch to 
 this Pantheon of theirs. 
 
 J 
 

 s»a» 
 
 ,Ji.r 
 
 .t'^'l 
 
 XII 
 
 OU have followed me into the 
 abodes of misery, you have 
 obtained an insight into the 
 life of the Neapolitan poor, and have 
 shuddered at the sight of their unequalled 
 poverty. And you ask if it can be really 
 true that human beings of the present 
 day are suffered to live and die as you 
 have seen these poor creatures live and 
 die ? You ask why they have been left 
 so far behind the rest of Italy in its 
 advance on civilisation and freedom ? 
 
 Yes, I will tell you on whom the 
 responsibility falls — and it falls heavily. 
 Nothing has ever bee7i done for this people, 
 nothing ! 
 
 There was a time when their degrada- 
 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 175 
 
 tion was convenient to the interests of the 
 mighty, when it was considered a good 
 stroke of policy to keep up the atmosphere 
 of ignorance and oppression in which they 
 breathed. That time is over, but the 
 Italy of to-day has done no more for them 
 than the Italy of the past, they have all 
 lost sight of Naples in their beneficent 
 reformation. Now every one has a stone 
 to throw at the people's ignorance and 
 mistrust — but they all forget that nothing 
 has ever been done to remove this mis- 
 trust, that no hand has ever been held 
 out to raise them up to better things. 
 
 Would that I were able to proclaim 
 these words so loudly, that the sound 
 thereof should travel up to Rome — it is 
 a disgrace to Modern Italy, this complete 
 forgetfulness of the Neapolitan people. 
 It admits of no excuse. Every one has 
 long been aware of the appalling misery 
 that reigns here, and schemes for its 
 immediate alleviation have been lying 
 ready for many a day. 
 
 i\ 
 
" ^■^f'WwilSs^sflJpsfSlgK 
 
 176 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 Ever since i860 the municipality of 
 Naples has been studying the question. 
 Committees of thoroughly competent men 
 have drawn up plans for the reconstruc- 
 tion of the poor quarters ; I have seen 
 eight of them myself 
 
 In 1 87 1 there was a public competition 
 of projects for the reconstruction of old 
 Naples, and the amelioration of its mis- 
 erable sanitary condition ; to my certain 
 knowledge all the competitors were pre- 
 sented with medals, four of them re- 
 ceived a reward of 6000 lire, and two 
 others received 3000 lire. But the result? 
 Yes, as the years succeed each other, the 
 dust falls thicker and thicker upon the 
 laboriously -constructed volumes that lie 
 slumbering within the archives of the 
 municipality, and nothing has beoi done. 
 For want of means, think you — not so, 
 for in the meantime the aristocratic quarter 
 of the town has been rebuilt at enormous 
 expense, public gardens and large squares 
 have been laid out for the benefit of 
 
 .; 
 
 f 
 
 \ 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 177 
 
 the rich. Bianchina Carraciolo, Rione 
 Amedeo, Via del Duomo, Galleria Principe 
 di Napoli, have all been built, and a sum 
 of 300,000 lire is the annual subscription 
 that has been voted towards the San 
 Carlo theatre. The people have been 
 kept quiet by means of the Banco di 
 Lotto} which is to them what the gin- 
 houses are to our people at home. And 
 whilst the rest of Naples rejoices in her 
 lovely gardens and well-lit streets, the 
 poor people's quarter has been left to its 
 fate ; here the people live as before, 
 and now the cholera has entered their 
 wretched homes and done its work of 
 destruction with appalling success. Here 
 grow apace the seeds of virulent disease, 
 here does fever ferment in the swampy 
 alleys. Here do the miserable children, 
 fearful of the light of day, grow up with- 
 out care for their bodies or culture for 
 their souls, in complete ignorance of 
 either good or evil, here sin loses its 
 
 ^ Lottery bank. 
 N 
 
 \ 
 
1 78 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 
 
 guilty character, here a man hungers for 
 a while and then turns thief, here do the 
 Camorra and vice seek their recruits, and 
 here die these sullen and degraded beings 
 in the same state of mental darkness as 
 that in which they have lived ! But here 
 also amidst unheard-of suffering and untold 
 woe, hatred of the rich is fostered, here 
 do the threats of the oppressed accumu- 
 late, here does the dagger glitter beneath 
 the rags ! 
 
 And remember that, notwithstanding 
 the degradation of this people during 
 centuries, it has nevertheless proved itself 
 capable of rising up in arms when ex- 
 asperated by the heavy yoke of its 
 oppressors, remember that the poor of 
 Mercato and Porto have shaken the founda- 
 tion of a mighty throne, though stones 
 were their only weapons, and a simple 
 fisherman from Amalfi their only leader ! ^ 
 
 # # 
 
 ^ Masaniello. 
 
 ' '*«Ai'MiAM^uaaifi««a^i„aittif 
 
 * > 
 
 mmmmm . 
 
 w 
 
 1 
 
 1 
 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 179 
 
 Has it ever struck you in looking at a 
 Neapolitan woman, that however miserable 
 her home, however ragged her personal 
 appearance, she nearly always wears some 
 pretty pearls or corals round her neck or 
 in the braids of her blue-black hair ? It 
 is even so with this people of whom she is 
 the daughter — there is something about 
 them that defies complete degradation, 
 that has survived centuries of misery 
 and oppression. It is the inheritance 
 bequeathed to them by the ideal beauty 
 of the life of Greece and Rome. 
 
 And even now you meet, midst dirt and 
 filth, types that bear the stamp of beauty 
 on their brow, even now amongst the 
 younger women, who like beasts of burden 
 pass before you with heavy weights upon 
 their heads, you come across living models 
 of the ancient Caryatides, even now 
 amongst the fishermen of Mergellina you 
 can trace the noble head of the imperial 
 Julian dynasty, even now amidst the 
 children at play you discover the Grecian 
 
>«<<t{Mvl|n^ftn«4<W«^^^ 
 
 
 pfW^ W^s^rw^^n'^W 
 
 I So Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 profile of Antinous, with the thoughtful 
 brow and dreamy eyes beneath, even now 
 you may see a lazzarone drape himself 
 in his ragged cloak, even as Caesar draped 
 himself in his mantle, as he fell by 
 Pompey's statue ! 
 
 And in spite of all the defects that 
 characterise this people, one is sometimes 
 struck by a certain nobility, a certain 
 magnanimity which reminds one involun- 
 tarily of days of bygone splendour — it 
 is as though one stood inside the Roman 
 Forum, where amongst the unsightly and 
 insignificant modern houses, the eye falls 
 upon the columns of crumbling temples 
 and imperial arches of triumph ! 
 
 Yes ! it is easy enough to laugh at the 
 people's ignorance and dark superstitions 
 — but I have never felt inclined to make 
 merry over it, I have witnessed too much 
 of this silent misery, silent because it is 
 unable to tell its woes in the language 
 of our nineteenth century civilisation. 
 
 I always feel as if I had stepped 
 
 ■: 
 
 \] 
 
 1^ 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City i8i 
 
 into another century when I am with 
 these people, on whom modern develop- 
 ment appears to have had no influence for 
 either bad or good, where even nowa- 
 days the veil of medieval mysticism 
 shrouds their understanding. And yet 
 even this mediaeval darkness has its 
 bright side, the eternal stars pierce the 
 gloom of even such a night as this— 
 even here the little lamp beneath the 
 Blessed Virgin's picture shines lovingly 
 upon the kneeling poor, here glows even 
 now the beauty of the monastic life of 
 bygone days, in the silent charity of the 
 much despised monks, as they wend their 
 way from house to house. Call it if you 
 will crass superstition on their part, and 
 Idiotic sentimentality on mine, granted 
 that the devotion of a handful of monks 
 IS unable to wipe out a single item of 
 the long list of debts contracted by the 
 religious orders— I am deaf to all your 
 reasonable arguments, I remember nothing 
 but what I have so often and often seen 
 
 -*.i 
 

 i82 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 for myself during these last few weeks, 
 I remember nothing but the consolation 
 they bring with them, the despair for 
 which they have a remedy, the agony 
 which they are able to soothe ! And 
 again I raise my hat to the poor old 
 monks — and I do so with regret, for it is 
 to bid them farewell. I am just about to 
 leave their country, their time will soon be 
 over, and who knows whether they will still 
 be here, if ever I return at some future date ? 
 Yes, I am to start this very evening. 
 I am nothing but a truant schoolboy 
 after all, and now has Duty, the stern old 
 schoolmaster, come after me, birchrod in 
 hand, to drag me back to my everyday 
 work. I told him I thought it was 
 Sunday, I had felt so devotionally in- 
 clined the whole time, and on Sundays 
 no one is expected to go to school. But 
 I had evidently made a mistake, for he 
 answered that we had got no further than 
 the middle of the week. And then the 
 severe old pedagogue asked me if I had 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 183 
 
 any recollection of all he had tried to 
 drum into me with such infinite pains ; 
 and before I knew where I was, he was 
 examining me in geography, and asking 
 me if I happened to be aware that there 
 was such a place as Paris in the world. 
 
 And then he scowled at my slouched 
 hat and airy summer suit, and requested 
 me to be so good as to put on my frock- 
 coat and top-hat, and bid farewell to the 
 lazzaroni, farewell to the philosophical 
 donkey, farewell to the bay, farewell to 
 Vesuvius, farewell to the summer, fare- 
 well to the rpses beneath my open win- 
 dow ! Farewell to the cholera — no, that 
 he did not insist upon, I was merely to 
 say au revoir^ I should see it again in 
 a day or two.^ Had he caught sight of 
 my scribblings, he would certainly have 
 obliged me to bid a long farewell to the 
 Dagblad — but he hasn't the least idea of 
 
 ^ The author was obliged to return to Paris, where he 
 practises, on account of the sudden outbreak of cholera 
 there.— M. V. W. 
 
 f 
 
1 84 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 their existence, and you must help nae 
 to conceal them, or I shall certainly be 
 plucked next time I go up for examina- 
 tion. Farewell to you in any case, my 
 readers — we will part as we met, without 
 exchanging visiting-cards, not so, it will 
 not matter to you, and is more agreeable 
 to me. 
 
 But who are the friendly authors of the 
 many letters which I have received here ? 
 The anonymous hand that forwarded so 
 large a cheque " to be distributed amongst 
 my poor patients," to whom does it belong ? 
 They themselves are unable to acknow- 
 ledge its receipt, for none of them know 
 how to write ; but, believe me, you have 
 done a good work whoever you are ! 
 
 Yes, even though I be birched for 
 having run away from school to come 
 here, even though I receive nothing but 
 bad marks — I shall never regret a thing 
 I've done, no, not even the letters I have 
 written home. 
 
 For a few of these hastily - scratched 
 
 un^ 
 
 Hm?^ 
 
 ,/ 
 
 \\ 
 
 \\ 
 
 I 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 185 
 
 epistles are enough to build a fishing-boat, 
 two Dagblads (the Daghlad is a big news- 
 paper, you know) are quite sufficient to 
 manufacture a sail, Rosina, the donkey, if 
 you still remember her, will live upon 
 printer's ink to her dying day, Peppino 
 and dozens of other hungry urchins have 
 profited more by the Letters from a Mourn- 
 ing City than all the other subscribers of 
 the Dagblad put together. 
 
 Have you any doubts now as to the 
 "signal importance of the press for the 
 benefit of society ! " 
 
'"i**i»iitmmimmm 
 
 g|g|^-^r2^--««-«---~e 
 
 \ 
 
 T/iese three Letters were written under calmer 
 circumstances after leaving Naples. 
 
 J 
 
 i 
 
 . 
 
 XIII 
 
 HOW PUCK WAS LOST 
 
 " • . . the firmest friend, 
 The first to welcome, foremost to defend." 
 
 Lord Byron. 
 
 ^T had become quite dark inside 
 the old church of Santa Maria 
 del Carmine, here and there 
 alone did the light of a wax-candle fall 
 upon the kneeling poor who had just one 
 more sorrow to confide to the Blessed 
 Virgin, who wished to invoke her power- 
 ful assistance just once more against some 
 trouble, to implore her, just once more, to 
 grant some peace unto their weary souls. 
 Santa Maria del Carmine is the church 
 
1 88 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 of the poor people, and the poor people 
 were well aware that now, more than ever, 
 did they stand in need of the Blessed 
 Virgin's help. A few of them had timidly- 
 ventured up to the wonder-working cruci- 
 fix which human hands had been unable 
 to destroy, and which was better able to 
 protect them than San Gennaro himself,^ 
 but most of them stood beneath a side 
 arch, whilst others deemed themselves 
 unworthy of drawing nearer than the door, 
 where humbly gathered together, they 
 kissed the threshold of the Blessed 
 Mother's sanctuary. 
 
 The bells rang out the Angelus, and 
 with a profound obeisance, one after the 
 other got up to go. The doors were just 
 about to be closed, and I walked slowly 
 
 ^ Here is what the sacristan will tell you about this 
 crucifix. During the bombardment of Naples by Alfonso 
 of Aragon in 1439, a bullet pierced the window above 
 the high altar and went whizzing through the air in the 
 direction of the crucifix, but the image bowed its head 
 and the bullet lodged in the wall. At the same time 
 Alfonso's brother fell to the ground mortally wounded by 
 a bullet which struck him on the head. 
 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 189 
 
 down one of the side aisles. At that 
 moment a man entered the church, he 
 fell upon his knees, his lips moved 
 hastily in earnest prayer, over and over 
 again did he make the sign of the cross, 
 and repeatedly and despairingly did he 
 strike the ground with his forehead. As 
 the sacristan came up to lock the door, 
 he rose, threw his cloak over his shoulder, 
 and hurriedly le. t the church. Just as I 
 passed the spot where he had knelt my 
 foot stumbled against something, and I 
 heard a metallic sound ; I bent down and 
 took up a long Calabrian dagger which 
 lay upon the floor. We two were the 
 last to leave the church, and I caught 
 him up outside on the piazza. He 
 started as I handed him the knife, hastily 
 snatching it out of my hand. His face 
 was deadly pale, and there was a strange 
 uncanny expression in his eyes ; I was so 
 much struck by his appearance that I 
 could not resist telling him that I had 
 seen him in the church and that I felt 
 
 ^1 
 
 \\ 
 
 . I 
 
 < <i 
 

 
 I if 
 
 'i 
 
 190 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 sorry for him. He looked at me grimly 
 for a moment, and then he muttered 
 through his clenched teeth: ''cholera in 
 casa I " 
 
 I told him I was a bit of a doctor and 
 pointed to the case of instruments under 
 my arm, offering him my services at the 
 same time, in case he thought they might 
 be of some use, but he shook his head 
 and walked away. 
 
