Vagaries

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VAGARIES

^

VAGARIES

^

f>

By AXEL MUNTHE

AVTHOK OP 'LKTTBRS PXOM A MOUKNINC CITV '

r

LONDON

JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET

1898

>.

*ii^-

INSTEAD OF A PREFACE

He who has written these pages is no
author; his life belongs to realityi and
does not leave him any peace for in-
dulging in fiction, and, besides, he has
for nearly twenty years limited his best
thoughts and efforts to that special
authorship which has for its only public
apothecaries. He thought it very easy
and refreshing to write this little book.
The only difficulty about it has been to
find a title, for it turned out that, when
confronted with this problem, neither the
writer nor any of the friends he consulted
could say what stuff it was that the book
was made of — was it essays, stories, or

vi Preface

what? Essays is much too important a
word for me to use, and stories it certainly
is not, for I cannot remember having ever
tried to invent anything.

Besides, isn't it so that in a story some-
thing always happens — and here, as a rule,
very little seems to me to happen. I do
not know, but can it be that it is life itself
which "happens" in these pages, life as
seen by an individual who can but try to
be as the Immortal Gods created him,
since conventionality long ago has given
up in despair all hope of licking him into
shape }

Now I want to tell you what made me
publish this book — what made me write it
cannot interest you. One day I found
sitting in my consulting -room a young
lady with a huge parcel on her knee. I
asked her what I could do for her, and she
began by telling me a long tale of woe

Preface vii

about herself. She said that nothing
interested her, nothing amused her, she
was bored to death by everything and
everybody. She could get anything she
wished to have, she could go anywhere
she liked, but she did not wish for any-
thing, she did not want to go anywhere.

Her life was passed in idle luxury,
useless to herself and to everybody else,
said she. Her parents had ended by
dragging her from one physician to
another : one had prescribed Egypt, where
they had spent the whole winter ; another
Cannes, where they had bought a big
villa ; a third India and Japan, which
they had visited in their fine yacht. " But
you are the only doctor who has done me
any good," she said. "I have felt more
happiness during this past week than I
have done for years. I owe it to you, and
I have come to thank you for it." She

viii Preface

began rapidly to unfasten her parcel^ and
I stared at her in amazement while she
produced from it one big doll after another,
and quite unceremoniously placed them in
a row on my writing-table amongst all my
books and papers. There were twelve
dolls in all, and you never saw such dolls.
Some of them were dressed in well-fitting
tailor-made jackets and skirts; some
were evidently off for a yachting trip in
blue serge suits and sailor hats ; some wore
smart silk dresses covered with lace and
frills, and hats trimmed with huge ostrich
feathers ; and some looked as if they had
only just returned from the Queen's
Drawing-room.

I am accustomed to have queer people
in my consulting-room, and I thought I
noticed something glistening in her eyes.
" You see. Doctor," said she with uncertain
voice, " I never thought I could be of any

Preface ix

good to anybody. I used to send money
to charities at home, but all I did was to
write out a cheque, and I cannot say I
ever felt the slightest satisfaction in doing
it. The other day I happened to come
across that article about Toys in an old
Blackwood*s Magazine,^ and since then I
have been working from morning till even-
ing to dress up all these dolls for the poor
children you spoke about. I have done
it all by myself, and I have felt so strangely
happy the whole time.*'

And I, who had forgotten all about
this little escapade from the toil of my
everyday life, I looked at the sweet face
smiling through the tears, I looked at the
long row of dolls who stared approvingly
at me from among all my medical parapher-
nalia on the writing-table. And for the

^ '< Toys, from the Paris Horizon" was published in Black'
wood several years ago.

X Preface

first and last time in my life did I feel the
ineffable joy of literary triumph, for the
first and last time in my life did I feel
that mystic power of being able to move
others.

A smart carriage was waiting for her at
the door, but we sent it away, and I put
the kind donor and some of her dolls in a
cab, and I remember we went to see
Petruccio. I could see by her shyness
that it was the first time she had entered
the home of the poor. She gave each
child a magnificent doll, and she blushed
with delight when she saw the little sisters'
beaming faces and heard the poor mother's
" God bless you ! " Hardly had a week
passed before she brought me another
dozen of dolls, and twelve more sick and
destitute children forgot all about their
misery. At Christmas I got up a big
festa at the Jardin-des-Plantes quarter,

Preface xi

where most of the poor Italians live, and
the Christmas-tree was loaded with dolls of
all sizes and descriptions. She went on
bringing me more and more dolls, and
there came a time when I did not know
what to do with them, for I had more dolls
than patients. Every chair and table in
my rooms was occupied by a doll, and
people asked me to show them ** the dear
children/* and when I told them I was a
bachelor and had not got any they would
not believe me. To tell you the truth,
when spring came I sent the lady to St.
Moritz for change of air. I have never
seen her since, but should she come across
this book she may know that it was she
and her dolls who decided its publication,
and it is in her honour I have given the
Toy article the first place.

There is nothing like success. Some
time ago I received a letter from a man I

xii Preface

do not know, who wrote me that he was the
mayor of a large town. He said that after
having read a little paper called "For
those who love Music " ^ he had revoked
the order which forbade organ-grinders to
play in the streets of his town, and had
told his children always to give the old
man a penny, for "perhaps it is Don
Gaetano ! " I admit I was immensely
flattered by this, and in honour of the
kind mayor I have placed his. paper second.
But is this to be the end of my literary
fame, or will any other laurel-leaf mark
some hitherto unpublished page of this
volume ? What about " Blackcock-shoot-
ing" } Will ever an English mother write
to me that she is teaching her son that he
can grow up every inch a man without
having ever killed a half-tame pheasant

^ This article was printed in Murray s Magazine several
years ago.

Preface xiii

or a grouse, or stealthily crept up to
murder a beautiful stag ?

I have not heard from the Germans
in Capri yet, but when that letter comes
I believe my literary ambition will have
reached its zenith, and that I shall
relapse into silence again.

Rome, Spring 1898.

CONTENTS

Toys

For those who love Music
Political Agitations in Capri

Menagerie

Italy in Paris

Blackcock-shooting

To

Monsieur Alfredo

Mont Blanc, King of the Mountains

Raffaella

The Dogs in Capri, an interior

Zoology ....

Hypochondria

La Madonna del Buon Cammino

FAGS
1

M

44

78
102

125

158

169
192

206

224

253
262

280

VAGARIES

TOYS

FROM THE PARIS HORIZON

In Paris the New Year is awakened by
the laughter of children, the dawn of its
first day glows in rosy joy on small round
cheeks, and lit up by the light from
children's sparkling eyes, the curtain rises
upon the fairy world of toys.

This world of toys is a faithful minia-
ture of our own, the same perpetual
evolution, the same struggle for existence,
goes on there as here. Types rise and
vanish just as with us ; the strongest and
best -fitted individuals survive, defying

2 Toys

time, whilst the weaker and less gifted
are supplanted and die out.

To the former, for instance, belongs the
doll, whose individual type centuries may
have modified, but whose idea is eternal,
whose soul lives on with the imperishable
youth of the gods. The doll is thousands
of years old; it has been found in the
graves of little Roman children, and the
archaologists of coming generations will
find it amongst the remains of our culture.
The children of Pompeii and Herculaneum
used to trundle hoops just as you and I
did when we were small, and who knows
whether the rocking-horse on which we
rode as boys is not a lineal descendant
of that proud charger into whose wooden
flanks the children of Francis I. dug their
heels. The drum is also inaccessible to
the variation of time ; through centuries it
has beaten the Christmas and New Year's
day's reveille in the nursery to the battles
of the tin - soldiers, and it will continue

Toys 3

to beat as long as there are boys' arms
to wield the drum -sticks and grown-
up people's tympanums to be deafened.
The tin -soldier views the future with
calm ; he will not lay down his arms until
the day of the general disarmament, and
we are still a long way from universal
peace. Neither will the toy -sword dis-
appear; it is the nursery -symbol of the
ineradicable vice of our race, the lust
for fighting. Foolscap-crowned and bell-
ringing harlequins will also defy time;
they will exist in the toy-world as long
as there are fools in our world. Gold-
laced knights with big swords at their
sides, curly -locked princesses with satin
shoes on dainty feet, stalwart musketeers
with top boots and big moustachios — all
are types which still hold their own pretty
well. The Japanese doll is as yet young,
but a brilliant future lies before her.

Amongst the toy -people who are
gradually diminishing may be mentioned

4 Toys

monks, hobgoblins, and kings — an evil
omen for the matter of that. I don't
wish to make any one uneasy, but it is a
fact that the demand for kings has con-
siderably decreased of late — my studies
in toy-anthropology do not allow me the
slightest doubt on this subject. It is not for
me to try to explain the cause of this serious
phenomenon — I understand well that this
topic is a painful one, and shall not persist.
Hobgoblins — who in our world are
growing more and more ill at ease since
the locomotives began to pant through the
forests, and who have sought and found a
refuge in the toy-world, in picture-books,
and fairy-tales — they begin to decrease,
even they ; they do not leap any longer
with the same wild energy when they are
let loose out of their boxes, and they do
not know how to inspire the same terrify-
ing respect as before. They are doomed
to die; a few generations more and wet-
nurses and nursery-maids will be studying

Toys 5

physics, and then there will be an end
to hobgoblins and Jack-in-the-boxes ! For
my part I shall regret them.

Our social life expresses itself even
through toys, and the rising generation
writes the history of its civilisation in the
children's books. Our age is the age of
scientific inquiry, and its sons have no
time for dreams ; the generation which is
growing up moves in a world of thought
totally different from ours. Nowadays
Tom Thumb is left to take care of himself
in the trackless forest, and poor Robinson
Crusoe, with whom we kept such faithful
company, is feeling more and more lonely
on his desert island with our common friend
Friday and the patient goat whose neck
we so often patted in our dreams. Nowa-
days boy -thoughts travel with Phileas
Fogg Round the World in Eighty Days,
or undertake fearlessly a journey to the
moon with carefully calculated pace of I
don't know how many miles in a second.