 I lingered on the piazza for a moment 
 or two, ruminating as to what the next 
 move should be, whether, on the whole, 
 it were not best to go straight home 
 to bed — I had been hard at work all 
 day, and happening to pass the quiet old 
 church had gone in to rest there for a 
 while. 
 
 Just as I was about to take myself off, 
 I saw to my astonishment that the cloaked 
 fellow was making straight for me. 
 " Siete forestiere ? " ^ said he curtly. 
 "Yes," I answered. 
 
 ^ "Are you a stranger?" 
 
 msksein. 
 
 Hone 
 
 / 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 191 
 
 " Non avete niente a fare con II Muni- 
 cipio ? " ^ he went on. 
 
 " Niente affatto;' 2 answered I. 
 ** Volete venire con me ? " ^ was his next 
 question. 
 
 I asked for nothing better. 
 We went down the Via Lavinaio and 
 turned off into one of the narrow streets 
 behind the little church of San Matteo ; 
 for some time I had a very fair idea where 
 we were, but little by little I ceased to 
 recognise the neighbourhood, and ere long 
 was quite unable to make out in what 
 direction we were tramping along. Once 
 or twice I inquired after the names of the 
 streets, but he did not answer. At last it 
 became quite dark and I began to wonder 
 what the time was, but none of the poor 
 devils we came across looked as if they 
 were likely to be possessed of watches, 
 though I must frankly own that plenty of 
 
 1 (( 
 
 You have nothing to do with the Municipal 
 authorities ? " 
 
 Nothing at all." 3 «. ^jn y^^ ^^^^ ^^^ ^^ ^ „ 
 
 2 (( 
 
"■mmcwuRMi^ 
 
 mOmmmmii^m 
 
 10 
 
 192 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 them looked as if they would have liked 
 to have one. It is always best to leave 
 one's watch at home on these occasions, — 
 to wear one is not fair on those inhabitants 
 of the poor quarters with whom one is 
 brought in contact, — it only tends to 
 rouse their evil instincts. 
 
 But no one even hazarded an uncivil 
 word, once or twice it seemed to me that 
 they actually made way for us, whilst every 
 now and again a sort of mutual greeting 
 was exchanged between some of them and 
 my companion ; that is to say as far as I 
 was able to see by the uncertain light that 
 fell from the little lamps that hang at 
 every street corner beneath the Madonna's 
 picture. 
 
 We went through a vaulted passage 
 and emerged into a little alley, so narrow 
 that we were hardly able to walk abreast. 
 All of a sudden the fellow asked me if I 
 knew where we were, and I answered 
 with perfect truth that I had not even the 
 remotest idea what part of the town we 
 
 
 I 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 193 
 
 were in. Shortly afterwards we halted 
 before a wretched tumble -down house, 
 which, according to all appearances, was 
 quite deserted, although I heard him 
 address some one within whom I did not 
 catch sight of But what amazed me 
 most was the fact that I could not under- 
 stand a single word they said — I who had 
 flattered myself that my knowledge of the 
 Neapolitan dialect was vastly superior to 
 that of many a native of the place ! A 
 man came out of the house, all three 
 of us went down a pitch-dark passage, 
 and I heard the door close with a bang 
 behind us. My companion took me by 
 the hand, which was just as well, as I was 
 unable to see an inch before me. We 
 then crossed a yard, and finally pulled up 
 before a miserable little hovel, from which 
 a faint light was glimmering through the 
 closed and tiny window. I could not help 
 thinking that the sort of adventure with 
 which this was likely to wind up was 
 only possible in Naples, or in the pages of 
 
 O 
 

 B W ^ W Wifcl W wiW^ Wfr^'' * 
 
 !' 
 
 i 
 
 \ 
 
 194 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 some melodramatic robber- story ; and 
 certainly the man who came forward to 
 light us up the steps might easily have 
 posed anywhere as a bandit's model. 
 
 More conversation ensued between him 
 and my companion, of which, in spite of 
 all my endeavours, I understood nothing. 
 I just managed to distinguish the word 
 misericordia, which occurred several times, 
 from whence I concluded that he was 
 giving an account of our meeting in the 
 church ; that misericordia meant knife in 
 the language of the Camorra, was a piece 
 of information I had gleaned from Peppino. 
 
 The man then raised the lantern to the 
 level of my face, and scrutinised me 
 closely for a minute or so, but I could not 
 make out whether he liked the look of 
 me or not, for he said nothing. 
 
 We were now standing in front of a 
 half-open door, my companion made the 
 sign of the cross, and silently we entered. 
 
 It was the usual scene. The mother 
 lay upon the floor before an image of the 
 
 wnfmrnfmrnm 
 
 r 
 
 f j ' 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 195 
 
 Blessed Virgin, wringing her hands in 
 despair, and at some little distance two or 
 three other women knelt in earnest prayer. 
 All of a heap beside the fire, sat an old 
 and crippled woman, muttering to herself 
 in a weird, sing-song voice, a string of dis- 
 connected words that sounded more like 
 incantations than prayers — I heard after- 
 wards that she was la nojina, and that she 
 was not quite in her right mind. 
 
 No one stood beside the bed ; the 
 patient was, as usual, fighting alone with 
 death. (The Neapolitans of the lowest 
 class are as a rule afraid to touch a dying 
 person unless it be absolutely unavoidable, 
 they remain in the room but always at a 
 certain distance from the bed.) Whilst 
 the one man stood in the doorway, the 
 other from Santa Maria del Carmine and 
 myself went up to the bed. I took the 
 lantern out of his hand, and as the light 
 fell full upon the livid little face on the 
 pillow, the stalwart fellow beside me shud- 
 dered, and then I felt that it was his own 
 
196 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 child we were gazing upon. It was 
 already half- cold and quite unconscious. 
 Surreptitiously, under the blanket, I ad- 
 ministered an ether-injection, after which 
 she rallied, as is often the case, and 
 though the improvement of her condition 
 was merely transitory, it nevertheless suc- 
 ceeded in softening the suspicious eyes 
 around me. The little girl now opened 
 her eyes and began to moan softly, where- 
 upon they all gathered eagerly round 
 the bed, alternately watching her and 
 myself The mother, who in her blind 
 despair had not even noticed our arrival, 
 rose hastily from the floor the moment 
 she heard the child's groans, and half 
 beside herself, began to help me to rub her 
 with the blanket. 
 
 Just about that time I used to make 
 a trial of intravenous injections. I had 
 administered just such an injection that 
 very day and happened to have my in- 
 struments with me. Unfortunately it is 
 not often that the relations of the sick 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 197 
 
 person will allow one to do so. To win 
 over the mother was, as usual, the princi- 
 pal thing ; I thought I had detected an 
 expression of anxious confidence in her 
 eyes each time she looked at me, on the 
 strength of which I ventured to make the 
 attempt — if anything was to be done it 
 was necessary to set about it at once ; the 
 rubbing had proved useless, and the child 
 was sinking fast. Whilst I was preparing 
 my instruments (out here, like surgeons in 
 time of war, one is obliged to make the 
 best of everything and content oneself 
 with very little) a heated discussion arose 
 in the room, resulting in very divided 
 opinions, most of the women voting in 
 favour of '' lasciare fare la Madonna"'^ and 
 the whole thing being brought to a con- 
 clusion by the mother's cry : " Sia fatto la 
 volontd di Dio e di San Gennaro Bene- 
 detto T^^ — whereupon I was allowed to 
 
 ^ *' Let the Blessed Virgin do as she likes." 
 2 " May the will of God and of Blessed St. Gennaro 
 be done." 
 
 I: 
 
 
 I', 
 
^^m^^^^m^Mi 
 
 
 
 198 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 proceed. But hardly had I made the inci- 
 sion and exposed the vein than they all 
 shrieked aloud, and as the child, to my 
 horror, collapsed a moment afterwards, the 
 mother cried in her despair, ^' Mi ninore, 
 mi imwre ! " ^ 
 
 Just then one of the women pointed to 
 the Blessed Virgin's image, and speechless 
 with terror, they saw la larnpada flicker 
 and go out. A dead silence fell over the 
 room, and then all of them dropped on 
 their knees and crossed themselves re- 
 peatedly ; the old grandmother alone 
 moved neither hand nor foot ; seated in 
 her dark corner she continued to shake 
 her head and mutter : " Ira di Dio, ira di 
 Dio ! " 2 The mother darted towards the 
 image, and seizing it with both hands, 
 cried aloud in a tone of voice that was 
 almost threatening, ^^ Perche ai fatto speg- 
 nere la lampada, Madonna Santa ? Vor- 
 resti far spegnere cost la vita delta piccola ? 
 
 ^ ** She is dying, she is dying ! " 
 
 - " The wrath of God, the wrath of God ! " 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 199 
 
 E tu fai grazie ? E tti sei madre del 
 Dio ? No, no, non avresti cuore, non 
 avresti viscere di madre. . . ." ^ 
 
 She poured fresh oil into the lamp and 
 placed two lighted candles before the little 
 statue : " ora te ne portato due ceri hene- 
 detti — va bene cost ? Tii sei co7itenta 
 adessoy Madonna mia ? " ^ 
 
 I sat there with the inanimate child in 
 my arms, fully alive to the savage and 
 suspicious eyes that were following my 
 slightest movements. 
 
 I shall not forget that night in a hurry. 
 
 They had interpreted the extinction of 
 the sacred lamp ^s a death-warrant, and 
 therefore none of them had even attempted 
 to come to my assistance. Amidst al- 
 ternate prayers addressed to the Ma- 
 
 1 **Why didst thou extinguish the lamp, O Holy 
 Virgin ? Is it thus that thou wouldst extinguish the life 
 of my little one ? And thou art full of grace ! And thou 
 art the Mother of God? No, no, thou hast not the 
 heart, the bowels of a mother." 
 
 2 " Now have I brought thee two votive candles — is 
 all well now ? Art thou satisfied now, O Holy Virgin ? " 
 
200 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 donna and threats hurled at myself, the 
 night wore on. I expected the child to 
 die every moment, and began at last to 
 ask myself, whether, in point of fact, it was 
 not my own life that I was watching over. 
 There I sat, gazing fixedly at the child, 
 wiping the cold perspiration off her fore- 
 head and off my own ; I had done every- 
 thing that lay in my power, and had given 
 up all hope. At last the cold, gray day- 
 light fell into the room, and upon a corpse, 
 as I should have thought, but for the fact 
 that I was still able to distinguish the 
 faint beating of her heart. 
 
 Towards morning a sort of reaction set 
 in, the heart-beats became steadier, the 
 pulse appreciable, and to some slight 
 degree the warmth of life returned. Again 
 she began to moan, and you should have 
 seen the mother's face as the child's voice 
 fell upon her ear : " Mamma, mamma / " 
 
 I was wrong again, thank God — the 
 child was returning to life. 
 
 I left the house shortly afterwards, 
 
 t 
 
 11/ 
 
 / 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 201 
 
 followed by the father, and after thread- 
 ing our way through a labyrinth of lanes 
 and alleys we emerged on to the Piazza 
 Mercato. I gave him his instructions for 
 the day, and he gazed at me with an ex- 
 pression that more than compensated for 
 the sleepless night. According to our 
 agreement we met again that night, and I 
 was happy indeed to hear his first words : 
 " Sta ineglior, sia benedetto Sa7t Gennaro ! " ^ 
 Yes ! she really was better, and after I 
 had been to see her the next evening, I 
 ventured to hope that her recovery was 
 assured. I saw her three days running, 
 being each time accompanied there and 
 back by the father, who always met me 
 on the Piazza Mercato. I no longer in- 
 sisted on going there alone and by day- 
 light, for I had discovered that they very 
 much preferred to receive my visits after 
 dark. The evening of my last visit I was 
 on terms of the firmest friendship with the 
 whole lot— always excepting the old crone, 
 
 1 " She is better, blessed be St. Gennaro ! " 
 
r.,«%«^.^i|,&$^)«£l^«^kll^b^#«;^'^^K«<^« 
 
 tm^m^Msm^m^^^^^^^^'^^''^^^^^^ 
 
 *4S;J%PT^-™^'' 
 
 ftt a s.^afa'^i'wfc Mirf" 
 
 ■M 
 
 202 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 who sat there muttering, "Ammazzacane''^ 
 
 at me the whole time — and as I left the 
 
 house towards night time, the mother stood 
 
 upon the doorstep, and watched me down 
 
 the street, and long did her last words 
 
 ring in my ears : " Possiate avere la pace 
 
 che desiderate ! " 2 Poor woman, she was 
 
 wishing me what seemed to her the best 
 
 and most desirable of all things, and it 
 
 was no fault of hers that she happened to 
 
 wish me the one good thing that never 
 
 can be mine ! 
 
 As I took leave of the father I asked 
 him what his name was, and he answered, 
 "Salvatore Trapanese" — it did not interest 
 me as a doctor, but the family initials 
 were certainly not those that stood en- 
 graved upon the silver cup into which I 
 had poured the child's medicine. 
 