6 Toys

and their knapsacks stuffed with physical
science. Nowadays a little future
Edison sits meditating in his nursery
laboratory, trying to stun a fly beneath
the bell of a little air-pump, or he com-
municates with his little sister by means
of a lilliputian telephone — ^when we only
knew how to besiege toy-fortresses with
pop-guns and arrange tin-soldiers' battles,
limiting our scientific inquiries to that
bloodless vivisection which consisted in
ripping up the stomachs of all our dolls
and pulling to pieces everything we came
across to find out what was inside. These
scientific toys were almost unknown some
ten years ago, — these jouets scientifiques
which now rank so high in toy-shops, and
offer perhaps the greatest attraction for
the children of the present. The tran-
quillity of parents and the education of
children is the device on these toys — yes,
there is no doubt that the children's in-
struction has been thought of, but their

Toys 7

imagination, what is to become of that,
now that even Christmas presents give
lessons in chemistry and physics? And
all this artificially increased modern thirst
for knowledge, does it not destroy the
germ of romance which was implanted in
the child's mind ? does it not drive away
that rosy poetry of dreamland which is the
morning glow of the awakening thought ?
Maybe I am wrong, but it sometimes
seems to me that there is less laughter
in the nurseries now than before, that the
children's faces are growing more earnest.
And if I am to be quite frank I must
confess that I fight rather shy of these
modem toys, and have never, bought any
of them for my little friends.

The same claim for reality which has
brought forward these scientific toys is
also shown in the multitude of political
characters one comes across in the toy-
world — Bismarck, with his bloodshot eyes
and three tufts of hair; the **Zulu," the

8 Toys

** Boer," etc. etc. The famous Tonquin
treasures have not yet been brought
to light, but we have long ago made
acquaintance with the Tonquinese and
his long nose like Mons. Jules Ferry ;
and the recent trouble in the Balkan
states resulted in last year's novelty, le
cri de Bulgare}

Do not, however, imagine that the rSle
of politics in the toy -world is limited to
this — it is far more extensive, far more
important. I now mean to dwell on this
question for a moment or two, and wish to
say a few words concerning the political
agitations of the toy -world.

The political agitations of the toy- world
weighty, and hitherto rather neglected

1 An uncanny little invention which, manipulated by
hundreds of street boys, ran all along the Boulevards during
the first week of the New Year. It is about the size of a
thimble and costs four sous. As the Eastern question still
commands the attention of Europe, we shall probably be
favoured with it again this winter. To be correct, I must
here state that this attractive toy is also offered for sale under
the name of Le demur soupir de la Belle Mire,

Toys 9

topic — are like the swell, following the
political storms which agitate our own
world. The horizon which here opens
before the eyes of the observer is, how-
ever, too vast to be framed in this small
paper. I therefore propose to limit the
subject to the French toy -politics after
VauTi^e terrible (1870-71).

The war between Germany and France
is over long ago, but the toy -world still
resounds with the echo of the clash of
arms of 1870 ; fighting still continues with
unabated ardour in the lilliputian world,
where the Bismarcks and the Moltkes of the
German toy-manufactories each Christmas
fight new battles with F Article de Paris.

Victorious by virtue of their cheapness,
the Germans advance. From the Black
Forest descend every Christmas hordes of
wooden oxen, sheep, horses, and dogs to
measure themselves against the wares of the
wood-carvers of the Vosges {St. Claude^ etc.
etc.). From Hamburg, Nuremburg, and

lo Toys

Berlin emigrate every winter thousands of
dolls to dispute the favour of the buyers
with their French colleagues, and every
Christmas dense squadrons of spike-
helmeted Prussian tin -soldiers cross the
Rhine to invade the toy-shops and nurseries
of France. The struggle is unequal, the
competition too great. Siebenburgen and
Tyrol furnish at will a complete chemist's
shop, a plentifully-supplied grocery store,
or a well -stocked farm with crops and'
implements, cows, sheep, and goats graz-
ing on the verdant pasture, for three
francs fifty centimes. Hamburg at the
same moderate price offers a doll irre-
proachable to the superficial observer, a
doll with glass eyes, curly hair, and
one change of clothes, whilst the little
Parisienne has already spent double that
sum on her toilet alone, and therefore
cannot condescend to be yours for less than
half a louis d'or. Nuremburg mobilises
a whole regiment of tin-soldiers, baggage

Toys 1 1

waggons, and artillery (Krupp model) »
included, at the same price for which the
toy -arsenals of Marais set on foot one
single battalion of " Chasseurs d'Afrique."

The situation is gloomy — ^the French
toys retire all along the line.

But France will never be annihilated!
And if the depths of a French tin-soldier's
soul were sounded, there would be found
under the surface of reserve exacted by
discipline, the same glorious dreams of
revenge which inspired the volunteers
raised by Gambetta from out of the earth.
The French tin-soldier looks towards the
east; he knows that he is still powerless
to stop the invasion of the German toy-
hordes — he is bound by Article 4 in the
Frankfort treaty of peace, but he bides his
time.*

And Revenge is near. This time also
the signal for rising has been given from

^ The German toys pay, since 1871, the ridiculous duty of
sixty francs per hundred kilo.

1 2 Toys

Belleville, by a Gambetta of the toy-world.
Some years ago a poor workman at
Belleville got a sudden idea, an idea that
since then has engendered an army which
would realise the dream of eternal peace,
and keep in check the assembled troops
of all Europe were it a question of
number alone. He sets on foot 5,ooo,cxx5
soldiers a year. The origin of these
soldiers is humble, but so was Napoleon's.
They spring from old sardine boxes.
Thrown away on the dust-heap, the sar-
dine box is saved from annihilation by the
dust-man, who sells it to a rag-merchant in
Belleville or Buttes Chaumont, who in his
turn disposes of it to a specialist, who
prepares it for the manufactories. The
warriors are cut out of the bottom of the
box. The lid and sides are used for mak*
ing guns, railway-carriages, bicycles, etc.
etc. All this may seem to you very unim-
portant at first sight, but there is now in
Belleville a large manufactory founded on

Toys 1 3

this idea of utilising old sardine boxes,
which occupies no less than two hundred
workmen and produces every year over
two milliards of tin toys. I went there the
other day, and no one suspecting that I
was a political correspondent, I was ad-
mitted without difficulty to view the gigantic
arsenal and its 5,000,000 warriors. The
poor workman out of whose head the fully-
armed tin-soldiers sprung — vi& the sardine
box — is now a rich man, and, what is more,
an eager and keen-sighted patriot, who in
his sphere has deserved well of his country.
After retreating for years the French tin-
soldiers once more advance ; the German
spiked-helmets retire every Christmas from
the conquered positions in French nurseries,
and maybe the time is not far off when the
tricolour shall wave over the toy-shops of
Berlin — a small revanche en attendant the
great one.

Many years have elapsed since the
enemy placed his heel upon the neck of

14 Toys

fallen France, but still to-day Paris is the
metropolis of human culture. Competition
has led the Article de Paris to a com-
mercial Sedan, and from a financial point
of view le jouet Parisien no longer belongs
to the great powers of the toy -world.
But the Paris doll will never admit the
superiority of her German rival ; she bears
the stamp of nobility on her brow, and she
means to rule the doll-world as before
by right of her undisputed rank and her
artistic refinement. It surely needs very
little human knowledge to distinguish her
at once, the graceful Parisienne with her
fin sourire and her expressive eyes, from
one of the dull beauties of Nuremburg or
Hamburg, who, by the stereotyped grin on
her carmine lips, and the staring, vacant
eyes, immediately reveals her Teutonic
origin. Should any hesitation be possible
a glance at her feet will suffice — the
Parisienne's foot is small and dainty, and
she is always shod with a certain coquetry.

Toys 15

whilst the daughter of Germany is char-
acteristically careless of her chaussure —
tout comme chez nous, for the matter of that.
As for the rest of her wardrobe — ^to leave
the anthropological side of the question —
Germany, in spite of her war indemnity of
five milliards, is incapable of producing a
tasteful doll-toilet ; the delicate fingers of
a Paris grisette are required for this. It
is therefore considered the proper thing
among German dolls of fashion to import
their dresses from some doll- Worth in Paris.
I can even tell you in parenthesis that the
really distinguished German dolls not only
send to Paris for their dresses but also for
their heads. The German doll manufac-
turers, incapable themselves of producing
pretty and expressive doll faces, buy their
dolls' heads by retail from the porcelain
factories of Montreux and St. Maurice,
where they are modelled by first-rate artists,
such as a Carrier- Belleuse and others.
Up till now I have confined myself to

i6 Toys

the upper classes of doll society, but even
amongst the well-to-do middle-class dolls
of ten to fifteen francs apiece, the difference
between German and French is palpable
at first sight. The further one descends
into the lower regions of society, in the doll
bourgeoisicy the less clear becomes the
national type. I will undertake, however, to
recognise my French friend even amongst
dolls of five francs apiece. To deter-
mine the nationality of a one-franc doll, it
is necessary to possess great preliminary
knowledge and much natural aptitude.
For the benefit of future explorers in these
still obscure regions of anthropology I
may here point out an important item in
the necessary physical examination — the
doll must be shaken. If there is a rattling
inside she is probably French, for the Paris
grisettes who make these dolls have a habit
of putting some pebbles inside them, which,
I am told, tends to develop the taste for
vivisection amongst the rising generation.

Toys 17

Lower down in the series where the
transition type of Darwin is found, where
the doll is without either arms or legs, and
where every trace of soul has died out
from her impassive wooden face, stamped
with the same passion-free calm which
characterises the marble folk of antiquity,
or where an unconscious smile alone glides
over the rudimentary features into which
the wax has hardened, where the nose is
nothing but a prophetic outline, and where
the black eyes are still shaded by the
chaotic darkness out of which the first doll
rose — there all national distinctions cease,
there the embryo doll lives her life of
Arcadian simplicity, undisturbed by all
political agitations in the land which gave
her birth ; the doll ci treize sous does not
emigrate, maybe from patriotic motives,
maybe from lack of initiative.^ Her r61e

^ The doll i treiu sous is a characteristic Parisian type ; she
belongs to the family oipoupards and is usually made of papier-
mich6 or wood. After the making of the head the creative

C

1 8 Toys

in life is humble ; she belongs to the de-
spised. Her place in the large toy-shops
is in a dark corner behind the other dolls,
who stretch forth their jointed arms towards
better-to-do purchasers, and with gleaming
glass eyes and laughing lips appropriate
the admiring glances of all the customers.
But far away in the deserted streets of the
suburbs, where the whole toy-shop consists
of a portable table and the public of a
crowd of ragged urchins, — there the doll
cL treize sous reigns supreme. By the
flickering light of the lantern illuminating
the modest fairy-world which Christmas
and the New Year display to the children
of the poor, there the despised doll becomes
beautiful as a queen and is surrounded by
her whole court of admirers.

And I myself am one of her admirers.
Not one of the fashionable beauties of the
Magasin du Louvre has ever made my

power of the artist comes to a sudden stand-still ; the rest of the
body is only a sketch and loses itself in an oblong chaos.

Toys 19

heart beat one whit the faster ; not one of
the charming coquettes of the Bon March6
has succeeded in catching me in the net
of her blond tresses ; but I admit the
tender sympathy with which my eyes rest
upon the coarse features of the doll i treize
sous. Every one to his taste — I think she is
handsome ; I cannot help it. And we have
often met; chance leads me frequently
across her path. But fancy if it were not
chance ! fancy if instead it was my un-
declared affection which so often guided
my steps to these places where I knew I
should meet my sweetheart ! fancy if I
were falling in love at last ! At all events
I haven't said anything to her, nor has
she ever said a word to me either of
encouragement or rebuff. But, as I said
before, we often meet at the houses of
mutual friends, and sometimes, especially at
Christmas and New Year, have we come
together there. My visit does not impress
them very much, but what happiness does

20 Toys

not the doll spread around her ! Realising
my subordinate rdle I willingly bow before
the superior social talents of my com-
panion, and silently in a corner by myself
I enjoy her success. I don't know how
she manages it, but she has hardly crossed
the threshold before it seems to grow
brighter inside the dark garret where live
the children of destitution. The light
radiates from the sparkling eyes of the
little ones, glimmers in a faint smile on the
pale cheek of the sick brother, and falls
like a halo round the bald head of the doll.
The little fellow crawling on the floor
suddenly ceases his sobbing ; he forgets
that he is hungry, forgets that he is cold,
and with radiant joy he stretches out his
arms to welcome the unexpected guest.
And later at night, when it is time for me
to go away, when the children of the rich
have danced themselves tired round the
Christmas tree, when the soldier's bugle
has sounded in the boys' nursery, and when

Toys 21

the little girls' smart dolls have been put
to sleep each in their dainty bed — then
little sister up in the garret tenderly wraps
mother's ragged shawl round her beloved
doll, for the night is cold and the doll has
nothing on ; and so they fall asleep side
by side together, the pauper doll and her
grateful little admirer.

Despised and ridiculed by us grown-up
people, whose eyes have been led astray
by the modern demand for realism, it is
nevertheless a fact that the doll cL treize
sous in the freshness of her primitive
naivete approaches nearer the ideal than
the costly beauties of the Louvre and Bon
Marche, who have reached the highest
summit of refinement. We grown-up
people have lost the faculty of understand-
ing this from the moment we lost the
simplicity of our childhood, but our teacher
in this, as in many other things, is the little
chap who still crawls about on the floor.
Put a smart doll of fashion side by side

22 Toys

with a simple pauper doll whose shape is
as yet barely human, and you will see that
the child usually stretches out his arms
towards the latter. It sounds like a para-
dox, but it is a fact that you can easily
verify for yourself; these cheap toys are,
as a rule, preferred even by the children
of the rich — that is to say, so long as they
are real children arid unconscious of the
value of money. Later on, when they
have acquired this knowledge, they are
driven out from the Eden of childhood,
their eyes are opened to the nakedness
of the pauper doll, and what I have just
said ceases to be true.

But the "political agitations" — what
has become of them '^. Far away from all
political storms and quarrels, my thoughts
have fled to the garret idyll of the pauper
doll ; I have tried to sketch her as she has
so often revealed herself to me ; I have
lifted a corner of the veil of unmerited
oblivion which conceals her humble exist-

Toys 23

ence, there where she lives to bring joy
to those whom the world rears to sorrow.
I have done so as a tribute of gratitude
for the pure joy which she has so often
given me also, although I am myself too
old to play with dolls. But, thank God, I
am not too old to look on !

The doll is not old, and old age
will never touch her — she will never grow
old ; she dies young, even as the hero,
beloved of the gods. She dies young, and
the first few weeks of the New Year have
hardly passed away before she wends her
way to the strange Elysian fields, where
all that survives of broken toys sleeps
under the shade of withered Christmas
trees.

FOR THOSE WHO LOVE

MUSIC

I HAD engaged him by the year. Twice
a week he came and went through his
whole repertoire, and lately, out of sym-
pathy for me, he would play the Miserere
of the TrovatorCy which was his show
piece, twice over. He stood there in the
middle of the street looking steadfastly up
at my windows while he played, and when
he had finished he would take off* his hat
with a " Addio Signor ! "

It is well known that the barrel-organ,
like the violin, gets a fuller and more
sympathetic tone the older it is. The old
artist had an excellent instrument, not of
the modern noisy type which imitates a
whole orchestra with flutes and bells and
beats of drums, but a melancholy old-

For those who love Music 25

fashioned barrel-organ which knew how
to lend a dreamy mystery to the gayest
allegretto, and in whose proudest tempo di
Marcia there sounded an unmistakable
undertone of resignation. And in the
tenderer pieces of the repertoire, where the
melody, muffled and staggering like a
cracked old human voice, groped its way
amongst the rusty pipes of the treble,
then there was a trembling in the bass
like suppressed sobs. Now and then the
voice of the tired organ failed it com-
pletely, and then the old man would re-
signedly turn the handle during some bars
of rest more touching in their eloquent
silence than any music.

True, the instrument was itself very
expressive, but the old man had surely his
share in the sensation of melancholy which
came over me whenever I heard his music.
He had his beat in the poor quarter behind
the Jardin des Plantes, and many times
during my solitary rambles up there had I

26 For those who love Music

stopped and taken my place among the
scanty audience of ragged street boys
which surrounded him.

We made acquaintance one misty dark
autumn day. I sat on a bench under the
fading trees, which in vain had tried to deck
the gloomy square with a little summer,
and now hopelessly suffered their leaves to
fall ; and, like a melancholy accompaniment
to my dreamy thoughts, the old barrel-organ
in the slum close by coughed out the aria
from the last act of the Traviata : " Addio
del passato bei sogni ridenti ! ''

I startled as the music stopped. The
old man had gone through his whole
repertoire, and after a despairing inspection
of his audience he resignedly tucked the
monkey under his cloak and prepared to
depart. I have always liked barrel-organs,
and I have a sufficiently correct ear to dis- ^
tinguish good music from bad ; so I went
up and thanked him and asked him to
play a little longer, unless he was too tired

For those who love Music ttj

in the arm. I am afraid he was not spoiled
by praise, for he looked at me with a sad,
incredulous expression which pained me,
and with an almost shy hesitation he asked
me if it was any special piece I wished to
hear. I left the choice to the old man.
After a mysterious manipulation with some
screws under the organ, which was
answered from its depths by a half-
smothered groan, he began slowly and
with a certain solemnity to turn the handle,
and with a friendly glance at me, he said,
'* Qticsto I per gli amicu' ^

It was a tune I had not heard him play
before, but I knew well the sweet old
melody, and half aloud I searched my
memory for the words of perhaps the
finest folk-song of Naples :

'* Fenestra che luciva e m6 non luce
Segn' k ca Nenna mia stace malata
S' affaccia la sorella e me lo dice :

1 " This is for friends."

28 For those who love Music

Nennella toja h morta e s' ^ aterrata
Chiagneva sempe ca dormeva sola,
M6 dorme in distlnta compagnia."

He looked at me with a shy interest while
he played, and when he had finished he
bared his gray head ; I also raised my hat,
and thus our acquaintance was made.

It was not difficult to see that times
were hard — the old man's clothes were
doubtful, and the pallor of poverty lay
over his withered features, where I read
the story of a long life of failure. He
came from the mountains around Monte
Cassino, so he informed me, but where
the monkey hailed from I never quite got
to know.

Thus we met from time to time during
my rambles in the poor quarters. Had I
a moment to spare I stopped for a while
to listen to a tune or two, as I saw that it
gratified the old man, and since I always
carried a lump of sugar in my pocket for
any dog acquaintance I might possibly

For those who love Music 29

meet, I soon made friends with the monkey
also. The relations between the little
monkey and her impresario were unusually
cordial, and this notwithstanding that she
had completely failed to fulfil the expecta-
tions which had been founded upon her —
she had never been able to learn a single
trick, the old man told me. Thus all
attempts at education had long ago been
abandoned, and she sat there huddled to-
gether on her barrel-organ and did nothing
at all. Her face was sad, like that of most
animals, and her thoughts were far away.
But now and then she woke up from her
dreams, and her eyes could then take a
suspicious, almost malignant expression, as
they lit upon some of the street boys who
crowded round her tribune and tried to
pull her tail, which stuck out from her little
gold-laced garibaldi. To me she was
always very amiable ; confidently she laid
her wrinkled hand in mine and absently
she accepted the little attentions I was able

30 For those who love Music

to offer her. She was very fond of sweet-
meats, and burnt almonds were, in her
opinion, the most delectable thing in the
world.

Since the old man had once recognised
his musical friend on a balcony of the
H6tel de TAvenir, he often came and
played under my windows. Later on he
became engaged, as already said, to come
regularly and play twice a week, — it may,
perhaps, appear superfluous for one who
was studying medicine, but the old man's
terms were so small, and you know I have
always been so fond of music. Besides it
was the only recreation at hand — I was
working hard in the H6tel de TAvenir, for
I was to take my degree in the spring.

So passed the autumn, and the hard
time came. The rich tried on the new
winter fashions, and the poor shivered
with the cold. It became more and more
difficult for well-gloved hands to leave the
warm muff or the fur-lined coat to take out

For those who love Music 3 1

a copper for the beggar, and more and
more desperate became the struggle for
bread amongst the problematical existences
of the street. Before hopelessly - closed
windows small half- frozen artistes gave
concerts in the courtyards ; unnoticed
resounded the most telling pieces of the
repertoire about La bella Napoli and
Santa Ltuia, while stiffened fingers
twanged the mandoline, and the little
sister, shivering with cold, banged the
tambourine. In vain the old street-singer
sang with hoarse pathos the song about
La Gloire and La Patrie, and in vain, my
friend played that piece per git amici —
thicker and thicker fell the snowflakes
over the humbly- bared heads, and scarcer
and scarcer fell the coppers into the out-
stretched hats.