 Don Salvatore added that if ever I 
 wanted him, his services, his life, and his 
 
 1 " Dog's murderer " ; one of the usual epithets applied 
 by the people to the Medical Staff. 
 
 2 ** May the peace which you desire be granted unto 
 you ! " 
 
 • Letters from a Mourning City 203 
 
 coltello^ were at my disposal. He then 
 pointed in the direction of the Via Lavin- 
 aio, where a ragged old ciahattino 2 {sole- 
 chianiello, as the people say) was seated 
 cobbling a pair of boots, and told me that 
 if ever I required anything I had only to 
 address myself to him. 
 
 I thanked him for his kindness, and he 
 in his ignorance thanked me for his child's 
 life, and then we bade each other farewell. 
 
 \. 
 
 X 
 
 V. 
 
 \ 
 
 V 
 
 This was not much of a story, neither 
 was it, for the matter of that, the one I 
 meant to tell you at the outset. I often 
 went down to that part of the town, but 
 never came across Don Salvatore again, 
 and ere long had completely forgotten the 
 
 whole affair. 
 
 But I heard on all sides that the in- 
 security in the poor quarters was very 
 great during -the whole of that period ; the 
 
 1 Knife. '' Cobbler. 
 

 /' 
 
 294 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 newspapers teemed with accounts, more or 
 less gruesome, of nightly attacks, whilst 
 the Camorra appeared to be displaying an 
 amount of vitality unexampled since the 
 good old days when half Naples was under 
 the sway of this extraordinary institution. 
 
 Personally, I had never been exposed 
 to the slightest danger, in fact I began 
 to wonder whether a good many of these 
 descriptions were not all moonshine. One 
 evening, however, whilst wandering through 
 the Vicaria quarter, I fancied that I was 
 being followed by a very suspicious-look- 
 ing character. I had something to attend 
 to up in that direction, and am bound to 
 admit that, after having had the fellow at 
 my heels for so long, I experienced a cer- 
 tain amount of relief upon reaching the 
 Fondaco, where I had plenty of good 
 friends. The man to whom my visit was 
 intended had died in the meantime, so 
 that I did not remain there more than a 
 few minutes. 
 
 By the time I left the house it had be- 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 205 
 
 come quite dark, and hardly had I got under 
 way before I heard stealthy footsteps in the 
 rear. The rule to be followed on these 
 sort of occasions is a very simple one, all 
 one has to do is to keep one's back free. 
 I therefore pulled up once or twice to allow 
 the night-walker to get ahead, but each 
 time I did so the sound of his footsteps 
 died suddenly away, and had I not, every 
 now and again, detected a dark shadow 
 upon the wall, I would most assuredly have 
 concluded that what I heard was nothing 
 further than the echo of my own footsteps. 
 But Puck growled suspiciously the whole 
 time, and as I crossed the Piazzetta dei 
 S. S. Apostoli I discovered my pursuer 
 and the man who had dogged my foot- 
 steps the whole evening, to be one and the 
 same person. I turned a minute after- 
 wards into the Via del Duomo, the only 
 decent street in the quarter, where a cer- 
 tain amount of traffic goes on all night. 
 I stood for ever so long at the corner 
 just to see whether he would follow me 
 
^n 
 
 ,r"'5*!-W5tfi^W?-»5!-->'*«'«H*'*»»"^- 
 
 206 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 up, but the blackguard was afraid to show 
 himself in the well-lit street. The next 
 evening I was again followed at some 
 little distance by the same rascal. I went 
 the whole way home on foot, but after 
 reaching my room, happened to step out 
 on to the balcony for a moment, and 
 there he was, sure enough, still hanging 
 about the street corner. He lingered there 
 for a little while — but was frustrated for 
 the second time, as I had no intention of 
 going out again that evening. 
 
 That the fellow in question had some 
 sort of design upon me I was no longer 
 able to doubt, for wherever I went he 
 would suddenly make his appearance, and 
 I could easily see, notwithstanding all his 
 efforts, that he did his best to hide his 
 espionage from me. One night I actually 
 found him standing outside the cholera 
 cemetery — the burials always took place 
 at midnight, so that I did not get away 
 till the small hours. 
 
 But for the matter of that I never saw 
 
 li I 
 
 r 
 
 \i 
 
 •1 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 207 
 
 him until after dark— like all beasts of 
 prey he lay concealed during the day. 
 
 One gets used to everything in time, 
 and very likely I should have become 
 quite accustomed to having this man at 
 my heels— in spite of his uncanny appear- 
 ance—but for the fact that my misgivings 
 received 'ere long a direct confirmation 
 that left nothing to be desired in the way 
 of intelligibility. 
 
 I stood one evening upon the Molo, 
 gazing at the twilight as it spread over 
 the bay, whilst high up against the dark- 
 ening firmament I saw old Vesuvius light 
 the lights in his gigantic watch-tower. 
 
 All of a sudden I saw my man dash up 
 to the pier, jump into a boat, and row out 
 to sea in a desperate hurry. The next 
 moment two '' carahinierV' jumped into 
 another boat and began to pursue him. 
 In less than one minute at least a hundred 
 people had assembled on the beach, all of 
 them watching the race with breathless 
 interest, and one enthusiastic urchin who 
 

 n 
 
 208 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 stood beside me, shouting : " coraggioy 
 coraggio!" after the fugitive, informed me 
 that the man whom they were trying to 
 catch was a Camorrist. The bay was 
 swarming with fishing -smacks returning 
 from their day's work, and it was easy 
 to see that they did their best to get 
 in the way of the carabineers' boat. 
 One of the carabineers drew his revol- 
 ver, but hardly had the first report re- 
 sounded than the Camorrist threw him- 
 self into the sea. It was so dark that I 
 was unable to see anything, but the others 
 assured me that he was unhurt, and could 
 still be seen swimming in the direction of 
 a large boat that had just hoisted her sails 
 to go out fishing for the night. She made 
 straight for the swimmer, and for a mo- 
 ment it seemed as though he really would 
 succeed in reaching her — in which case he 
 would be perfectly safe, as the pursuers 
 had no sail, and once it was dark it would 
 be easy enough to land him somewhere on 
 the coast. (I have sailed in a smuggler's 
 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 209 
 
 boat myself, and know for a fact that 
 coastguards are but few and far between). 
 The people by whom I was surrounded 
 made no secret of their sympathy for the 
 Camorrist, and I was surprised to find 
 myself hoping that he would get off— I 
 know this sounds very bad, but I can't 
 help that, it isn't often that I side with 
 the police, at all events in this part of the 
 world. 
 
 Justice, however, carried the day this 
 time, they managed to secure him, and 
 a moment afterwards landed with their 
 prisoner. His hands were tied behind 
 him, and he was so exhausted by his 
 long struggle that he could hardly drag 
 himself along between the two carabineers. 
 Most of the crowd followed him down 
 the much-dreaded road to the San Fran- 
 cesco prison. But I stood there for ever 
 so long, rooted to the ground, as it were, 
 for as he had passed me, the prisoner had 
 raised his head, and his eyes had dwelt 
 upon my face with an extraordinary ex- 
 
 P 
 
r 
 
 2IO Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 pression, in which hatred and reproach 
 were strangely mingled. 
 
 The next day I read in the Pungolo 
 newspaper that a dangerous Camorrist 
 had been arrested on the Molo after a 
 desperate struggle, the police being of 
 opinion that they were at last on the 
 track of a gang of Camorrists guilty of 
 every sort of outrage. 
 
 My practice had become quite large in 
 the people's quarter, and it was there that 
 I spent the greater part of the day, more 
 especially , in the Mercato and Porto dis- 
 tricts. Experience had taught me how to 
 deal with these poor people, and I had 
 managed to secure several good friends 
 for myself amongst them. And just 
 about this time it seemed to me that the 
 circle of my acquaintance began to aug- 
 ment very considerably. Wherever I 
 went, first one ragamuffin and then 
 another would nod to me, and on my way 
 home at night, friendly greetings of 
 " Buona sera, Eccellenza ! " were bestowed 
 
 If- 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 211 
 
 upon me by night- wanderers with whom, 
 to the best of my belief, I had no 
 acquaintance whatsoever. The cabmen 
 on the Piazza Mercato began to crack 
 their whips as soon as they caught sight 
 of me, shouting after me in a tone of voice 
 very unlike their usual one, " Signby vulit 
 a mme I " and did I not care to drive, they 
 were none the less friendly on that account. 
 
 Did I enter some little osteria or 
 bottegha I noticed more than once that a 
 nod exchanged between the guests and 
 the host resulted in a double amount of 
 attention towards myself, and once that 
 I had already settled down to my 
 fiaschetto of wine the innkeeper came up 
 and exchanged it for a bottle of good 
 vino vecchioy but not before I had detected 
 an animated series of gesticulations be- 
 tween himself and the driver who sat 
 outside waiting for me. 
 
 Of course I was flattered by all this 
 attention, but could not help wondering 
 at the extraordinary development of 
 
....^ . 
 
 212 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 my friendly relations. What puzzled 
 me most of all, however, was the fact 
 that another fellow had begun to follow 
 me about wherever I went, and once 
 or twice he followed me up to my own 
 door. He was quite as suspicious-looking 
 as his predecessor, and it soon became 
 quite evident that he had completely 
 taken upon himself the other man's inex- 
 plicable role of nightly espionage. 
 
 One day I was driven down to the 
 Porta Capuana by a cabman who over- 
 whelmed me with attentions, though I 
 did not recollect having ever seen him 
 before. We drove past the San Francesco 
 prison, and just as we passed the gate the 
 driver winked mysteriously at me, and the 
 following conversation ensued — I think I 
 had better translate the Neapolitan dialect 
 in which it took place, as you would cer- 
 tainly be unable to make it out : — 
 
 " Has Eccellenza been to see him ? " said 
 the driver. 
 
 « Whom ? " 
 
 \\ 
 
 \ 
 
 % 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 213 
 
 " Is not Eccellenza aware that he was 
 arrested and put into prison ? But it was 
 his own fault, what business had he to 
 show himself on the Molo, where he was 
 sure to come across a policeman ? And 
 Eccellenza is in no way to blame." 
 
 " But, sapristiy whom are you talking 
 about ? " 
 
 *'// fratello del vostro amico " -^ said the 
 driver, winking for the second time. 
 
 It was Don Salvatore's brother who 
 had been arrested on the Molo. 
 
 # 
 
 # 
 
 My expeditions came to an untimely 
 end the very next day, for I fell ill my- 
 self — Naples is such an unhealthy place, 
 you know. It wasn't much to speak of, 
 but still it came upon me very suddenly. 
 I believe I fainted in the street, for when 
 at last I rubbed my eyes and looked 
 about me, I found myself half-lying in a 
 
 ^ ' ' The brother of our friend. 
 

 214 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 cab and seated opposite a policeman, who, 
 pale as death, was staring at me with an 
 expression of absolute terror in his face. 
 I tried to recall what had gone before, 
 and wondered what sort of a crime it 
 could be for which I had been arrested, 
 but my head was altogether too weak, and 
 as for the Camorra, Don Salvatore, my- 
 self, and the San Francesco prison, I had 
 muddled them all up together. 
 
 " Sta un poco meglio f " ^ said the police- 
 man. 
 
 ^'GnorsV"^ ( = st)y I answered, in genuine 
 Neapolitan dialect. 
 
 "Corag'g'ioy un altro poco siamo arri- 
 vato ! " ^ were his next words. 
 
 We drove down the Strada Piliero, and 
 the sea-breeze blew over my forehead, 
 where by slow degrees everything seemed 
 to become clearer and clearer. Suddenly 
 I remembered the fact that I was a doc- 
 tor, and begged the policeman to put his 
 
 1 "Do you feel better?" ^ "Yes." 
 
 3 "Courage! another moment, and we shall be there." 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 215 
 
 hand in my pocket and give me the bottle 
 of ether which he would find there, but, 
 by the way he touched my coat, you 
 would have thought I had asked him to 
 put his hand into a fiery furnace. 
 
 Every now and again the people in 
 the street turned round to look at us, and 
 I noticed that they made the sign of the 
 cross as we drove past. 
 
 We were on our way to the Santa 
 Maddalena cholera hospital. 
 
 By this time I had become capable 
 of thinking tolerably well again, and had 
 come to the conclusion that the Santa 
 Maddalena hospital was an uncanny sort 
 of place, after all ; the policeman, I dis- 
 covered, was entirely of my opinion, 
 whereupon at my request we drew up 
 before a little public -house, where, in a 
 bumper of pretty stiff cognac, I drank his 
 health, whilst he and the driver each 
 tossed off their own foglietta of wine. 
 
 I told the policeman I required no 
 doctor, that I was in fact a doctor my- 
 
 / 
 
h iMMiiiMi 
 
 |4».. 
 
 
 I 
 
 2i6 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 self, and quite convinced in my own mind 
 that this was no attack of cholera ; and 
 the kind-hearted fellow told me that that 
 was just what he had thought all along — 
 ^^ un poco di febbre"^ that was all. 
 
 I got home right enough, but remember 
 nothing after reaching the door. Imme- 
 diately after my arrival I found that 
 Caesare was dropping bits of ice into my 
 mouth, and as I opened my eyes I noticed 
 that the evening sun was still streaming 
 into the room ; but Caesare said it wasn't 
 the same sun — I had been lying there for 
 twenty-four hours, so he informed me. 
 
 Having skipped the whole of that time 
 in my own mind I think I may just as 
 well do so here. I asked Caesare — 
 Caesare was my servant, groom of the 
 chambers, cook, anything you like — if I 
 was down with the cholera, but I did not 
 recognise my own voice, which sounded 
 like that of an infirm old woman. Caesare 
 answered that he was not quite sure, but 
 
 1 "A little fever." 
 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 217 
 
 that on the whole he feared it was so — 
 his opinion was not without a certain 
 weight, for he had seen his own wife and 
 child die of the same disease. 
 