Now and then I came across my friend,
and we always had, as before, a kind word
for one another. He was now wrapped
up in an old Abruzzi cloak, and I noticed

32 For those who love Music

that the greater the cold became the faster
did he turn the handle to keep himself
warm; and towards December the Miserere
itself was performed in allegretto.

The monkey had now become civilian,
and wrapped up her little thin body in a
long ulster such as Englishmen wear;
but she was fearfully cold notwithstanding,
and, forgetful of all etiquette, more and
more often she jumped from the barrel-
organ and crept in under the old man's
cloak.

And while they were suffering out
there in the cold I sat at home in my cosy,
warm room, and instead of helping them,
I forgot all about them, more and more
taken up as I was with my coming ex-
amination, with no thought but for my-
self. And then one day I suddenly left
my lodgings and removed to the Hdtel
Dieu to take the place of a comrade, and
weeks passed before I put my foot out of
the hospital.

For those who love Music 33

I remember it so well, it was the very New
Year's Day we met each other again. I
was crossing the Place de Notre Dame, mass
was just over, and the people were stream-
ing out of the old cathedral. As usual,
a row of beggars was standing before the
door, imploring the charity of the church-
goers. The severe winter had increased
their number, and besides the usual beggars,
cripples and blind, who were always by the
church porch, reciting in loud voices the
history of their misery, there stood a silent
rank of Poverty's accidental recruits — poor
fellows whose daily bread had been buried
under the snow, and whose pride the cold
had at last benumbed. At the farther end,
and at some distance from the others, an old
man stood with bent head and outstretched
hat, and with painful surprise I recognised
my friend in his threadbare old coat with-
out the Abruzzi cloak, without the barrel-
organ, without the monkey. My first
impulse was to go up to him, but an

D

34 For those who love Music

uneasy feeling of I do not know what
held me back; I felt that I blushed and
I did not move from my place. Every
now and then a passer-by stopped for a
moment and made as if to search his
pocket, but I did not see a single copper
fall into the old man's hat. The place
became gradually deserted, and one
beggar after another trotted off with his
little earnings. At last a child came out
of the church, led by a gentleman in
mourning; the child pointed towards the
old man, and then ran up to him and
laid a silver coin in his hat. The
old man humbly bowed his head in
thanks, and even I, with my unfortunate
absent-mindedness, was very nearly thank-
ing the little donor also, so pleased was I.
My friend carefully wrapped up the
precious gift in an old pocket-hand-
kerchief, and stooping forward, as if
still carrying the barrel-organ on his back,
he walked off.

For those who love Music 35

I happened to be quite free that
morning, and, thinking that a little walk
before luncheon could do me no harm
after the hospital air, I followed him at a
short distance across the Seine. Once or
twice I nearly caught him up, and all but
tapped him on the shoulder, with a " Buon
giorno, Don Gaetano ! " Yet, without
exactly knowing why, I drew back at the
last moment and let him get a few paces
ahead of me again.

An icy wind blew straight against us,
and I drew my fur cloak closer round me.
But just then it suddenly struck me to ask
myself why, after all, it was I who owned
such a warm and comfortable fur cloak,
whilst the old man who tramped along in
front of me had only a threadbare old coat }
And why was it for me that luncheon was
waiting, and not for him ? Why should I
have a good blazing fire burning in my
cosy room, while the old man had to
wander about the streets the whole day

36 For those who love Music

long to find his food, and in the evening
go home to his miserable garret and, un-
protected against the cold of the winter
night, prepare for the next day's struggle
for bread ?

And it suddenly dawned upon me
why I had blushed when I saw him at
Notre Dame, and why I could not make
up my mind to go and speak to him —
I felt ashamed before this old man, I felt
ashamed at life's unmerited generosity to
me and its severity to him. I felt as if I
had taken something from him which I
ought to restore to him ; and I began to
wonder whether it might be the fur coat.
But I got no further in my meditations,
for the old man stopped and looked in at
a shop window. We had just crossed
the Place Maubert and turned into the
Boulevard St. Germain ; the boulevard
was full of people, so that, without being
HQticed, I could approach him quite close.
He was standing before an elegant con-

For those who love Music 37

fectioner's shop, and to my surprise he
entered without hesitation. I took up my
position before the shop window, alongside
some shivering street arabs who stood
there, absorbed in the contemplation of
the unattainable delicacies within, and I
watched the old man carefully untie his
pocket-handkerchief and lay the little girl's
gift upon the counter. I had hardly time
to draw back before he came out with a
red paper bag of sweets in his hand, and
with rapid steps he started off in the
direction of the Jardin des Plantes.

I was very much astonished at what I
had seen, and my curiosity made me follow
him. He slackened his pace at one of the
little slums behind H6pital de la Piti6, and
I saw him disappear into a dirty old house.
I waited outside a minute or two, and then
I groped my way through the pitch-dark
entrance, climbed up a filthy staircase, and
found a door slightly ajar. An icy, dark
room, in the middle three ragged little

38 For those who love Music

children crouched together around a half-
extinct brazier, in the corner the only
furniture in the room — a clean iron bed-
stead, with crucifix and rosary hung on the
wall above it, and by the window an image
of the Madonna adorned with gaudy paper
flowers; I was in Italy, in my poor,
exiled Italy. And in the purest Tuscan
the eldest sister informed me that Don
Gaetano lived in the. garret. I went up
there and knocked, but no one answered,
so I opened the door myself. The room
was brightly lit up by a blazing fire.
With his back towards the door, Don
Gaetano was on his knees before the stove
busy heating a little saucepan over the
fire, beside him on the floor lay an old
mattress with the well-known Abruzzi
cloak thrown over it, and close by, spread
out on a newspaper, were various delicacies
— an orange, walnuts, and raisins, and
there also was the red paper bag. Don
Gaetano dropped a lump of sugar into the

For those who love Music 39

saucepan, stirred it with a stick, and in a
persuasive voice I heard him say, '^Che
bella robtty che bella robay quanto i buano
questa latte con lo zticchero / Non piange
anima miay adesso siamo pronti ! " ^

A slight rustling was heard beneath
the Abruzzi cloak, and a black little hand
was stretched out towards the red paper
bag.

" Primo il latte y prima il latte y' ad-
monished the old man. ^^ Non importay
piglia tu unay'^ he repented, and took a
big burnt almond out of the paper bag;
the little hand disappeared, and a crunching
was heard under the cloak. Don Gaetano
poured the warm milk in a saucer, and
then he carefully lifted up a corner of the
cloak. There lay the poor little monkey
with heaving breast and eyes glowing
with fever. Her face had become so

^ " What nice things, what nice things, how good this milk
with sugar is ! Don't cry, my darling, it is ready now ! "
a «< The milk first, the milk first — never mind, take one."

40 For those who love Music

small, and her complexion was ashy gray.
The old man took her on his knees, and
tenderly as a mother he poured some
spoonfuls of the warm milk into her mouth.
She looked with indifferent eyes towards
the delicacies on the table, and absently
she let her fingers pass through her
master's beard. She was so tired that she
could hardly hold her head up, and now
and then she coughed so that her thin
little body trembled, and she pressed both
her hands to her temples. Don Gaetano
shook his head sadly, and carefully laid
the little invalid back under the cloak.

A feeble blush spread over the old
man's face as he caught sight of me. I
told him that I had happened to be passing
by just as he was entering his house, and
that I took the liberty of following him
upstairs in order to bid him good-morning
and to give him my new address, in the
hope that he would come and play to me
as before. I involuntarily looked round

For those who love Music 4 1

for the barrel-organ as I spoke, and Don
Gaetano, who understood, informed me
that he no longer played the organ — he
sang. I glanced at the precious pile of
wood beside the fireplace, at the new
blanket that hung before the window to
keep out the draught, at the delicacies on
the newspaper — and I also understood.

The monkey had been ill three weeks
— la febbre, explained the old man. We
knelt one at each side of the bed, and the
sick animal looked at me with her mute
prayer for help. Her nose was hot, as it
is with sick children and dogs, her face
wrinkled like that of an old, old woman,
and her eyes had got quite a human
expression. Her breathing was so short,
and we could hear how it rattled in her
throat. The diagnosis was not difficult —
she had consumption. Now and again
she stretched out her thin arms as if she
implored us to help her, and Don Gaetano
thought that she did so because she wished

42 For those who love Music

to be bled.^ I would willingly have given
in in this case, although opposed in
principle to this treatment, if I had
thought it possible that any benefit could
have been derived from it; but I knew
only too well how unlikely this was, and
I tried my best to make Don Gaetano
understand it. Unhappily I did not know
myself what there was to be done. I had
at that time a friend amongst the keepers
of the monkey -house in the Jardin des
Plantes, and the same night he came with
me to have a look at her; he said that
there was nothing to be done, and that
there was no hope. And he was right.
For one week more the fire blazed in Don
Gaetano s garret, then it was left to go
out, and it became cold and dark as before
in the old man's home.

True, he got his barrel-organ out from

^ The lower classes in Italy still use bleeding for all kinds of
diseases, and this treatment is also extended to animals. I
knew a monkey in Naples who was bled twice.

For those who love Music 43

the pawn-shop, and now and then a copper
did fall into his hat also. He did not die
of starvation, and that was about all he
asked of life.

So the spring came and I left Paris;
and God knows what has become of Don
Gaetano.

If you happen to hear a melancholy
old barrel-organ in the courtyard, go to
the window and give a penny to the
poor errant musician — perhaps it is Don
Gaetano ! If you find that his organ dis-
turbs you, try if you like it better by
making him stand a little farther off, but
don't send him away with harshness ! He
has to hear so many hard words as it is ;
why should not we then be a little kind to
him — we who love music ?

POLITICAL AGITATIONS IN

CAPRI

Don't be alarmed — they are not going to
disturb the peace of Europe.

Alas ! there are spots even on the sun,
and neither is **the loveliest pearl in
Naples' crown " altogether faultless.

Croaking ravens swarm around the
ruins where thousand-year-old memories
lie slumbering, dirty dwarf hands fumble
amidst the remains of fallen giants'
vanished splendour, barbarians pull to
pieces the mosaic floors on which the feet
of emperors trod. Night- capped and
blue -stockinged Prose startles the Idyll
which lies there dreaming with half-closed
eyes, grinning fauns push aside the vines
which hide from view the cool grotto

Political Agitations in Capri 45

where the nymph of the legend bathes her
graceful limbs.

Capri is sick, Capri is infested with
parasites even as the old lion. Capri is
full of — ^yes, but in politics one has to be
careful ; I say nothing, read the article to
the end, and you will see what it is that
Capri is full of.

Amidst the ruins of Tiberiuss Villa
you sit on high, gazing out over the sea.
Absently your eye follows a white sail in
the distance ; it is a little peaceful fishing-
boat quietly sailing home. And your
thoughts wander far, far away. Here, in
his marble-shining palace, stood once upon
a time the ruler of the world ; he gazed out
over the sea, he also, but his eye was not
as fearless as yours, for he dreaded the
avenger of his victims in every approach-
ing boat ; and when the bay was dark he
would still linger up there and, trembling,
seek to read his doom in the stars which
studded the vault of heaven. No crimes

46 Political Agitations in Capri

could help him any longer to forgetfulness
of himself ; no vice could any more benumb
the torture of his soul ; within his rock-
built citadel the sombre emperor suffered
torments far greater than any he had ever
inflicted on his victims; his heart had
long since bled to death under his purple
toga, but his soul lived on in its titanic
sorrow. The spot whereon you lie is
named // Salto di Tiberio. From here
he hurled his victims into the sea, and
there below men were rowing about in
boats in order to crush to death with
their oars those who were still struggling
with the waves. Bend over the preci-
pice and see the foaming surge — old
fishermen have told me that sometimes
when the moon goes under a cloud and all
is dark, the waves breaking over the rocks
beneath seem tinged with blood.

But the sun streams his forgiveness
over the crumbled witness of so much sin,
and, ere long, the vision of the sombre

Political Agitations in Capri 47

emperor fades from your thought. Now it
is silent and peaceful up at Villa Tiberio,
You lie there on your back gazing out over
the gulf, and it seems to you as though the
world ended beyond its lovely shores.
The restless strife of the day does not
reach you here, and all dissonance is
silenced ; your thoughts fly aimlessly
round, play for awhile amongst the surf
near Sorrento's rocks, send their open-
armed greeting to Ischias groves, and
pluck some fragrant roses from the
verdant shore of Posilipo. So perception
gradually dies away, no longer do you
hear the buzz of the whirling wheels in
the factory of thought — to-day is a day of
rest and your soul may dream. What
dream you } — You know not ! Where are
you ? — You know not ! You fly on the
white wings of the sea-gulls far, far away
over the wide waters ; you sail with the
brilliant clouds high overhead where no
thought can reach you.

48 Political Agitations in Capri

But you are only a prisoner after all — a
prisoner who dreamt he was free and is
awakened in the midst of his dreams by
the rattle of a jailer s key. The sound of
voices strikes your ear, and like a wing-
shot bird you fall to the earth. Beside
you stands a lanky individual, and he says
to his companion that it is incredible that
a man can be prosaic enough to fall asleep
on a spot so wunderbar. Ah, you are
asleep, are you ?

The spell is broken, the harmony de-
stroyed, and you get up to go away.
He then assaults you with the question
whether you don't think the gulf is blue ?
and you have not walked on ten yards
before he attacks you treacherously from
behind with the remark that the sky is
also blue. You believe it helps to stare
savagely at him — I have done it many
times, and it does not impress him in the
very least. You want to try to make him
believe you are deaf — that is no use

Political Agitations in Capri 49

either; he takes it as a compliment, for
he prefers to have the conversation all
to himself.

The sun stands high in the heavens
and the summer's day is so warm — come,
let us go and bathe in the cool water of
the blue grotto. No, my friend, not
there ! Even thither, like sharks they come
swimming after us to ask us if we are
aware that the blue grotto of Capri is
virtually German, that it was ein Deutscher
who discovered the grotto in 1826. Let
us be off for Bagni di Tiberio, the ruins
of the emperor's bath, strip off our clothes
inside one of the cool little chambers
which still remain amongst huge blocks
of crumbling masonry, and plunge into
the sapphire water. But do you see
those huge holes in the fine sand, — are
there elephants in the island.*^ No, my
friend, but let us be off! I know the track,
and there she sits, the blonde Gretchen,
reading one of Spielhagen's novels — ^were

E

50 Political Agitations in Capri

It Heine she was reading I might perhaps
forgive her.

We return along the beach to the
Marina and wend our way along the old
path between the vineyards leading up
to the village. Unfortunately the new
carriage road is nearly ready, but we, of
course, prefer the old way, by far the
more picturesque of the two. On the
beach we stumble over easels and colour-
boxes at short distances set out as traps
for dreamers ; beside each trap sits an
amateur in ambush under a big umbrella,
and he invokes der Teufel to help him,
which I suppose he does.

You propose putting up at Albergo
Pagano— yes, you are right ; it is no doubt
the best hotel in the island. Old Pagano,
who was a capital fellow, died many years
ago, and only we old Capriotes can
remember him. His son Manfredo, who
now manages the hotel, is my very good
friend; but it is not his fault that his

Political Agitations in Capri 5 1

house has become as German as though
it lay in the heart of Das grosse Vaterland.
At least a good fifty of them are gathered
round the table in the big dining-room.
Upon the walls hangs a plaster medallion
of the Kaiser decorated with fresh laurels,
and should they pay you the compliment
of mistaking you for a Frenchman, it is
just possible they may drink a bumper
to the memory of 1870 — an experience I
once went through myself. Instead of
the silence and the peace you so longed
for, you are subjected during the whole
of dinner-time to the most terrific uproar
worthy of a Kneipe in Bremen. In
despair you fling open the door leading
into the garden — no, you are in Italy after
all ! Out there under the pergola the moon-
beams are playing amongst the vines, the
air is soft and caressing, and the summer
evening recites to you its enchanting
sonnet as a compensation for the prose
within. You wander there up and down

52 Political Agitations in Capri

all alone, but scarcely have you had time
to say to yourself that you are happy
before

" Heil dir im Sieges Kranz ! "

rings like a war-cry through the peaceful
night, answered from the street by some
little Capriote ragamuffins with a horrible
chorus of

" Ach 1 du lieber Augustin !
Augustin, Augustin ! "

Of course I am aware of the super-
cilious way in which many of the readers
of Letters from a Mourning City^ have
turned up their noses at my circle of
friends out here — lazzaroni, shabby old
monks, half- starving sailors, etc. The
hour is at hand for introducing you to
some acquaintances of mine of somewhat
higher rank, and now I will tell you a
story of the upper regions of society. It

^ Letters from a Mourning City^ by Axel Munthe. John
Murray : London, 1887.

Political Agitations in Capri 53

happened at Capri a good many years
ago, and the dramatis persona consisted

of my friend D , myself, and the then

Crown Princess of Germany.

My friend D and I happened to

be the only profane people in the hotel
just then. The whole of the big dining-
table was in the hands of the Germans,
whilst we two sat by ourselves at a small
side-table. It was there we had our little
observatory, as Professor Palmieri had his
on Mount Vesuvius. For some days past
our keen instruments of perception had
warned us that something unusual was
going on at the big table. The roaring
of an evening was louder than ever, the
smoke rose in thicker clouds, the beer
ran in streams, and the faces were flushed
to red -heat — everything announced an
eruption of patriotism. One evening there
arrived a telegram which, amidst a terrific
babel of voices, was read aloud by one of
the party — a commercial traveller from

54 Political Agitations in Capri

Potsdam, whom I personally hated be-
cause he snored at night; his room was
next to mine and the walls of the hotel
were thin. The telegram announced that
the Crown Princess of Germany, who
had been spending the last few days in
Naples, was expected to visit Capri the
next day in the strictest incognito. No-
body appeared to understand that the
word ** incognito" means that one wishes
to be left in peace, and during the rest of
th,e dinner the faithful patriots did nothing
but discuss the best way of how to spoil
the unfortunate Princess's little visit to
the island. A complete programme was
drawn up there and then : a triumphal
arch was to be erected, a select deputation
was to swoop down upon her the moment
she set foot on land, while the main body
was to block her way up to the piazza.
Patriotic songs were to be sung in chorus,
a speech read, whilst the commercial
traveller from Potsdam was to express in

Political Agitations in Capri 55

a welcoming poem what already his face
said eloquently enough — that poetry was
not in his line. Every garden in Capri
was to be despoiled of its roses, whole
bushes and trees were to be uprooted
wherewith to deck the triumphal arch, and
all night they were to weave garlands and
stitch flags.

I went up to my room, threw myself on
the sofa, and lit a cigarette. And as I lay
there meditating, feelings of the deepest
compassion towards the Crown Pringess
of Germany began to overwhelm me. I
had just read in the papers how, during
her stay in Naples, she had sought by
every manner of means to elude all official
recognition, and to avoid every sort of
demonstration in her honour during her
excursions round the bay. Poor Princess !
she had flattered herself upon having left
all weary court etiquette behind in foggy
Berlin, and yet she was not to be allowed to
enjoy in peace one single summer day on

56 Political Agitations in Capri

the gulf! To be rich enough to be able
to buy the whole of Capri, and yet be
unable to enjoy the peaceful idyll of the
enchanting island for one short hour ! To
be destined to wear one of the proudest
crowns of the world, and yet to be power-
less to prevent a commercial traveller from
writing poetry! My compassionate re-
flections were here disturbed by the noise
of heavy footsteps in the adjoining room ;
it sounded like the tramp of horses' hoofs ;
it was the '' Probenreiter'' who mounted
his Pegasus. The whole night through
I lay there reflecting on the vanity of
earthly power, and the whole night did
the Poet Laureate wander up and down
his room. Once the tramping ceased, and
there was a silence. There was a panting
from within, and I heard a husky voice
murmur —

<< Ich stehe hier auf Felsenstrand !
Ich stehe hier auf Felsenstrand ! " ^

^ « Here I' stand on a rocky shore ! '*

Political Agitations in Capri 57

A moment afterwards I heard him fling
open his window and let the night air
cool the fire of his inspiration. Our
rooms opened on to the same balcony,
and carefully lifting up my blind I could
see the moonlight falling full upon him
as he leaned against the window-frame.
His hair stood on end and an inarticulate
mumble fell from his lips. He gazed in
despair up to the heavens where the stars
were twinkling knowingly at one another ;
he glanced out over the garden where the
night wind flew tittering amongst the
leaves. But he never saw the joke until
a startled young cock inquired of some
old cocks down in the poultry yard what
time it was, and then crowed straight into
his face that the night was passed and he
had got no further than the first verse.
Then he murmured once more a plaintive—

<* Ich stehe hier auf Felsenstrand ! "

and banged his windows to. All the cocks

58 Political Agitations in Capri

of Pagano's crowed " Bravo ! Bravo ! "
but Phoebus, Phoebus Apollo, the God of
the Sun and of the poets, entered his
room at that moment, and he reddened
with anger when he caught sight of the
commercial traveller tampering with his
lyre.