 Yes, it was very possible that it was 
 cholera, although the symptoms did not 
 strike me as the usual ones, but cholera 
 was never absent from one's mind during 
 those days, and I felt curious to see what 
 the night would bring forth. 
 
 Caesare had gone out — to get more ice, 
 so he said — and I lay pondering there 
 
 alone. 
 
 When one's head is weak, one's thoughts 
 are always sad, and at last one tries to give 
 up thinki7ig altogether. One feels so tired 
 that one longs to lie down and rest in 
 peace for good and all. To die is not so 
 terrible, but cowardly natures shrink from 
 the idea of a lengthened period of suffering. 
 
 It is a psychological error to suppose 
 that familiarity with the death-struggles of 
 our fellow-creatures is apt to breed more 
 confidence in us when face to face with 
 
iasrr^' 
 
 .*, 
 
 I; 
 I. 
 
 218 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 death ourselves ; it may be true as far as 
 others are concerned, but when after calm 
 and dispassionate reflection, one is more or 
 less convinced that the last hours of one's 
 own life are at hand, one begins to wish 
 that one had never seen what it is to die. 
 « Be a man," one says to oneself, " and if 
 you have not known how to live, show at 
 least that you know how to die ! " 
 
 Yet ceaselessly does one's imagination 
 conjure up visions of the terrified eyes that 
 have so often sought for hope in the ex- 
 pression of one's own, when, as doctor, 
 one has stood beside the deathbed ; again 
 and again there rings in one's ears the 
 hoarse cry for help even after all power 
 of speech and thought has fled, again one 
 looks upon the stiffening fingers that one 
 has so often seen grasping spasmodically 
 at the bedclothes, even as a drowning man 
 grasps at a straw, and groping feverishly 
 in search of some hand whereon to cling 
 to life, again and again one calls to 
 mind the gasping breast, which, straining 
 
 ; 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 219 
 
 every muscle to catch a breath of air, 
 strives, for one or two brief moments more, 
 to prolong the struggle with the execu- 
 tioner, who slowly but surely continues 
 to strangle his victim. Yes, Heine was 
 right : ''Der Tod ist nickts, aber das Sterhen 
 ist eine schdndliche Erfindung ! " ^ 
 
 The window stood wide open, and I 
 could see right away across the bay. 
 Everything looked so bright and happy 
 outside, it seemed to me the shores had 
 decked themselves more radiantly than 
 ever to bid me farewell. I looked out on 
 to Capri, which lay there wrapped in 
 roseate slumber, and I could not help 
 thinking that it would be very hard should 
 I indeed be obliged to say good-bye for 
 ever to the place I loved so well. A sort 
 of mist fell over the bay, and I heard 
 voices from the joys of my life calling me 
 
 by my name. 
 
 And then there was a dead silence ; it 
 
 1 «« Death is nothing, but dying is an ignominious 
 invention. 
 

 2 20 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 became quite dark, and a feeling of utter 
 loneliness came over me. 
 
 I stretched my hand out to my friend, 
 but he sat not beside me ; I called him 
 by his name, but he did not come. I 
 tried to think he had only gone out with 
 Caesare and breathlessly I began to listen 
 for the sound of his footstep on the stairs. 
 Presently the door was quietly opened, 
 and Caesare entered on tip-toe. "Where 
 is he ? " I asked. Caesare evaded the 
 question, assuring me that he would be 
 back in a moment ; but I insisted on 
 hearing the whole truth, and then I real- 
 ised that I was alone — quite alone. 
 
 Caesare had happened to be looking out 
 of the window at the time of my arrival, 
 and had carried me upstairs, for I had 
 fainted in the endeavour to get out of the 
 carriage. The driver had seen nothing of 
 Puck, and Caesare had been so horrified 
 at my appearance that, sorry as I am to 
 have to confess it, he had never even 
 attempted to find out what had become 
 
 A 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 221 
 
 of him till a few moments ago, when he 
 had rushed downstairs to send for the 
 consul, and I am not quite sure that 
 even then it was entirely on Puck's account 
 that he took these steps. I did my best 
 to lash myself into a rage with him, but 
 felt so tired that I was obliged to give it up. 
 The consul turned up almost immedi- 
 ately. He was a good fellow, but had 
 no notion what the matter was, having 
 misunderstood the whole affair from be- 
 ginning to end ; however, once he had 
 realised the situation, he promised to do 
 all that lay in his power to find Puck. 
 He then said he hoped his endeavours on 
 his behalf would be more successful than 
 those he had made on mine. He had a 
 heap of letters and telegrams for me, and 
 had himself received a telegram some time 
 ago directing him to try and find out 
 whether I were " dead or alive " ; he had 
 done his best to do so, but the Authorities 
 had been unable to tell him anything 
 about me. 
 
^SiS^n 
 
 .ii 
 
 222 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 I laughed in my sleeve, sad as I felt, 
 and asked him if he did not think it would 
 be just as well to wait for a day or two 
 before answering that telegram. Caesare 
 followed him downstairs, and I heard my 
 factotum volunteer this piece of inform- 
 ation to the consul in the course of their 
 whispered conversation : ''Parla con lo cane 
 come era un Cristiano," 
 
 Towards evening I received a line from 
 the consul to the effect that a hue and 
 cry had been raised on Puck's account, 
 that every policeman in Naples had re- 
 ceived orders to be on the look-out, and 
 that I had every reason to hope for the 
 
 best. 
 
 My sickness did not develop into real 
 cholera, and there I lay the whole night 
 through, waiting for some of the well- 
 known symptoms to declare themselves, 
 but they did not make their appearance 
 after all. I felt rather better next day, 
 
 1 ♦' He speaks to the dog as though he were a Chris- 
 
 tian. 
 
 >) 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 223 
 
 but far too restless to bother about my- 
 self, as you may well imagine. 
 
 But perh'ps having got thus far you 
 are laughi..g at my expense— well, if 
 that's the case, all I can say is, you are 
 welcome to laugh as much as you likel 
 But I found it no laughing matter, I 
 can tell you, as I lay there thinking of 
 the faithful friend I had lost. 
 
 I recollected how for eight whole years 
 we had fought the battle of life together, 
 how for eight whole years we had stuck 
 to one another through thick and thin, 
 honestly sharing the heavy burdens and 
 the light I recollected how when I was 
 happy he was happy too, never once 
 stopping to think whether he himself had 
 any grounds for rejoicing, he asked no 
 questions, to share my pleasure was all 
 he cared about— a look, a nod, a friendly 
 word, and his honest face would light up 
 with the gladness that he saw in mine. 
 
 And were I depressed and low-spirited 
 he would sit beside me, just as miserable 
 
mWii i iiHm . mmmii»im " 
 
 224 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 himself. He never tried to cheer me up, 
 for he was well aware of the insufficiency 
 of consolatory words, he said nothing, 
 for he knew that silence is soothing when 
 one is feeling sad. But steadily would he 
 look at me and softly lay his head upon 
 my knee. He knew that his poor brain was 
 unable to keep pace with mine, but still his 
 faithful heart claimed his share of my grief 
 
 Did others vote me rough and cross- 
 grained, his patient forbearance would 
 overlook it all, and his friendship stand 
 proof against every injustice. And were 
 I irritable and hard upon him when I left 
 the house, yet did he always return good 
 for evil, and affectionately and good- 
 humouredly would he always run to greet 
 me when I came back. 
 
 Others might sit in judgment on my 
 many faults, and abuse me up hill and 
 down dale, but eagerly and lovingly he 
 always strove to look at everything from 
 the least unfavourable point of view, re- 
 fusing to believe that I was capable of 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 225 
 
 wrong. Did I enter heart and soul into 
 some cause or other, defending it to the 
 best of my abilities, the rest of the world 
 might abuse me for my pains, but he was 
 always of the same opinion as myself. 
 And in the hour of need, when other 
 friends were not forthcoming, he always 
 stood beside me, ready to shield me from 
 every danger, and glad, if need be, to lay 
 his life down for my sake. 
 
 We had seen a good deal of the world, 
 we two, we had come across a good 
 many specimens of humanity, our ex- 
 perience of life was large enough. We 
 were ambitious once upon a time, ay, that 
 we were — very ambitious indeed. Both 
 of us dreamed dreams about first prizes 
 and honourable mentions, dreams in which 
 the finest Persian carpets lay beneath our 
 feet, and dreams in which savoury little 
 birds, all ready cooked, flew into our 
 mouths. That time is over, and one of 
 us is already gray, but no savoury little 
 birds have flown into our mouths as yet, 
 
 Q 
 
 i 
 
mumi mmtmmimmi'* ' 
 
 226 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 and no Persian carpets have made their 
 appearance either, for the matter of that. 
 And if the floor be damp and cold I spread 
 my own coat for my faithful comrade. 
 
 Once upon a time we had a very good 
 opinion of mankind. We were idealists 
 because we thought the rest of the world 
 were idealists too. We were tender- 
 hearted and kind because we thought 
 that others were the same. We were 
 philanthropists. 
 
 But after a while we found out how 
 mistaken we were, and came to the con- 
 clusion that there was not much love 
 lost between most of our fellow-creatures. 
 They talked a good deal about friendship, 
 but we found out how few of them had 
 any conception of the word's significance 
 
 and depth. 
 
 And one and all they laughed me to 
 scorn because I dignified a dog's unselfish 
 devotion by the name of friendship, be- 
 cause gratefully I strove to repay, as far 
 as lay in my power, the humble comrade 
 
 '\ 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 227 
 
 of my life who according to their lights 
 was nothing but a soulless animal, whose 
 keen and sensitive understanding they 
 dismissed as mere instinct, and whose 
 honest, upright soul, they said, would live 
 no longer than his faithful heart ! 
 
 If his all-sacrificing, all-charitable affec- 
 tion be not virtue, well, then I do not 
 know what virtue means — and if he is 
 merely to be shot in his old age and 
 buried beneath some tree in the park 
 at home, if that is the only reward that 
 is to be meted out to him in return for 
 his life's devotion — well, then all that I 
 can say is, I don't believe that any of us 
 either will ever get beyond the graves in 
 which w^e shall be laid some day ! 
 
 And where was he now, my faithful 
 friend? Fallen perhaps into the hands 
 of some hard-hearted brute who was 
 kicking and ill-treating him, for aught 
 I knew, sitting there bound fast and 
 anxiously waiting for me to come to the 
 rescue— -and I— incapable of putting one 
 
 it 
 
 \ 
 
w\ 
 
 228 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 leg before the other. I had an idea that 
 were I only able to get out myself I 
 should find him in less than no time, and 
 all but cried over my utter helplessness. 
 I begged and prayed Caesare to help me 
 into my clothes, I stormed at him, hoping 
 thereby to induce him to carry me down 
 to a cab, but he turned a deaf ear to all 
 my entreaties. The consul came to see 
 me that same evening, but brought no 
 tidings of the dog, and then I made up 
 my mind that he was lost to me for ever. 
 He did his best to cheer me up, and told 
 me that a friend of his had lost his dog 
 twice, in precisely the same way, but that 
 he had recovered him on both occasions, 
 and that he now paid a Camorrist five 
 francs a year to see that the dog was left 
 
 alone. 
 
 After the consul had left, Caesare and 
 I held a council of war. Neither of us 
 reposed much confidence in the Municipal 
 Authorities, and Caesare's antipathy to the 
 police was, if anything, more pronounced 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 229 
 
 than mine. That same evening Caesare 
 went down to the Piazza Mercato to hunt 
 up the old ciahattino, and about eleven 
 o'clock an individual made his appearance, 
 whom, under any other circumstances, I 
 should have been startled to see in my 
 room at that time of night. He greeted 
 me in a familiar sort of way, and asked 
 me if I recognised him, but I was obliged 
 to confess I didn't. He looked like the 
 devil himself. He was the bearer of 
 greetings from Don Salvatore who, on 
 account of important engagements, was 
 unable to come himself, but he begged me 
 to rest assured that he was my very good 
 friend. I thanked him for his kind ex- 
 pressions, and told him all about Puck. 
 I took up my purse, emptied its contents 
 on to the bed, and told him that every- 
 thing I possessed should be handed over 
 to whosoever brought the dog back. The 
 state of my finances is never very brilliant, 
 I don't believe I had more than 200 
 francs in the house. He listened atten- 
 
 ■ I i> 
 
it0. I^Mimimmt 
 
 230 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 lively, and I shall never forget his words 
 as I ceased speaking : " Si non e morto 
 sara qqa domani sera ! " ^ 
 
 I asked him if he felt quite sure of 
 himself, and told him that I knew what 
 cunning fellows those dog-stealers were, 
 but as he answered with a certain amount 
 of dignity, "Sotto tutti miei amicil"^ I felt 
 that I had underrated his influence. 
 
 I thanked him for the hopes he had 
 given me, and then he left me. He 
 turned as he reached the door and invoked 
 the protection of the Blessed Virgin and 
 San Gennaro on my behalf And then 
 I recognised him — he was the man who 
 had followed me ever since the first one 
 had been arrested on the Molo. 
 
 I slept better that night, and next 
 morning it was quite evident that the 
 consul might telegraph that I was still 
 alive, with perfect truth, and without any 
 
 ^ "You shall have him back to-morrow evening, if he 
 be not dead ! " 
 2 " They are all friends of mine." 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 231 
 
 danger of being put to the expense of 
 contradicting the news. But as the day 
 wore on I grew more and more restless. 
 There I lay worrying myself more than 
 ever, having suddenly recollected that the 
 day' before I fell ill I had been rather 
 hard on— not to say downright unjust— 
 to poor Puck, and you cannot think how 
 unceasingly this thought recurred to me, 
 and how wretched it made me feel. 
 
 And evening came, and yet no news. 
 Csesare had been told to stand on watch 
 down below in the street, and now that he 
 again saw fit to obey my orders he had 
 actually gone and left me alone for a few 
 moments. I was so tired after all this 
 worry that at last I fell into a sort of half- 
 sleep. I don't know how long I lay there 
 in the dark, but I know how I was awoken. 
 Caesare came rushing into the room, I 
 heard a panting on the stairs that very 
 nearly caused me to try and jump out 
 of bed, and Puck dashed into the room, 
 dragging Don Salvatore after him. Don 
 
 4^ 
 
 i 
 
232 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 Salvatore let go of him, and my dear old 
 dog came bounding up to the bed and 
 laid his great head softly on my breast. 
 His bonny coat was torn and bloody, and 
 round his neck there hung a great thick 
 piece of rope. 
 
 Neither of us said a word — neither he 
 nor I, but we have never stood in need of 
 words to understand each other. 
 
 Don Salvatore stood quietly in the 
 doorway. He looked pale and tired, 
 and was about as ragged as my friend 
 of the day before, but notwithstanding 
 the soiled and torn condition of his 
 coat, the white band upon the sleeve 
 was visible.^ 
 
 I reached him my hand and thanked 
 him for the happiness he had procured 
 
 ^ When a child falls ill, the parents invariably make a 
 vow to the Blessed Virgin for its recovery. They pro- 
 mise to wear her colours for a certain period, sometimes 
 for years, and nothing in the world would induce them 
 to lay them aside before the expiration of the time. 
 Brown, with a binding of white, is what is worn in 
 honour of the Madonna del Carmine, white with red 
 bindings for the Madonna delle Salette, etc. 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 233 
 
 me, but he looked almost confused, and I 
 noticed that he tried to avoid my eye: 
 " Sono un uomo di mala vita" said he ; 'V 
 tton sono degno di toccar la vostra manor ' 
 I had certainly no reason for being hard 
 on any one, but I had several excellent 
 reasons for being hard on no one ; and 
 
 so I told him. 
 
 And then I handed him the money, 
 but he put it back on to the table with 
 these words : " Voiavete salvato lafigUuola, 
 io ho trovato lo cane — va bene cost I " ^ 
 
 And then he threw his ragged cloak 
 over his shoulder and took himself off. 
 
 But I think I owe Don Salvatore even 
 more than the recovery of my dog ! 
 
 1 «' I am a bad man, and not worthy of touching your 
 
 hand." , , .. • n 
 
 2 - You saved the little girl, I found the dog-it is all 
 
 right now ! " 
 
 
XIV 
 
 GOLFO DI NAPOLI 
 
 STOOD the other day upon the 
 Immacolatella, and beside me 
 stood Rosina, buried deep in 
 thought. How we came to be there is 
 more than I can say — but somehow or 
 other we had drifted thither. 
 
 The Immacolatella is the harbour for 
 all the fishing -boats upon the bay, but 
 now that Naples is inaccessible from the 
 sea, the place is absolutely empty. 
 
 " Un bajoccOy Signoria ! EccelleJtza ! un 
 bajocco ! " 
 
 Ah yes ! we are so familiarised with 
 that appeal by no\^ that I instantly pre- 
 
 Lettersfrom a Mourning City 235 
 
 tend not to have heard it But the beggar 
 was not to be put off— he must be a bit 
 of a psychologist, thought I, as I put my 
 hand into my pocket with the intention of 
 handing him over his percentage on the 
 Dagblad letters, poor ragged fellow, his 
 right to a share of the proceeds is cer- 
 tainly greater than mine. 
 
 " Pietd, Signoria ! " There was a ring 
 of such despair in the tone of the man's 
 voice, that I instantly made up my mind 
 to deal him out a sort of extra field- 
 service allowance, and then take myself 
 off as quickly as possible— I felt quite 
 sure that it was hunger and destitution 
 that had blanched the lips that were 
 appealing to my charity at that very 
 moment, and could not trust myself to 
 look at him, knowing that if I did so, a 
 whole column of the Dagblad would dis- 
 appear into his pocket, and economy was 
 the order of the day in those hard times. 
 
 I spurred Rosina on . . • that is to 
 say, I suggested that we should go and 
 
 \ 
 
I 
 
 236 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 see what the bay was like a little 
 lower down. Fate, however, had decreed 
 that just then she should be wholly ab- 
 sorbed in the solution of some vexed 
 problem, and not an inch did we stir off 
 the spot — I have already confided to you 
 elsewhere how much I respect liberty of 
 thought ; besides, there was no other alter- 
 native, for, as you may perhaps remember, 
 Kant's philosophy, according to Rosina, 
 is open to a good deal of criticism, and 
 she has always refused point-blank to 
 admit his Kategorische Imperativ. 
 
 The beggar was still standing there 
 with the coppers I had given him in his 
 hand, when suddenly I happened to look 
 the ragged fellow straight in the face — 
 Sapristil it was Francesco himself, the 
 very same Francesco who was with me 
 five years ago, one stormy autumn even- 
 ing that we were driven into Pola, and it was 
 under his own cloak that, frozen and wet, 
 I slept the whole night through ! Povero 
 Francesco, what is the meaning of this ? 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 237 
 
 And Francesco, quite as astonished as 
 myself at coming across a friend upon 
 the Immacolatella, welcomed me with an 
 outburst of genuine Southern eloquence— 
 the big fellow fairly sobbed as he told me 
 that two months had already elapsed since 
 his return from coral-fishing in " Barbaria," 
 (Algiers), two months which he had spent 
 on shore waiting in vain for permission to 
 
 land at Capri. 
 
 He had not been able to find work, his 
 savings had come to an end, and to-day 
 he had been obliged to beg his bread. 
 
 I put Francesco up that night— when 
 one has lain for weeks together under a 
 boat, one's ideas of comfort are not apt to 
 be extensive, and it was Francesco this 
 time who slept under the cover of my 
 
 cloak. 
 
 The rest of his unfortunate companions, 
 
 so he told me, had lingered in Sorrento, 
 waiting for permission to return home. 
 
 Regular communication between Sor- 
 rento and Naples had only just been re- 
 
238 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 established, and next morning we both 
 went over in the steamboat. We had 
 hardly reached the Marina before I recog- 
 nised a host of old Capriot acquaintances, 
 and I was distressed indeed to see the 
 misery to which they were reduced. 
 
 During the first few weeks they had 
 received five soldi a day from Capri, but 
 after a while this assistance had been 
 withdrawn, Sorrento found that it was 
 as much as she could do to succour her 
 own distressed inhabitants, and the poor 
 devils were now living on the charity of 
 their Sorrentinian companions down on the 
 Marina. Most of them were coral- fisher- 
 men from Africa, a few others were sailors 
 on their way home after a prolonged ab- 
 sence, and the rest were simple fishermen 
 who had been out fishing in the open sea. 
 Twice already had they sailed over to 
 Capri endeavouring to land, and during 
 their last attempt the quarantine officials 
 had threatened to fire on their boat. We 
 held a meeting down on the Marina that 
 
 ifH^i^fi^; ^■&''/f*l jriBVsftt™ 
 
 maSBSmSA 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 239 
 
 same afternoon, for the express purpose 
 of talking the matter over and deciding 
 what was to be done ; our speeches were 
 neither lengthy nor brilliant, but we were 
 all of one mind, which was the principal 
 thing, all agreeing that the best thing to 
 do was to make one more attempt, and 
 set off the next morning. 
 
 Before the commencement of our meet- 
 ing I had hastily run over to greet 
 Donna Mariucci, the friendly hostess of 
 the little osteria, which in former days 
 it had been my custom to frequent. And 
 whilst our cogitations were going on 
 below, the maccaroni was steaming away 
 above in the padrona's largest saucepan, 
 and shortly afterwards the whole of the 
 Capriot colony was seated round the 
 dining-table in the garden below. 
 
 A rare feast, my friend, this feast of ours 
 beneath the shadows of the orange-trees, 
 the sun setting in a blaze of glory behind 
 us, the murmur of the waves beneath us, 
 the rich ripe grapes, the brilliant blue 
 
240 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 m 
 
 figs, and the golden oranges above us ! 
 You, who have never tasted anything 
 but the adulterated, sour wines they give 
 you in the hotels, you should have had 
 a draught of some of Donna ]^ariucci's 
 rich old wine, pressed from the purest 
 grapes, in the same simple way that was 
 the custom of the land 2000 years ago, 
 innocent of all modern ingredients, frag- 
 rant as the flowers, joyous as the summer's 
 sun ! The wine is old, my friend — it is 
 the same wine that Horace drank with 
 the song upon his lips, and the bays upon 
 his brow ! 
 
 Sorrento is not much of a place, the 
 news of our banquet has run swiftly 
 down to its only harbour upon the naked 
 feet of many a little urchin, and one by 
 one the fishermen's bonnets make their 
 appearance above the garden wall. 
 
 Welcome, all good friends, here is a 
 glass of prime old wine in which you 
 can drink to our bicon viaggio to-mor- 
 row morning! A good many of these 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 241 
 
 Sorrentinians are old acquaintances of 
 
 mine types of honest, friendly, sunburnt 
 
 fishermen, every one of them. The m- 
 troduction to the newcomers is accom- 
 plished by general desire without any 
 disturbing element of etiquette. 
 
 " Chi ^ " ? I hear them ask one after the 
 other, pointing towards me. And with 
 a look of the profoundest importance and 
 mystery, his Capriot neighbour whispers 
 into his ear: "^ // Signor con lo caner^ 
 ''II Signor con lo cane!''' — Ah well, 
 that name is just as good as any other, 
 once upon a time it belonged to a very 
 happy fellow, and I am very proud of the 
 title.2 And to-day is a grand day for me, 
 it is such a joy to see how well these good, 
 kind people have remembered me, and it 
 is not the generous old wine, ah no, it is 
 the blind love with which I worship the 
 
 1 The gentleman with the dog. ' 
 
 2 Puck has often been here; his last " villegiatura " 
 in Capri extended over a year. He is the biggest dog 
 in Southern Italy, and enjoys a widespread and deserved 
 
 popularity. 
 
 R 
 
 I'flPi 
 
242 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 country itself, that fills me, heart and 
 soul, with such a sense of jubilant glad- 
 ness. 
 
 And here comes Narella, the padrona s 
 
 youngest daughter, to inquire if " il 
 Signor" still remembers that they have 
 danced the tarantella together on more 
 than one occasion. Ay, Narella mia, I 
 remember it well enough, and bring hither 
 the tambourin and guitar, to-day, when I 
 would take the whole world to my arms, 
 thou mayest be sure I'll dance the taran- 
 tella right willingly with the prettiest girl 
 in all Sorrento ! 
 
 And whilst the young ones dance upon 
 the terrace down below, the old men 
 smoke their pipes above, glancing from 
 time to time towards the bay, and won- 
 dering from which quarter the wind will 
 blow on the morrow. 
 
 At last we separate to meet again next 
 day on the Marina, where the boat lies 
 ready and waiting for us. 
 
 And thank ye for this day tutti quanti ! 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 243 
 
 and thank ye for your kindly remembrance 
 of me during the past years ! 
 
 " Grazia a vol Signorl ! "—Nay, do not 
 thank me, thank the Daghlad ; we have 
 dined off the " two Pessimists^' and eaten 
 up the whole article from beginning to 
 
 end ! 
 
 And now the twilight falls across 
 
 Sorrento's mountains, the murmur of the 
 
 sea grows fainter and fainter, the bells 
 
 ring out the Angelus, — good-night ! 
 
 A Sorrentinian summer's day, my 
 
 friend ! 
 
 The sun stands high above Monte 
 St. Angelo, and darts his brilliant rays 
 upon the glittering blue of the gulf 
 beneath. Still dreaming in the west lies 
 Ischia, enveloped in the roseate mist of 
 early dawn, whilst Posilipo drapes herself 
 in green and glorious raiment. Naples 
 awakes in purple and gold, whilst Portici, 
 
244 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 Resina, and Torre del Greco cast their 
 glittering string of pearls about the foot 
 of Vesuvius. There lies the volcano in 
 gigantic repose; summer has flung her 
 verdant mantle about his loins, but has 
 not dared to venture higher up,— the sun 
 alone is allowed to approach the summit, 
 and strew his gold upon the Titan's gray 
 head. A little cloud, the offspring of the 
 youthful day, is gazing boldly into the 
 giant's very jaws, but he is slumbering 
 still, and the vapour of each deep-drawn 
 breath stands out against the clear blue 
 sky. Other clouds come sailing from 
 afar, floating out over the dark violet- 
 tinted mountains to the gulf beyond. 
 They are going in the same direction as 
 ourselves, high overhead they sail along 
 in all their pride, and down below we 
 spread our sails upon Sorrento's shores, but 
 the same blue light is irradiating heaven 
 and earth, and the same soft wind is direct- 
 ing our onward course. 
 
 The sails are swelling in the morning 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 245 
 
 breeze, and with seething foam at the bow, 
 the port gunwale tearing through the water, 
 and the ripple of the waves under the keel, 
 we bid farewell to Sorrento. 
 
 Off with thy hat and let the wind blow 
 straight across thy brow ! Unbutton thy 
 coat and inhale the splendid air in long deep 
 draughts, for it is pure and sweet as early 
 spring, and fresh as Nature's youth itself ! 
 Long enough hast thou dwelt in the city's 
 stifling atmosphere, long enough hast thou 
 wandered through its dusty streets and in- 
 fected sickrooms, long enough have sorrow 
 and misery cast their gloomy shadows 
 over . thee— now let boundless space 
 stretch forth its health-restoring arms to 
 thee, now let the sea flow out to meet 
 thee! and to flood thee with its buoyant 
 
 gladness ! 
 
 Look up at thy fellow-travellers over- 
 head, look up at the clouds that but a 
 moment ago shut out the sun from view, 
 • hath not the wind driven them far away ? 
 are not the heavens clear again— and shall 
 
 ,F »T 
 
* 
 
 246 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 not the fresh sea-breeze likewise drive 
 away the sorrow that hath dimmed the 
 gladness of thy spirit for so long ! Look 
 out upon the bay into which Naples pours 
 her refuse, yet see how glitteringly blue it 
 is — shall not its sparkling waters purify 
 thee also from the dust-stains of the 
 
 shore ! 
 