Later on, when the chambermaid ap-
peared, I heard him call out for coffee
and cognac — having spent the whole night
like that on his Felsenstrandy no wonder
he needed a pick-me-up. He was late for
luncheon. I glanced at the poet ; an in-
teresting pallor lent a faint look of distinc-
tion to the commercial traveller's plump
features, and his great goggle eyes lay
like extinct suns under his heavy eyelids.
He received great attention from every-
body, especially from the fair sex. I
heard him confide to his neighbour at
table that he always succeeded best with
improvisations, and that he did not intend
to let the reins of his inspiration loose

Political Agitations in Capri 59

until the last moment. They drank to
his charming talent, whereupon he modestly
smiled. He ate nothing, but drank con-
siderably. At dessert he had regained his
high colour, harangued every one ex-
citedly, and drank toasts right and left.
But it seemed as if he dared not be alone
with his thoughts ; as soon as the con-
versation around him ceased, he sank into
profound meditation, and an attentive ob-
server could easily detect that the roses
of his cheeks were hiding cruel thorns
which pierced his soul. For it was twelve
o'clock ; the Princess was expected at four,
and he still stood there like Napoleon on
St. Helena, alone and abandoned on his
Felsenstrand^ vainly gazing out over the
unfathomable ocean of poetry in search of
one single little friendly rhyme to row him
over to the next verse.

The hotel had become quite unbearable
downstairs ; rehearsals of patriotic songs
were going on in the salon, whilst in the

6o Political Agitations in Capri

hall went on a busy manufacture of
garlands, to which the victim's name and
long fluttering ribbons were being at-
tached. The piazza was gaily decorated ;
the triumphal arch was ready — a black
cardboard eagle perched on the top hold-
ing a white placard in his beak, upon
which stood out in huge red letters the
word Willkommen. Flag-staffs and gar-
lands all over the piazza; even Nicolino,
barber and salassatore (bleeder), had
decided to join the triple alliance, and a
colossal German flag was waving before
his salone. I did not know what to do
with myself, and at last I strolled up to-
wards Villa di Tiberio — ^up there, there
might be a chance of a little peace at all
events. I had scarcely had time to lie
down in my favourite place far out on the
edge of the cliff", viewing the Bay of
Naples on one side and the Bay of Salerno
and the wide sea on the other, before a
long shadow fell across me. I looked up.

Political Agitations in Capri 6i

and saw a patriot staring fixedly through
a telescope towards Naples. As a matter
of fact, something was visible in the midst
of the bay, but the haze made it difficult
to see what it was. Suddenly he gave a
sort of war-whoop, whereupon two other
spies, who must have been sitting at the
top of the old watch-tower, came bursting
on the scene. I knew quite well what it
was that had appeared in sight — it was the
big "Scoppa-boat" sailing home from
Naples.^ Of course I said nothing, as
there was always a faint hope that they
might mistake it for the expected steamer,
and take themselves off. But unfortunately
they also guessed rightly, and all three sat
down on the grass beside me, and began
munching sandwiches and abusing Tiberius.
I took myself off, and returned to Capri.
On the piazza I came across my friend
D , who did not seem to be in a very

^ The old means of communication between Capri and
Naples. Unfortunately replaced by an ugly little steamer.

62 Political Agitations in Capri

good temper either ; he was on his way to
the Marina, and I accompanied him thither.
Down at the Marina everything was
peaceful and quiet, for the time being at
all events. Old men sat there in the open
boathouses mending their nets, and small
boys, who had not seen fit to put on more
clotheis than usual for the Princess's ex-
pected visit, played about in the surf, and
rolled their little bronze bodies in the
sand. The landing-place was crowded
as usual when the Naples steamer is
expected ; girls stood there offering corals,
flowers, and fruit for sale, and in the rear
stood patient little donkeys, ready saddled
for carrying the expected visitors on a trip
up to the village. We were just about to
blot the whole of Germany from our
minds, when my friend Alessio, shading
his eyes with his hand, suddenly observed
that the steamer which had just come in
sight was not the usual passenger steamer
from Naples, but a larger and more rapid

Political Agitations in Capri 63

boat. I looked at my watch, it was barely
three o'clock; I had hoped for at least
another hour's respite. Alessio was right ;
it was not the usual boat that hove in
sight. And now the Marina began to
wake up, and people came pouring in from
all sides. We saw the deputation rush
down the hill at full speed, with the chorus
at its heels, and last of all came the court
poet, who surely disapproved as much as
we did at the Princess's anticipating her
visit by a whole hour. The steamer was
certainly going with a greater speed than
the usual boat, and she also seemed to
draw more water, as she backed farther
out than usual from the harbour. The
solemn moment was at hand ; the deputa-
tion stood on the landing-stage in battle
array, headed by the commercial traveller.
We saw several people descend the ladder
and step into a little boat, which rapidly
made for the shore.

" Hcil dir im Sieges Kranz ! "

64 Political Agitations in Capri

was now performed, and hardly had they
got through the first verse when the boat
pulled up alongside the little quay, and
two ladies and a gentleman in uniform
prepared to land. If they thought this
would prove so easy a matter, they were
mistaken — they were stopped short by the
commercial traveller from Potsdam, who
solemnly and warningly stretched out his
right hand towards them, while with his
left he drew a paper out of his trousers
pocket. My old compassion for the
Crown Princess rose anew, but what could
I do for her ? All hope of escape was at
an end. . . .

" Ich stehe hier auf Felsenstrand " —

— but here there was a sudden silence.
One of the ladies laughingly bent forward
to say a few words to the gentleman in
uniform, who quietly informed the deputa-
tion that these two ladies of the Princess's
suite were anxious to make an excursion

Political Agitations in Capri 65

up to the village, while the Princess her-
self, who had remained on board, would
sail round the island. At that very
moment we saw the steamer turn round and
make for the western side of the island.

Utterly dumbfounded, the deputation
held a council of war as to the best course
to be pursued. It was evident that the
steamer had gone to make " il giro " {i.e.
the usual round of the island), to return
finally to the Grande Marina, the only
real landing-place which Capri possesses.
True that a sort of harbour exists also
on the south side at the Piccola Marina,
but it has fallen into disuse, and the road
hence into the village is very rough.
They therefore decided to await the
steamer's return where they were ; more
than an hour it would scarcely take. The
deputation sank dejectedly down upon
some upturned boats, but the poet re-
mained standing for fear of creasing his
dress-coat (fancy wearing a dress-coat and

66 Political Agitations in Capri

top-hat in Capri ! ) And he ran no chance
of freezing, I can tell you, as he stood
there in his sun-bath. The hour dragged
wearily along, but still no sign of the
steamer. They had waited for nearly two
hours, when a fisherman phlegmatically
observed that as far as he could make out
the steamer had gone to the Piccola
Marina, for he had rowed past just as
the jolly-boat set out from the steamer,
and some one on the captain's bridge had
asked him how many feet of water they
might count upon at the Piccola Marina.
Up flew the deputation as if stung by an
asp, and disappeared in a cloud of dust on
to the Capri road.

We dawdled about the Marina for
some time longer, but finally we also
wandered up to Capri, not by the
broad carriage - road, but climbing the
old path which joins the Anacapri road
at some distance from the village, thus
avoiding the piazza altogether.

Political Agitations in Capri 67

It was as warm as a summer's day, and
we lay down by the roadside to rest in
the high grass. We talked politics by

way of exception. My friend D is

an Alsatian ; he had been through the
Franco-German war, and was anything
but tender towards the Germans, and
neither was I, for reasons of my own.
But we were generous enemies, and we
agreed that we were very sorry for the
Crown Princess, however German she
might be.

And thus I came to speak of my
nocturnal adventure with the commercial
traveller, and no one being within earshot
it is just possible that we cracked a joke
or two at the poet's expense. I remember
that we tried to steer him safely through
his poem, and lay there roaring with
laughter, composing some extra verses
to his unfinished inspiration. My old
dog lay beside me in the grass ; he did his
best to follow us in our poetical flights,

68 Political Agitations in Capri

but the heat had made him somewhat
indifferent to literary pursuits, and he
never succeeded in keeping more than
one eye open at a time. From out the
ivy covering the old stone wall behind
us a little quick-tailed lizard peeped every
now and then to warm itself in the sun.
Whenever you catch sight of one of these
little lizards you should whistle softly;
the graceful little animal will then stand
still, gazing wonderingly around with her
bright eyes to see from whence the sound
proceeds. She is so frightened that you
can see her heart beat in her brilliant
green breast, but she is so curious and
so fond of music — and there is so little
music to be heard inside the old stone
wall ! You have only to keep quite quiet
to see her emerge from her hiding-place
and settle down to listen attentively.
Something rather melancholy is what
pleases her best ; she likes Verdi, and I
often start with Traviata when I give

Political Agitations in Capri 69

concerts for lizards. I am so fond of
music myself, and maybe that is the
reason why I try to be kind to these
small music -lovers. That any one can
have the heart to take the pretty, graceful
little lizards captive is more than I can
understand ; they belong to an old Italian
wall as much as the ivy and the sunshine.
But in Albergo Pagano is a German
who does nothing but go about hunting
lizards ; he shuts them up in a cigar-box,
which he opens every now and then to
gaze like another Gulliver upon his Lilli-
putian captives. We are deadly enemies,
he and I, for once I opened his cigar-box
and set all his lizards free.