 Oh, how doth now thy breast expand, 
 dost thou not feel the winds of heaven 
 blowing into the innermost depths of thy 
 soul, spreading the sails for many a 
 youthful thought that hath lain at anchor 
 for so long! Thou hearest how thy 
 heart is throbbing in even, steady beats, 
 even as a pendulum, it is the mid-day of 
 thy life, full well thou knowest that the 
 works within are strong and good — and 
 now they'll go again for many a day to 
 come, 'twas but the mainspring that was 
 out of order ! 
 
 The wind is rising, and the boat dances 
 merrily over the rolling waves. Let the 
 salt sea spray dash over thy face, it is 
 
 mm 
 
 . _^..ijias«» 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 247 
 
 better than the richest wine, it is the 
 frothy, sparkUng mother's milk that, flow- 
 ing from the undulating bosom of Nature, 
 shall win thee back to health and strength ! 
 Thou who hast dared to doubt that 
 miracles exist, now do the scales fall from 
 thine eyes, and thou seest that the world 
 is beautiful still, beautiful as on Creation's 
 day. Oh, how great a light has risen up 
 within thee ! The spectre of thy sickly 
 hypochondria vanishes into space, and 
 broken-winged and dazzled by the light, 
 Minerva's owl flies round the barren 
 walls of thy philosophy's pessimistic pagan 
 temple. And presently the ruins of thy 
 proud seat of learning sink to the bottom 
 of the sea, and the glad waves dance joy- 
 ously over the bitter human thoughts, 
 and deep down below, the pearls and 
 corals grow over thy barren philosophies 
 and cynical theories. Thy sages go to 
 the bottom with the philosophers' stone 
 round their neck, and down in his ocean 
 halls below, sits Neptune, stroking his 
 
 
j^i^»j^*^gjg»ga|| 
 
 248 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 white beard, and laughing so heartily at 
 the forlorn appearance of the new arrivals, 
 that the very waves on the surface grow 
 frothier, and the mermaids snatch at the 
 poor professors' wigs, whilst the fish dart 
 merrily in and out the holes of their 
 philosophers' mantles. 
 
 But thou who sittest in thy boat above, 
 thou dost not dare to breathe another 
 word of rebellious suffering, mutely thou 
 gazest into the blue immensity above, from 
 whence the sun, as from a temple's arched 
 vault, doth proclaim his radiant philosophy, 
 and grateful and humble thou stretchest 
 forth thine arms to life again ! 
 
 The coast along which we sail is so 
 beautiful that one almost wishes the 
 wind would drop, to enable one to enjoy 
 the beauty of the scene a little longer. 
 
 There you can see Capo di Sorrento, and 
 the walls upon the rock over there date 
 from the time of the Romans ; the people 
 call them "Bagno della Regina Giovanna," 
 but they are really the ruins of an 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 249 
 
 antique bath. The columns beside it 
 are the remains of a temple dedicated- 
 some say to Hercules, others to Neptune. 
 I myself believe that it was the sea-god 
 who used to dwell here, and can you not 
 tell by the rapidity of our course **how 
 Father Neptune himself, with his mighty 
 hand, doth push the boat on as she 
 moves "?i Old Virgil is the right man 
 to quote here, for he has so often sailed 
 across this very bay, and spread the same 
 latin sail against the wind as we our- 
 selves. And it is along these very coasts 
 that ^neas wandered, and on the pro- 
 montory yonder did Ulysses raise a temple 
 to Minerva. The place now goes by the 
 name of Punta di Campanella ; every- 
 thing about here is so old that to you 
 there is a modern ring about the name 
 —it only dates from the time of Charles 
 the Fifth, and from here it is that they 
 
 1 « Dixit, eumque imis sub fluctibus audiit omnis 
 
 Nereidum Phorcique chorus, Panopeaque Virgo. 
 
 Et pater ipse manu magna Portunus euntem 
 
 Imputet."— ^^««^- 
 
 \\A 
 
 I 
 
i 
 
 250 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 used to sound the tocsin to warn the bay 
 of the approaching pirates. 
 
 Up there on yonder hill glisten the 
 white houses of Massa Lubrense, crowned 
 by orange and lemon-trees, and at the top 
 of the mountain lies Deserto's gray old 
 cloister. 
 
 Ah yes, the coast is beautiful indeed, 
 but the bay is lovelier still, and blissfully 
 we steer our course over the foaming 
 billows ! 
 
 You are sailing in Sorrento's bravest 
 boat, not in such a one as the passing 
 stranger hires at his hotel, 'tis only a 
 simple fishing -boat, but if you are a 
 connoisseur, you need only look at the 
 graceful outline to assure yourself that it 
 comes of good old stock. On board this 
 boat you can go out fishing on the high 
 seas, right out to Gaeta and the Bay of 
 Terracina, the autumn hurricanes may 
 even drive you over to Sicily — but that is 
 of no consequence, this boat can weather 
 any storm, for it was launched upon the 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 251 
 
 Blessed Virgin's birthday, and it can 
 breast any wave, whilst the picture of .^ 
 
 patron saint, San Antonio, hangs at the 
 helm See how the sharp keel cuts 
 
 th tugh the waves, iust feel how qmckly 
 "responds to the lightest touch of you 
 
 hand upon the rudder! It might almost 
 be alive^ou might almost be fi>.ngal^^^^^^ 
 upon some fiery war-horse with spark- 
 emitting hoofs and foam-covered brjdle. 
 
 That fellow sitting by the rudd is 
 said to be a Pe--st-well, weU^ 
 they all have that expression on their 
 
 1 \^A.r rannot be incurable, 
 
 faces, the malady cannot ^ 
 
 It is he who is convinced that m this 
 world sorro. is positive and pleasure 
 negative,-have you any idea what th 
 n.eans? Nay, no more have I. It 
 is he who maintains that when man 
 has resigned himself to his fate, he has 
 
 attained the greatest heights to which 
 he is capable of rising-no doubt it is 
 resignation alone that shines in his eyes 
 and plays about his lips. It is he who, 
 
252 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 unknown to any one, has written a long 
 essay on the characteristics of melancholy, 
 which he declares are to be found exis- 
 tent in the features of all animals — look 
 out upon the dolphins as they sport in 
 front of our boat, have you ever seen 
 anything so melancholy as their turbulent 
 play upon the foaming waves! What 
 would Schopenhauer say if he could see 
 you both, if he could see thee, thou 
 pessimistic steersman, and you, ye sport- 
 ing dolphins! Although there is some- 
 thing uncanny about these black and 
 brilliant dolphins— for just about here 
 where they are sporting at their best, 
 there stood, in bygone times, a temple 
 dedicated to Circe. Once upon a time, 
 long ago, I lay asleep upon the yellow 
 sands that surround the mermaids' castle, 
 and woke to the sound of the waves as 
 they began to sing the magic legends of 
 the old-time days, and as I opened my 
 eyes, I saw the graceful siren bathing 
 in the moonlight below, and far away 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 253 
 
 out in the bay, I heard the tritons 
 blowing in their glittering conch-shells. 
 
 Now we pass the promontory of Cam- 
 panella, and the wind blows high across 
 
 Salerno's gulf. ^ 
 
 Vincenzo was right-the sea is rough 
 down there, and you had better come 
 and sit by me and hold fast on to the 
 tiller, whilst we have a chat together. 
 Vincenzo is always right, he knows the 
 sea by heart as surely as he knows his 
 Pater Noster. and it is he who taught 
 me how to steer a boat. He is satis- 
 fied with his pupil, and now is sittmg 
 forward, the weather-beaten old salt, with 
 his clay pipe in his mouth, and the yellow 
 cap of a Capriot fisherman well pulled 
 down over his forehead, whilst his blink- 
 ing eyes look critically across Salerno s 
 bay, from whence the wind comes danc- 
 ing over the breakers. 
 
 The youthful sailor sitting beside him is 
 niy friend Andrea. Do you know who 
 Andrea is ? Well, he is il fratello delta 
 
»^!#«1ISS«««$V»I«MS 
 
 254 Letters from a Mourning City 
 Marguerita, the beauty of Anacapri whom 
 all vLors to the island are as anx.ou^ o 
 see as the villa of Tibenas or the Blue 
 Grotto itself. She is now marned to a 
 forestiero, and I stood godfather to her firs - 
 born child last time I was here. Brother 
 Andrea has been away as long as myseli, 
 four whole years, he has been round the 
 world as sailor on board a French ship 
 and now he is on his way home to greet 
 la madre e la sorella. 
 
 Our crew consists of forty men, and it 
 would take up too much time to give y°u 
 an account of each one of us, besides wh,ch, 
 
 our story is more or less the same m eve^ 
 case We are humble individuals every one 
 of us, fishermen all, if you will, some of us 
 have had good luck and others bad, there 
 are shipwrecked souls amongst us too 
 there are those amongst us who have 
 come to grief both over coral-fishmg and 
 
 Tdicine ; but the same V^ ^^2- 
 our eyes to-day, the joy of findmg our 
 selves so near our lovely home once more. 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 255 
 
 We have been far away in foreign lands ; 
 we have seen other shores where we might 
 have lain us down to rest in peace, but 
 we have been faithful to our love, and 
 hither our longing thoughts have always 
 flown. And now we have realised our 
 dreams, one hour more and we shall 
 haul in our sails upon our well-beloved 
 
 shores ! . 
 
 Hast thou seen the loveliest pearl m 
 
 Naples's crown, hast thou seen Isola di 
 Capri, floating upon the waters of the 
 bay ? Its waves bathe richer shores than 
 thine, oh island fair, softer are the wmds 
 that blow across Sorrento's groves, and 
 more bountifully o'er Ischia's hills than 
 o'er thy summer-laden rock has Nature 
 strewn her glory of green, but never doth 
 the sun shine with^uch dazzling splendour 
 as over Capri, never do the blue waters 
 of the bay sparkle so brilliantly as on thy 
 
 sun-girt shores ! 
 
 The frivolous luxury of Napless Queen 
 has not reached Capri. The other vassals 
 
 i' 
 
256 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 round the bay have bowed the knee to the 
 fair sinner, who, according to the legend, 
 owes her name to some bewitching siren 
 of old, and who, as time went on, raised 
 temples to that Venus of whom Anacreon 
 and Ovid sang, whom marble has shaped 
 unto the likeness of the Venus Callipoge, 
 and who lives in the voluptuous beauty of 
 the Venus of the Capitol, and the Venus 
 of Medici. But thou, severe and chaste, 
 untouched by degradation, thou standest 
 on thy sea-girt pedestal, even as the 
 Aphrodite of Melos, living the life of the 
 immortals, surrounded by the radiance 
 of the youth of Greece, and pure as 
 the ideal of Beauty itself! 
 
 Once did Rome violate thy virgin purity 
 with the shadow of her sun's departing 
 glory, but thou didst hurl the temple of 
 Tiberias into the sea, and there the coral- 
 incrusted columns lie unto this day, and 
 vines and honeysuckle grow over the 
 crumbling ruins that witnessed thy humili- 
 ation. 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 257 
 
 The poets have written verses in thine 
 honour, and have compared thee to a 
 dreaming sphinx or to an antique sarcho- 
 phagus — I have no words for thee, thou 
 soul -enchanting island, I am dumb be- 
 fore the charm of thy divine beauty I 
 Ah! thoughts may clothe themselves in 
 words, but believe me, the heart is silent, 
 so silent that thou canst hear the wing- 
 beating of thy soul. And here is my 
 heart's own peaceful home ; the noise of 
 the outside world dies upon its threshold ; 
 and here in solitude would I reverently 
 muse upon the faded memories of the 
 
 past ! 
 
 # # 
 
 There are the white houses on the 
 Marina shining brightly down upon us ; 
 and Francesco, standing at the prow, 
 sings out that the beach is swarming 
 
 with people. 
 
 And now Vincenzo produces from a 
 
 s 
 
 
 ) ail 
 
 
258 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 carefully wrapped -up parcel the present 
 he has brought from afar, and which we 
 are all called upon to look at and admire 
 yet once again. The old fellow has had a 
 hard time of it lately, so hard that he has 
 been obliged to sell his Sunday clothes to 
 buy his daily bread, and to-day is the 
 first time he has had a smoke for ever so 
 long— but the silk handkerchief that is to 
 deck his wife when she shall go to Mass, 
 that has never been touched. The old 
 woman is to be depended upon, she has 
 let many a big sea wash over her, as she 
 has sat holding on to the tiller during the 
 stormy autumn fishing nights ; and now she 
 is sitting up at Anacapri, looking out over 
 the bay, and mending the nets whilst she 
 waits for the old man's return. 
 
 Nearly all the young fellows are coral 
 fishermen, very likely they have each their 
 "Nenella" waiting for them up yonder sigh- 
 ing for their return. And she shall have a 
 coral necklace or a pretty pearl which he 
 has put on one side on purpose for her. She 
 
 I'i 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 259 
 
 has had many another offer of marriage in 
 the meantime, the graceful maiden, and 
 many an insinuating word has been whis- 
 pered into her ear by various Signori, but 
 her thoughts are with the absent one, and 
 her word once given she will never swerve 
 from it. No letters have passed between 
 them during the long absence, for neither 
 of them knows how to write, but every 
 morning she has, for his sake, decked the 
 Madonna's altar with fresh flowers, and 
 as the storm rose high, and he was 
 watching alone on deck, you may be sure 
 he had a look at the blessed medal which 
 she had hung around his neck the day 
 they parted. She has an idea that he 
 is close at hand, every day she has 
 looked across the bay to see if he is 
 coming, depend upon it she will be at 
 the Marina when we lie-to. Has he been 
 fortunate he will have saved up money 
 enough to buy a boat, and that is quite 
 enough to start upon if you love one 
 another. And if he should never return 
 
 litlllil r-'-T' 
 
.,^™a?^^^^^^ 
 
 260 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 —coral -fishing is dangerous, and every 
 year the ocean craves its victims — well, 
 then she will hang the ring he has given 
 her up in the choir, beside the altar. Go 
 up to yonder chapel and there you will 
 find many and many a witness to this 
 touching fidelity. 
 
 The beach really is swarming with 
 people, and we can see many more running 
 up the road that winds along the vineyards 
 which grow in the neighbourhood of the 
 Marina. Close to the landing-stage stand 
 the coastguards, the carabineers' guns are 
 glittering in the sunshine. They . hang 
 out the red flag, the first signal that bids 
 us stop, and then they shout out some- 
 thing which we fail to catch, but which, 
 alas, we are able to understand only too 
 well— we haul in the sails and drop the 
 anchor. The guards are right, there is no 
 doubt about it, I have read the quaran- 
 tine rules myself, we have no right to 
 come within twenty -five metres of the 
 shore. 
 
 I 
 
 it 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 261 
 
 We anchored opposite the Marina dur- 
 ing the whole of a never-to-be-forgotten 
 day. I could write you many a long 
 letter about that day and all we went 
 through. But I keep my recollections of 
 Capri to myself. 
 We never landed. 
 
 Silently I sat in the boat listening to 
 my poor friends as they greeted their dear 
 ones. More than one of our crew had 
 been away for years and years, and it had 
 been the thought of going home that had 
 cheered them up through many a heavy 
 hour, their own people stood now upon 
 the beach, and they might not even take 
 them to their arms ! There were the old 
 women shading their eyes with their 
 hands, the better to distinguish the 
 features of the returning son, there were 
 the wives holding up the last-born bam- 
 bino for his father to see how carino 
 he had become, there were the young 
 girls, decked in all their finery, to wel- 
 come home their sunburnt amorosi, all of 
 
,X—^ 
 
 262 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 them pressing up to the very edge of the 
 harbour so as to approach as close as 
 possible, eager little urchins threw them- 
 selves into the sea (do not be alarmed, 
 they swim like fish, the little sunburnt 
 devils), some of them laughing, some ot 
 them sobbing, all shouting together in 
 the endeavour to be heard above the 
 waves. And they managed to catch 
 their word of welcome, each one of them. 
 The lovely shore was the frame that sur- 
 rounded the picture, and the sun of Italy 
 shone full upon it. 
 
 And last of all, " il Sigiiore co7i lo cane " 
 ran up to the bow to greet all these good 
 friends of his. He has lived so long 
 amongst this people, and they all know 
 him so well. See, there comes Serafina, 
 hurrying up, " duon giorno, cara Serafina ! " 
 She had been his serva during the whole 
 of one year, she had been so kind to 
 him when he lay sick here, and he is 
 so fond of her. For four years every 
 morning has she dusted his old rooms, 
 
 .1 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 263 
 
 she believes so firmly that he will return 
 again, and so does he in his happy 
 
 moments. 
 
 We lay anchored there all day long, 
 and all day long did Capri's kindly in- 
 habitants stand on the shore wavmg us 
 their welcome and farewell. And the 
 evening crept on, the sun went down 
 behind Monte Epomeo, and the shadows 
 fell across the bay. Naples had lit up 
 her darkling festal halls, and oyer there 
 sat old Vesuvius calmly smokmg his 
 evening pipe- The breeze grew softer 
 and ever more caressing, and the waves 
 fell asleep. Silently, as though in mourn- 
 ing, our boat sped over the bay. leaving 
 
 the well-loved shore behind us. Speech- 
 less we sat there, watching the gradual 
 disappearance of Capri into the darkness 
 beyond ; wafted by the wind the echo 
 of the dear voices on shore fell upon our 
 ears and many of us saw the lights 
 twinkling in our own homes. A moment 
 more and all was still, and night fell over 
 
i 
 
 264 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 the isle we loved so well, and spread her 
 sable pall around her. 
 
 Ah yes ! perhaps the poets are right, 
 thou'rt like unto a sarcophagus ! but leave 
 the dead in peace, let silence shed its calm 
 o'er thy departed joy ! Here, beneath the 
 roses and the evergreens, a youthful dream 
 lies slumbering. 
 
 The wind has dropped, and the boat 
 lies almost motionless upon the silent 
 bay. But none of us are in a hurry 
 to reach Sorrento ; it will be time 
 enough if we get there by to-morrow 
 morning. 
 
 There sits Vincenzo holding his old 
 wife's silken handkerchief in his hand, and 
 if a spot should fall upon it, it shall 
 become her all the more on that account, 
 when at some future time she shall wear 
 it in the church, for the weather-beaten 
 old sailor is crying over it. And slowly 
 Francesco stows away the corals which, 
 this very evening, he had hoped to clasp 
 round his Nenella's neck. But beside him 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 265 
 
 sits Giovanni singing " H Pescatore di 
 Coralli "— 
 
 " Addio, Lucia, m' appellano, 
 II vento gi^ compare, 
 
 Abbiam salpata I'ancora, 
 
 La luna e in mezzo al mare, 
 
 Mi sento il cor dividere, 
 
 Partendomi da te ! 
 
 Speranza mia, non piangere 
 
 Ch'e il marinar fedele 
 
 Vedrai tornar dall' Africa 
 
 Fra un anno queste vele. 
 
 Ed all' ara della Vergine 
 
 AUor sarai con me. 
 
 Addio, Addio, 
 Addio, Addio I" 
 
 It is night upon the bay. And legend 
 upon legend wakes the silent shores from 
 their thousand-year-old dreams. The fair 
 siren to whom these regions were once 
 dedicated, is casting her spell around thee. 
 Here lay the old Elysian fields, here 
 lay Homer's kingdom of the dead ; 'twas 
 here that Virgil's sybil led ^neas by the 
 hand in search of his dead father, and 
 >twas past here that rolled the dark waves 
 of the Cocytus. 
 
 1' 
 

 266 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 Here did Augustus seek repose from 
 his kingship over the world, here in Julius 
 Caesar's antique villa did Marcellus die, 
 hither did Tiberias flee in search of the 
 narcotic that was to numb the profoundest 
 of all human sadness, here did Nero hatch 
 his darkest plots, here is Agrippa's tomb. 
 Here lay the country homes of Cicero 
 and LucuUus, here did Ovid and Horace 
 sing the beauties of the surrounding land- 
 scape, and here upon the shore he loved 
 so well did Virgil cause his tomb to be 
 
 hewn.^ 
 
 The shadows of the night fall gradually 
 away, and a faint light flutters over the 
 gulf But the shores lie slumbering still 
 beneath the web the lingering stars and 
 glittering moon have spun. Seest thou 
 that little brilliant cloud rising over yon- 
 der mountain peak, — he is the herald of 
 the day, and he it is who shall strew the 
 
 1 "Mantuae me fgenuit, Calabri rapuere, tenet nunc 
 Parthenope; cecini pascua, rura, duces,"— epitaph 
 written by the poet for his own tomb. 
 
 W 
 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 267 
 roses on the path by which the monarch 
 
 of the day shall drive. 
 
 And now the wind awakes.and scattering 
 the poppies from out Sorrento's curls fl.es 
 upon the morning's roseate wings to Capri, 
 eently lifts the mist that shrouds the lovdy 
 fsland, smooths away with fairy hand the 
 sleep that lays on Naples's eyes, and w.th 
 gentle breeze caresses Posilipo's blushing 
 Lek. Thus falls the veil of Night, 
 which hid the scenery around, even as the 
 draperies conceal the beauteous limbs of 
 an antique marble statue, and decked in 
 all the splendour of her divine apparel, 
 Naples salutes the rising sun. The bay 
 is clear as Diana's mirror, and the space 
 above so high that thou feelest as though 
 thou wert gazing into heaven Itself. 
 
 And thou, thou poor, prosaic, everyday 
 individual, how humiliated dost thou not 
 feel at the spectacle of Nature's sublime 
 devotions, thou feelest that thou standest 
 upon the threshold of a temple and criest, 
 « Here of a surety do the gods abide ! 
 
Ik 
 
 268 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 Yea, here do the gods abide indeed, and 
 living still across the ages they pass before 
 thee draped in Pentelic marble, the broken 
 columns of the temples raise themselves 
 on high soaring up to the heaven of 
 eternal idealism, and it is not the dawn 
 of a new day, ah no, it is the lingering 
 glow of Antiquity's departed sun that 
 sheds its lustre over the Golfo di Napoli. 
 
 \ 
 
 
 XV 
 
 SCEUR PHILOMfeNE 
 
 HEY had both entered the ser- 
 vice of the big Paris Hospital 
 
 at the same time. She was a 
 
 sister of charity, and he was working for 
 his examination, doing hospital duty in 
 the meantime for an absent colleague. 
 She wore the white habit of Les Soeurs 
 de St. Augustin, but the novices' veil still 
 fell over the delicate, sorrowful face, so 
 young for all the misery by which it was 
 surrounded. No one knew whence she 
 came, she was Soeur Philomene, that was 
 all. Several of the young physicians in 
 the Salle de Garde had done their best to 
 find out who she was, but the only person 
 capable perhaps of throwing any light 
 
 
'!!' 
 
 270 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 upon the subject was La SupMeure, and 
 she observed a mysterious silence when- 
 ever the conversation turned upon the 
 youthful sister of charity. It was always 
 Soeur Philomene who, during the morning 
 round was able to give on the patient's 
 behalf the most trustworthy account of 
 the previous night, it was always she 
 who seemed to know better than any one 
 else how to place the pillows most com- 
 fortably beneath the weary head of the 
 poor sufferer, grown restless and fretful 
 under the burden of his pain, it was 
 always she who spoke the word of hope 
 when the operation was at hand, and the 
 courage on the wane. And when the 
 night-bell rang into the Salle de Garde 
 below, and he who was on duty came up, 
 tired and irritable, to see what was wanted 
 of him, it was she again who always led the 
 way, bending gently over the patient's bed, 
 laying the bandages straight with her own 
 soft hands and soothing the agony of the 
 night with words of comfort and good cheer. 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 271 
 
 One night a boy who had been found 
 lying senseless in the street was brought 
 in from a neighbouring police station. He 
 was bleeding from a wound in the head 
 and was perfectly stiff with cold. After 
 the first bandages had been adjusted, Sceur 
 Philomfene undressed him quickly, and 
 laid him in a warmed bed. He was a 
 poor man's child, and a suit of tattered 
 old clothes was all that sheltered h.s frail 
 little body from the severity of the winter s 
 night For some time he lay there quite 
 unconscious, but then he began to moan 
 softly, raising his hand to his head. After 
 a while he opened his eyes, the large 
 wistful eyes of early childhood, gazing at 
 the white curtains about his bed, and then 
 across the dimly-lighted sickroom. Pre- 
 sently, the little half-thawed fingers began 
 to wander over the counterpane, both hands 
 groping restlessly about the bed as though 
 fn search of something ; he looked quieter 
 after he had managed to possess himselt 
 of the tiny old fiddle which he always 
 
 

 « 
 
 272 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 carried about with him under his jacket, 
 and which constituted the whole of his 
 
 luggage. 
 
 Grasping it tightly he suddenly raised 
 himself up as though to escape. The 
 poor homeless little lad, accustomed as 
 he was to being turned away from every 
 man's door, was under the impression that 
 danger was ahead, and having recovered 
 his fiddle, the returning dawn of conscious- 
 ness warned him that he had better be off. 
 But his head was too heavy, and he soon 
 fell back again amongst the pillows. Just 
 then he became aware of the fact that a 
 man was standing at the head of his bed, 
 and with wide open, suspicious eyes he 
 stared at his blood-stained apron. The 
 doctor saw that he was frightened and 
 moved away. But as Soeur Philom^ne bent 
 over the little fellow at the same moment he 
 grew calmer, looking her straight in the face 
 somewhat curiously, but with an expres- 
 sion of unbounded confidence in his eyes. 
 And the doctor went and laid himself 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 273 
 
 down in the watch-room. He was just a^^ 
 that period of a young physicians hfe 
 In it is considered rather a fine th^^^^^ 
 to show no compassion for the sick, to 
 affect an imperturbable self-po-^^^^^^ on 
 all occasions, when down in the Salle de 
 
 t,ip<: to outdo the other 
 Garde each one tries to ouia 
 
 in cold-blooded assurances of h.s own 
 complete indifference to all -ffenng wh- 
 the patient is merely a numbe attached 
 to the living and breathing des.gns wh ch 
 1 hospital draws into their patholog.ca 
 book of references, and the corpse .s 
 nothing better than a cadaver to be ex- 
 amined critically from an anatomical pomt 
 
 of view alone. . • • , ^ 
 
 And as he lay there in the watch-roo- 
 he thought that he was quite -different 
 
 to the poor little waif up in the Salle St. 
 
 ^^But he could not go to sleep, and after 
 tossing about for while, he persuaded him- 
 self that perhaps it would be as well to go 
 
 and see whether the bandages round the 
 
 T 
 
■r 
 
 274 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 boy's head were still in order, and whether 
 the hemorrhage had definitively ceased. 
 On the stairs he stopped short, saying to 
 himself that there was really nothing more 
 for him to do upstairs that night, and that 
 the boy had much better be left in peace. 
 But somehow or other he went up. They 
 had been round for the last time that night, 
 and the room was quite quiet. He crept 
 stealthily up to the newcomer's bed. 
 Soeur Philom^ne was sitting there still, 
 the homeless little musician had fallen 
 asleep with one arm round the sister of 
 charity's neck, and his fiddle in the other 
 hand. 
 