Suddenly Puck gave a growl. We
looked up, and to our great astonishment
we saw two ladies standing in front of us,
and behind them stood a gentleman in
black, staring fixedly into space. We
had not heard them come up, so that
they must have been standing there

70 Political Agitations in Capri

while D and I were busy finishing

off the commercial traveller's poem. We
looked at each other in consternation, but
there was evidently nothing to fear; it
was not difficult to see that they were
English, and not likely to have under-
stood one word of what we had been
talking about. One of the ladies was
middle-aged, rather stout, and wore a
gray travelling-dress, while the other was
a very smart young lady, whom we thought
very good-looking indeed. They stood
there gazing out over the Marina, and
on looking in the same direction we saw
that the Princess's steamer had returned
from its giro round the island, and had
anchored beside the Naples boat. Our
discomfiture was complete upon the
younger of the ladies turning round to ask
us in perfect French how long it would

take them to get to the village. D ,

who was lying nearest them, answered
it would hardly take ten minutes.

Political Agitations in Capri 7 1

*'Is it necessary to go through the
village in order to reach the beach ? "
said she, pointing towards the Marina.

"Yes," answered D , *'it is neces-
sary to do so."

Here Puck stretched himself and stared
yawningly at them.

**What a beautiful dog!" I heard the
elder lady say to her companion in English.
I at once discovered her to be a lady of
great distinction and exceptional taste,
and I immediately ^felt a desire to show
her some politeness. I could not hit
upon anything better to tell her than
that she had chosen an unfortunate day
for coming to Capri, the island having
fallen a prey to the barbarians for the
whole day. I told her that the Crown
Princess of Germany was actually on the
island, and that, pursued by a deputation
and a commercial traveller, she had just
now been caught on the Piccola Marina
and carried off to the Piazza. I added

72 Political Agitations in Capri

that all our sympathies followed the Prin-
cess. I noticed a rather peculiar expres-
sion on the younger lady's face as I
delivered myself of these remarks, but
the elder listened to all I said with a
scarcely perceptible smile over her eyes.

" We are anxious to reach the harbour
as soon as possible," said she ; "we have
been absent longer than we intended."

"There is a short cut down to the
Marina," answered I, politely; "we have
just come up that way ourselves. But
I am afraid it is rather too rough a road
for you, madam."

" Will it lead us straight down there ?'
said she, pointing to the harbour where
both steamers lay at anchor.

" Oh dear, yes ! "

" And without obliging us to enter the
village?"

"Without obliging you to enter the
village," answered I.

She exchanged a few words with the

Political Agitations in Capri 73

younger lady, and then said in a decided,
abrupt sort of way, ** Be kind enough to
show us the way."

Yes, that was easy enough, and I led
them down to the Marina. Conversation
rather languished on the way. I had
come across two singularly reticent ladies,
and had it not been for my repeated efforts
it would have died altogether. Every
now and then the younger lady smiled
to herself, which made me fear I had said
something stupid. I have never been
much of a society man, and it is not so
easy a matter to entertain two entirely
strange ladies.

Upon reaching the wider part of the
road I pointed towards the Marina at
their feet, and told them that they cpuld
not possibly go wrong now. We saw
one or two officers walking up and down
the landing-stage, whereupon I told the
ladies that, were they desirous of seeing
the Crown Princess, they had only to wait

74 Political Agitations in Capri

there a moment or two ; she was bound to
arrive soon with her tormentors at her heels.
But this, they said, they did not care about,
and then they kindly wished me good-bye.
Hardly had I begun to retrace my
steps when two lackeys in the royal
livery of the house of Savoy came run-
ning down the road ; I had barely time to
move to one side before they were yards
beyond me. They were immediately
followed by a long, gaunt individual with
very thin legs and a very big moustache
— ma foil if not a German officer, re-
markably like one at all events. He in
his turn was succeeded by a fat, fussy
little person, who literally threw himself
into my arms ; he held his gold-laced hat
in one hand, while with the other he
wiped the perspiration from his fore-
head; he stammered an apology, and
then rolled off again like a ball down
the hill. Most extraordinary, thought I
to myself, the number of people on this

Political Agitations in Capri 75

footpath to-day, considering that as a rule
one never meets a soul here !

D still lay on the Anacapri road

waiting for me; neither of us cared to
return to Capri just then, and we finally
made up our minds to walk up to Ana-
capri and greet la bella Margherita, and
wait there till the island should be restored
to calm. We sat for a while under the
pergola and drank a glass of vino bianco,
and then we slowly sauntered down to
Capri along the beautiful road, the whole
of the myrtle-covered mountain slope at
our feet When passing beneath Bar-
barossa's ruined castle we glanced towards
the Marina and saw to our relief that
both steamers had taken their departure.
Genuine Capriotes always witness the
departure of the steamer with a certain
satisfaction ; they like to keep their beloved
Capri to themselves, and the crowd of
noisy strangers only disturbs the harmony
of the dreamy little island.

76 Political Agitations in Capri

It was very nearly dark by the time
we reached the village. The pidizzB, was
quite deserted ; from the shop -window of
Nicolino, barber and bleeder, hung the
tricoloured flag waving sadly in the wind,
whilst perched upon the triumphal arch
the cardboard eagle sat aloft gnawing
gloomily at his Willkommen.

Upon reaching the hotel we found that
every one was seated at table, but an
unusual silence prevailed. We withdrew
to our little table and tried to look as
innocent as possible. At dessert there
arose a frightful dispute at the big table
as to whose was the fault of a certain
calamity which apparently had happened
to them during the day. I thought I
heard a murmur going round about an
idiot who had been seen accompanying
two ladies down a short cut to the Marina,
but I never got to know who he was.

Ah well ! neither D nor I care to tell

you more about this story. If we be-

Political Agitations in Capri 77

haved badly I have already been sufficiently
punished. Here I sit far from my beloved
island in fog and gloom, whilst the com-
mercial traveller, for aught I know, is
perhaps still enjoying himself at Capri,
and still entertaining the cocks of Pagano
with —

" Ich stehe hier auf Felsenstrand ! "

MENAGERIE

For a few days only / / /

BRUTUS, Lion from Nubia.

Tigers, Bears, Wolves.

POLAR BEAR.

Monkeys, Hyenas, and other remarkable

Animals.

The Lion-Tamer, called "The Lion King,"
will enter the Lion's Cage at 6 o'clock.

For a few days only ! ! I

The street boys hold out for a while
longer, cold though the evening be, for
the Lion King himself has already twice
appeared on the platform in riding-boots,

Menagerie 79

and his breast sparkling with decorations,
and, besides that, one can distinctly hear
the howling of the animals within the tent.

Yes, it would be a pity to miss an enter-
tainment like this ; come, let us go in !

It is the Lion King's wife herself who
is sitting there selling the tickets, and we
gaze at her with a deference due to her
rank. She wears gold bracelets round
her thick wrists, and a double gold chain
glitters beneath her fur cape. But the
monkeys who sit there on each side of
her chained to their perches with leather
straps girt tightly round their stomachs —
they wear no fur capes. Their faces are
blue with cold, and when they jump up
and down to try to keep themselves warm
the street boys laugh and the market
people stop to have a look at them —
poor unconscious clowns of the menagerie
who are there for the purpose of luring
in spectators to witness the tortures of
their other companions in distress.

8o Menagerie

The tent is full of people, and the
many gas-lights inflame the infected air.
The show has already begun, and the
spectators follow from cage to cage a
negro, who, pointing his stick at the
prisoner behind the bars, in monotonous
voice announces his age, his country, and
his crime of having led the life which
Nature has taught him to live.

I have been here several times, and I
know the negro's description by heart. I
will show you the animals.

Here, in this cage, moping on his perch,
his head hidden beneath his ragged feather-
cloak, you see the proudest representative
of the bird world — The Royal Eagle^ three
years oldy taken young. You have read
about him, the strong-winged bird, who in
solemn majesty circles above the desolate
mountain -tops. Alone he lives up there
amongst the clouds — alone like the human
soul. He builds his nest upon an in-
accessible rock, and the precipice shields

Menagerie 8i

his young from rapacious hands. Taken
young ; that means that the nest was
plundered, the mother was shot as she
flew shrieking to protect her child, and
by the butt -end of the gun was broken
the wing -bone of the half- grown eagle
as he struggled for his freedom. Here
he has sat ever since ; he sleeps during the
day, but he is awake the live-long night,
and when all is silent in the tent a strange,
uncanny moan may be heard from his cage.
Three years old! He is not the most to
be pitied here, for he is not likely to last
long — the Royal Eagle dies when caged.

Here you see a Bear. His cage is
so small that he cannot walk up and down ;
he sits there almost upright on his hind-
quarters, rocking his meek and heavy head
from side to side. If you offer him a
piece of bread, he flattens his nose against
the bars and gently and carefully takes the
gift out of your hand. His nose is torn
by the iron ring he once was made to

82 Menagerie

wear, and his eyes are bloodshot and
streaming from the strong gaslight ; but
their expression is not bad, it is kind and
intelligent like that of an old dog. Now
and then he grips the bars with his mighty
paws, helplessly shaking the cage until the
guinea-pigs who live below him rush up
and down in abject terror. Ay, shake
your cage, old Bruin! the bars are steel,
stronger than your paws; you will never
come out — ^you are to die in your prison.
You are a dangerous beast of prey — ^you
live on bilberries and fruit, and now and
then you help yourself to a sheep to keep
yourself from dying of starvation. God
Almighty did not know better than to
teach you to do so, but no doubt it was
very ill-judged of Him, and you are very
much to blame ; it is only man who has the
right to eat his fill.

Here you see a Hycena. The negro
stirs up the hyaena with a cut of his whip,
and timorously the animal crouches in the

Menagerie 83

farthermost corner of the cage, whilst the
negro tells the spectators that the hyaena
is known for its cowardice. The hyaena
dare not risk an open fight, but treacher-
ously attacks the defenceless prisoner
whom the savages have left bound hand
and foot to his fate in the wilderness, or
the exhausted beast of burden whom the
' caravan has abandoned in the desert after
having hoisted on to another the load he
is no longer able to bear. The negro
pokes cautiously with his pointed stick
into the corner where the cowardly animal
tries to hide itself, and the spectators all
agree that the hyaena, with its crouching
back and restless eyes, conveys a faithful
picture of treachery and cowardice. None
of the spectators have ever seen a hyaena
before, but they have seen crouching backs
and restless eyes. Not even the dead
does the hyaena leave in peace, says the
negro, and with disgust man turns away
from the guilty animal.

84 Menagerie

Here you see a Polar Bear. Its name
is advertised in huge letters on the placard
outside; and he deserves the distinction
well indeed, for his torture perhaps sur-
passes that of all the other animals. The
Polar bear is another dangerous beast of
prey ; he does a little fishing for himself
up in the north where man is busy exter-
minating the whales. The horrible suffer-
ings of the animal need no comment — ^let
us go on.