 • 
 
 And during the next morning's round 
 he was to be enlightened as to the reason 
 why he, the callous young medical student, 
 had been unable to resist the impulse that 
 had led him to go and look after the boy 
 the previous night. No one knew where 
 the lad came from, to all the questions put 
 to him he was silent, for all answer staring 
 at the little group of students and pro- 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 275 
 
 fessors that had gathered round his bed. 
 But just as a speculative assistant began 
 to write the following words upon the 
 slate hanging over his bed, " Comfnotion 
 cMbrale, perte de la parole^ the boy put 
 his little thumb into his mouth, blinked 
 his eyes and smacked his lips, to the utter 
 astonishment of every one present. And 
 there was one standing by his bedside 
 who understqod him, — Mergellina and 
 Santa Lucia had familiarised him long 
 ago with that same sign. " Tu sei Itali- 
 ^«^.?*" he asked him. 
 
 ''Si S ignore, vengo da NapolV,' answered 
 the little lazzarone. He was not in the 
 least dumb, only frightened of all the 
 strange people and their foreign language. 
 But the little lad had secured a good 
 friend for himself, and one who was only 
 too glad to look after him. 
 
 The boy's story was the usual one. He 
 came from one of the poor mountain vill- 
 ages round Salerno, and had been accus- 
 tomed to wander through the streets of 
 
HHM 
 
 276 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 Naples with his fiddle under his arm to 
 earn his bread. Thence he had been 
 brought to Paris as a speculation. Every 
 year these white slave-traders come over 
 to Naples, selecting their victims amongst 
 its swarms of ragged street-children, taking 
 them back to London or Paris, where they 
 are then expected to earn a little money 
 as street-singers or models. 
 
 The child is presented with new clothes, 
 and the parents (if there be any) are easily 
 pacified by means of a small sum of 
 money, and the promise that the boy shall 
 return in a year's time with a 1 00 lire in 
 his pocket. Such is the history of most 
 of the Italian children who wander about 
 the streets of Paris. The money they 
 earn they are not allowed to keep ; every 
 night their impresario takes away from 
 them whatever they have scraped together 
 during the day. 
 
 The boy had not been in Paris for more 
 than a few days, but he had lost his way, 
 and had wandered aimlessly about till. 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 277 
 
 exhausted with cold and hunger, he had 
 fainted in the street. 
 
 But the winter's night had been more 
 than the destitute little Southerner had 
 been able to bear. As the day wore on 
 he began to cough, towards night-time 
 he was in a high fever. Next morning 
 the slate over his bed bore the following 
 inscription ''Pneumonie double'^ — and this 
 time, alas, the diagnosis was correct enough. 
 For three nights Soeur Philomene 
 watched over the poor little musician, and 
 on the fourth day he died. 
 
 No one had taken the least notice of 
 him before, he had belonged to no one 
 during his lifetime, but after his death he 
 belonged by right to the dissecting-room. 
 He was hardly cold before one of the 
 hospital servants came to fetch away the 
 frail little body, to take it down to be 
 cut to pieces by the dissecting-knives of 
 the students. Sceur Philomene and the 
 doctor were still standing beside the bed, 
 and involuntarily they glanced at each 
 
 i 
 
2 78 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 other. And he who had been so power- 
 less to save the hTe of his h'ttle friend now 
 drew the sheet over his face, and beckoned 
 silently to the man to delay his errand ; 
 and then he went down to Monsieur le 
 directeur. He was in the good graces of 
 the hospital authorities just then, and they 
 granted his request. 
 
 And towards the close of day a tiny 
 coffin was borne from out the hospital 
 walls ; there was no long funeral proces- 
 sion ; a sister of charity and a student 
 alone walked behind the hearse, wherein 
 the poor little vagabond artist lay at rest 
 with his broken fiddle in his hands. And 
 of all those flowers, which in midwinter 
 the luxury of the world's great capital 
 imports every morning from the summer 
 of the south, a handful of violets had 
 found its way into the curly-headed little 
 musician's coffin, bearing a fragrant greet- 
 ing from the land of his birth, where, 
 perhaps, that very night, up in the little 
 mountain -chapel, his poor mother was 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 279 
 
 praying her heart out to the Blessed 
 Virgin, beseeching her to watch over her 
 darling cast adrift on the world. 
 
 Sceur Philomene was just as silent now 
 as she had always been, she never spoke 
 to any one, unless it were to ask some 
 short question imposed upon her by the 
 exigencies of hospital duty. But they 
 seemed to have something in common, 
 these two friends of the little dead child. 
 Had she some special prot^gi in her ward, 
 he always managed to look after him 
 himself, and did he happen to be par- 
 ticularly interested in some patient or 
 other, it seemed to him as though the 
 gentle sister always contrived to show 
 them some special attention. 
 
 There were twelve sisters of charity up 
 at the big hospital. La Sup^rieure, " ma 
 mere!' as they all called her, had done her 
 little best to convert the foreign assistant, 
 
28o Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 for she knew that he was not of the same 
 faith as themselves, the faith that had bid 
 her sacrifice her life beneath the veil of a 
 sister of charity ; one day she asked him 
 if they never went to confession in his 
 church, if they never lit candles upon the 
 Blessed Virgin's altar, and as he an- 
 swered in the negative, the old nun had 
 shaken her head compassionately but re- 
 signedly. 
 
 But they were none the less friendly on 
 that account ; he had even been allowed 
 to play during "Za Grande Messe " on the 
 tiny organ in the little chapel, one day 
 that the old brother, who usually officiated 
 as organist, was ill. 
 
 And by way of thanks he tried, as far 
 as lay in his power, to plead the cause of 
 the sisters of charity in the daily discus- 
 sions that took place down in the Salle de 
 Garde. The unjust and shameful persecu- 
 tion directed against them, /a laicisation 
 des hopitaux, was the burning question of 
 the day, and all their unselfishness, all 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 281 
 
 their self- sacrificing charity had not 
 availed to silence the voices of those 
 whose sole object was to exclude reli- 
 gious influence of every sort from the 
 hospitals. 
 
 Every evening prayers were read down 
 in the little chapel for the benefit of those 
 who were able to attend, after which 
 each sister read the prayers for the night 
 in her own special ward. Often and often 
 after supper the young doctor would 
 linger for a few moments up in the Salle 
 St. Paul. As Soeur Philom^ne lit the 
 candles on the little altar, the moaning 
 and groaning would gradually cease, and 
 a hush would fall over the whole room ; 
 kneeling in the midst of them the sister's 
 pure voice would be heard praying that 
 rest might be vouchsafed during the 
 coming night, concluding with the Ave 
 MariUy which all the sick repeated after 
 her. Some of them were not always able 
 to follow her, and every now and again 
 some tired voice would lag behind the 
 
282 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 others with the finishing words: ''Pries 
 pour nous, pauvres pecheurs, maintenant et 
 a riieure de notre mort! " And from some 
 of the beds nothing would be heard but 
 a faint inarticulate murmur — but it found 
 its way along with the rest for all that. 
 
 ScEur Philomene was looking very 
 pale. One day she was missing from the 
 usual morning round, and it was reported 
 that she had spat blood during the night. 
 But she was soon at her post again, as 
 devoted as ever ; night and day she was 
 to be found in the wards, succouring and 
 comforting the sick, and never pausing to 
 give herself a moment's rest. 
 
 And so the winter sped away. The 
 windows stood open all day long, and 
 the soft spring breezes penetrated at last 
 into the dreary wards, floating from bed 
 to bed, lifting up the curtains behind 
 which the pallid sufferers lay, waiting 
 upon their last resource — the summer. 
 
 The trees were beginning to put forth 
 their leaves in the garden beneath, and 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 283 
 
 out on the terrace the convalescents would 
 sit for hours together, warming themselves 
 in the sun. 
 
 They were making merry down in the 
 Salle de Garde, and every one was toast- 
 ing the newly-made doctor for the last 
 time. There on the wall hung his old 
 hospital uniform, covered with stains and 
 saturated with carbolic acid, and there, 
 amidst books and commentaries, lay the 
 old pipe that had kept him company 
 during many a hard night's work. There 
 he sat in travelling dress, the long-desired 
 diploma in his pocket, and up in his old 
 room lay his knapsack all ready packed 
 for the morrow's journey. Every one 
 was talking, and no one was listening. 
 At last the doctor manages to escape, 
 wending his way once more up to the 
 well-known passage leading to the Salle 
 St. Paul. He stood in the doorway and 
 heard the whisper pass from bed to bed, 
 ''la ronde de la mere!'' And there, hold- 
 ing the night-lamp in her hand, came 
 
284 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 Sceur Philom^ne from the other end of 
 the half-dark dormitory. He looked at 
 the sorrowful pallid face, and realised how 
 much he had learnt to care for the meek 
 and gentle sister, although he had hardly 
 ever spoken a word to her. After she had 
 finished her round, he went up to bid her 
 farewell. - He was going far away, and 
 perhaps he might never see her again, but 
 before leaving, he felt that he must say 
 how much it grieved him to see la bonne 
 Soeur looking so pale, so ill, and then he 
 told her to think a little of herself, that 
 she was killing herself with her incessant 
 devotion to the sick. '* I am happy," was 
 all she answered. He forgot the severe 
 convent rules to which her vows had 
 bound her, and stretched out his hand to 
 bid her farewell, — but she did not take it. 
 He was gone for a long, long time. One 
 evening he stood again in front of the old 
 hospital. It looked just the same as ever, 
 the dingy walls were harbouring the same 
 amount of suffering and woe as in the 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 285 
 
 days of old. It was just about the time 
 when Sc^ur Philomene used to read the 
 evening prayers up in the Salle St. Paul, 
 
 and he thought he would go up there 
 But the little altar had been knocked 
 down, the crucifix was nowhere to be 
 seen la Sceur Philomene was gone, all 
 the 'friendly sisters had disappeared. A 
 student clad in the well-known hospital 
 uniform was coming towards l^^^'-P^J" 
 haps he would be able to tell him all he 
 
 wanted to know. 
 
 • ^^AK oui. les Sceurs! il y'a longtemps 
 
 qu'on les a mises d la parte/" 
 
 « Just so, my young friend, il y'a long^ 
 temps qiion les a mises d la porter ^ 
 
 "And the white-haired old chaplam of 
 the hospital, is he here still ?" ^ 
 
 « II fiy a plus de pritres iei, il ny a plus 
 
 cHiglise, a quoi bon ! " ^^ 
 
 <c But you must have been here before, 
 asked the student, eyeing the foreign visi- 
 tor with some curiosity. ^'It must have 
 
 been before my time ? " 
 
286 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 "Yes, it must have been before your 
 
 time." 
 
 It must have been long, long ago, 
 thought he to himself as he turned to go, 
 for he felt so out of date and out of place 
 in the tide of all these modern improve- 
 ments. He lingered about the garden for 
 a while, watching the light shine through 
 the window of his former room. Very 
 likely a new student was sitting there, 
 reading for his examination — may he go 
 further into the history of suffering 
 humanity than his predecessor standing 
 in the garden below, for he never got 
 further than the chapter on man's utter 
 helplessness, and there he marked the 
 book with a cross. 
 
 # 
 
 # 
 
 It was several years later. The doctor 
 had taken leave of his Paris duties for a 
 while, and was again on his way to greet 
 the land he loved so well. He was not 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 287 
 
 altogether idle, for idleness begets hypo- 
 chondria. However, he didn't study much 
 either— after all he was taking his holiday. 
 Every one else was writing long treatises 
 on the cholera— but he didn't write a line 
 on the subject, for the simple reason that 
 he had nothing to say. And the microbes, 
 the celebrated microbes, which, small as 
 they are, have nevertheless been the means 
 of making many a doctor great— he did 
 not trouble himself about them either. 
 He felt about as much inclination to gaze 
 at one of them through a microscope, as 
 to examine the far away glittering stars 
 of Heaven by means of a telescope— what 
 he saw with his own eyes was enough for 
 him. And he saw with sorrow how much 
 the poor people were suffering. 
 
 The cholera decreased, but the famine 
 in the land grew worse and worse. He 
 did not often go up to the hospital ; those 
 who were lying there stood in no need of 
 his assistance ; better doctors than himself 
 were giving their services, and charity was 
 
288 Letters from a Mourning City 
 
 being freely bestowed upon the families 
 of the sick. One evening, however, he 
 went up to the cholera hospital, for he had 
 been told that a French sister of chanty 
 was lying there on the point of death. 
 
 In the corridor he met an assistant with 
 whom he was slightly acquainted. In 
 answer to his question he pointed to 
 the door of one of the reserved rooms, 
 " stadium algidum: ' said he, and went on 
 
 his way. 
 
 The room was half dark, two sisters 
 
 of charity were kneeling within, and on 
 the bed lay Soeur Philom^ne, as pale as 
 death. Slowly she opened her eyes, and 
 her glance fell straight on him who stood 
 sorrowing at her bedside. 
 
 » I knew you were here," she said. And 
 then she reached him her hand— but it 
 was hers no more, it no longer belonged 
 to life, it was already quite cold. Pre- 
 sently she fell asleep again, lying there 
 
 I A characteristic of the cholera when the body is 
 
 cold. 
 
 Letters from a Mourning City 289 
 
 quite motionless, opening her eyes every 
 now and again to gaze fixedly and at 
 length at those who stood about her bed. 
 Towards morning she began to shiver, 
 and they drew the folds of her nun's 
 white garb still closer round her. She 
 was already quite cold, but one could see 
 by her eyes that she was in full posses- 
 sion of her senses. Her lips moved as 
 though she wished to say something, but 
 all power of speech had fled. The painful 
 shadow over the forehead, which he recog- 
 nised so well, vanished little by little as 
 her eyes began to glow with a joy of 
 which this world knows nothing. And 
 then her soul took wing, and the peace 
 of death fell over her face. 
 
 And those who stood around— they 
 knew that she was happy. 
 
 ^ 
 
 Printed by R. & R- Clark, Edinburgh. 
 
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