A little South African Monkey and a
rabbit live next to the cage inhabited by
the panting Polar bear.^

The little monkey is sick to death of
the eternal clambering up and down the
bars of the cage, and the swing which
dangles over her head does not amuse her
any more. Sadly she sits there upon her
straw-covered prison floor, in one hand

^ Perhaps you are not aware of the common practice in
menageries of keeping a rabbit in the monkey's cage for the
sake of warmth.

Menagerie 85

she holds a half-withered carrot, which she
turns over once again to see if it looks
equally unappetising on every side, while
with the other she sorrowfully scratches
the rabbit's back. Now and then she
gets interested, drops the carrot, and at-
tentively with both hands explores some
suspicious-looking spot on her companion's
mangy back and pulls out a few hairs,
which she carefully examines. But soon
she wearies of the rabbit also, and does
not know in the least what to do with
herself. She looks round in the straw,
but there is nothing to be seen but the
carrot ; she looks round the bare, slippery
walls of her cage, but neither there is there
anything of the slightest interest to be
found. And at last she has nothing else
to do but, for the hundredth time that hour,
to jump into the swing, only to leap on to
the floor the next minute and seat herself
again, leaning against the rabbit. The
spectators call this jumping for joy, but

86 Menagerie

the poor little monkey knows how jolly
it is.

The rabbit is resigned. The captivity
of generations has stupefied him — the long-
ing for liberty has died ages ago from out
of his degenerated hare-brain. He hopes
for nothing, but he desires nothing. He
has no social talents; he is in no way
qualified to entertain his restless friend ;
and besides that, he fails to grasp the
situation. But he rewards the monkey
to the best of his abilities for the little
offices of friendship which she performs
for him ; and when the gas has been
turned out, and the cold night air enters
the tent, then the Northerner lends his
warm fur coat to the trembling little
Southerner, and nestling close to one
another they await the new day.

The inhabitant of the cage in yonder
corner has not been advertised at all upon
the placard outside. He is not to be seen
just now ; perhaps he is asleep for a while

Menagerie 87

in his dark, little bedroom ; but every one
who catches sight of that wire wheel
knows that it is a Squirrel who lives here.
What he has to do in a menagerie is more
than I can say, for on that point the
zoological education of the public should
surely be completed — we all know what
the squirrel looks like. Superstitious
people of my country say that it is an
evil omen if a squirrel crosses their path.
I don't know where they got hold of that
idea, but maybe they have taken it from
a squirrel — for the squirrel believes exactly
in the same way if a man crosses his path,
and, alas ! he has got reason enough for his
belief. I, on the contrary, have always
thought it a piece of good luck whenever
I have happened to come across a little
squirrel. Often enough while roaming
through the woods and halting with
grateful joy at every other step before
some new wonder in the fairyland of
nature — often enough have I caught a

88 Menagerie

glimpse of the graceful, nimble, little fellow
swinging himself high overhead on some
leafy branch, or carefully peeping out from
his little twig cottage, watching with his
bright eyes whether any schoolboys were
lurking beneath his tree. **Come along,
little man," I then would say in squirrel
language; "true enough, I did not turn
out the man I had been expected to
become when at school ; but, thank God !
I have at least arrived so far in knowledge
that I have learned to feel tender sym-
pathy for you and yours ! " We were, alas !
not taught this at school in my days ; we
exchanged birds' eggs for old stamps ; we
shot small birds with guns as big as our-
selves — and now let him who can come
and deny the doctrine of original sin ! We
were cruel to animals, like all savages.
To the best of my abilities do I now
endeavour to expiate the wrong I was
then guilty of. But an evil action never
dies; and I know of bloodstains on tiny

Menagerie 89

boys* fingers which have rusted to stains
of shame in the childhood recollections of
the man. To my humiliation I have shot
many a little bird, and many another did
I keep imprisoned. Regretfully do I
also own to having killed a squirrel ;
treacherously did I plunder his home, and
his little one did I imprison in just such
another cage as the one we now stand in
front of. See ! there comes the little
squirrel out from his bedroom and begins
to run round and round in his wire wheel.
He has made the same attempt thousands
and thousands of times, and yet he makes
it once again. Yes, it looks very pretty !
when I used to watch my squirrel running
round and round in his wire wheel in
precisely the same way, and at last the
wheel was turning so rapidly that I could
not distinguish the bars, I thought it was
capital fun. I know now why he runs ; he
runs in anxious longing for freedom ; he
runs as long as he has strength to run ;

90 Menagerie

for neither is he able to distinguish any
more the bars of the turning wheel. He
may run a mile and still he is hedged in
by the same prison bars. The simple
invention is almost diabolically cunning;
it is the wheel of Ixion in the Tartarus
of pain to which mankind has banished
animals.

Here you see a Wolf from Siberia.
The wolf is also, as is well known, a
dangerous, wild beast. When the cold is
extreme, and the snow lies very deep, the
wolves approach the habitation of man,
and in starving crowds they follow any
sledge they meet — they have even been
known in very rare cases to attack the
horses. We have all read that terrible
story of the Russian peasant on his way
home across the deserted snow-fields ; he
heard the panting of the wolves behind
his sledge, and he could see their eyes
glitter through the darkness of the night,
and in order to save his own life he had

Menagerie 91

to throw one of his children to the
wolves.

The negro informs you that the wild
beast in this cage was caught young ; the
she-wolf as usual was killed while attempt-
ing to save her cub.

The bottom of the cage is shining like
a parquet floor from the continual tramping
up and down of the prisoner within, for
he knows no rest. Night and day he
paces to and fro, his head bent low as
though in search of some outlet of escape ;
he will never find it; he will die behind
those bars even as the prisoners in his
own country die in their irons.

The big Parrot on her perch over there
sheds the one ray of light on this dark
picture. The parrot I need not describe
to you, for you know the species well.
This one hails, we are told, from the New
World, but one comes across a good many
parrots in the Old World also. The parrot
is a universal favourite and is to be found

92 Menagerie

in nearly every house. The parrot is not
unhappy ; she is unconscious of the chain
round her leg, she does not realise that she
was bom with wings. She is undisturbed
by any unnecessary brain activity ; she eats,
she sleeps, trims her gorgeous feather cloak,
and chatters ceaselessly from morning till
night. Left to herself she is silent, for she
is only able to repeat what others have said
before her, and this she does so cleverly
that often, on hearing some one chatter, I
have to ask myself whether it be a human
being or a parrot. . . .

The ragged, attenuated animal standing
over there and gazing at us with her soft,
sad eyes is a Chamois from Switzerland.
The chamois is a rarity in a menagerie, for,
as is well known, it usually frets to death
during the first year of its captivity. I look
at the poor animal with a feeling of oppres-
sion at my heart which you can scarcely
realise — I have breathed the free air of the
high mountains myself, and I know why

Menagerie 93

the chamois dies in prison. Those were
other times, poor captive chamois, when
you were roving on the Alpine meadows
amidst rhododendrons and myrtillus ; when
on high, over a precipice, I saw your beauti-
ful silhouette standing out against the clear,
bright sky ! You had no need of an alpen-
stock, you, to climb up there, where I
watched the aerial play of your grace-
ful limbs amongst the rocks. Up to
the realm of ice you led the way, high
on the slopes of Monte Rosa has my
clumsy, human foot trodden the snow in
the track of your dainty mountain shoes.
Ay, those were other times, poor prisoner !
— those were other times both for you and
me, and we had better say no more about
them.

Yonder stalwart, muscular ape is a
Baboon; aged, Abyssinian male, stands
written under his cage. He sits there,
wrapped in thought, fingering a straw.
Now and then he casts a rapid glance

94 Menagerie

around him, and be sure he is not so
absent-minded as he looks. The eye is
intelligent but malevolent ; its owner is a
candidate for humanity.

When the negro approaches his cage
he shows him a row of teeth not very un-
like the negro s own — the family likeness
between the two faces is, for the matter of
that, unmistakable. The negro cautions
the public against accepting the wrinkled
hand which the old baboon extends between
the bars. I always treat him to an extra
lump of sugar ever since the negro told me
he once bit off the thumb of an old woman
who poked her umbrella at him. Besides,
I look at him with veneration, for he comes
from an illustrious family. Who knows
whether he is not an ill-starred descendant
of that heroic old baboon whom Brehm once
met in Abyssinia ? — The negro is sure to
know nothing of that story, so I may as well
tell it you. One day, while travelling in
Abyssinia, the great German naturalist fell

Menagerie 95

in with a whole troop of baboons, who,
bound for some high rocks, were marching
along a narrow defile. The rear had not
yet emerged from the defile when the dogs
of Brehm and his companions rushed for-
ward and barred their passage. Seeing
the danger the other baboons, who had
already reached the rocks, then descended
in a body to the rescue of the attacked, and
they screamed so terribly that the dogs
actually fell back ; the whole troop of
baboons was now filing off in perfect order
when the dogs were again set at them.
All the apes, however, reached the rocks
in safety, with the exception of one half-
year-old baboon who happened to have
been lagging behind ; he was surrounded
on all sides by the open-mouthed dogs,
and with loud cries of distress he jumped
on to a big boulder. At this juncture a
huge baboon stepped down from the rocks
for the second time, advanced alone to the
stone where the little one was crouching.

96 Menagerie

patted him on the back, lifted him gently
down, and so led him off triumphantly
before the very noses of the dogs, who were
so taken by surprise that it never even
occurred to them to attack him. One need
not have read Darwin to pronounce that
baboon a hero.

I have noticed that even kind-hearted
spectators do not seem to feel very much
commiseration for captive monkeys. The
ape is playing in the menagerie the same
r61e as Don Quixote in literature — the
superficial observer looks upon them as
exclusively comical, and only laughs at
them. But the attentive looker-on knows
that the solitary monkey's life behind the
bars is in its way nothing but a tragedy,
as well as Cervantes' immortal book is
nothing but a mournful epic. With tender
emotion he feels how an increasing
sympathy mingles in his pitiful smile the
more he gets to know of them, these two
superannuated types: Don Quixote, the

Menagerie 97

simple-minded, would-be hero, still lagging
on the scene long after the epopie of
chivalry has departed in the twilight of
mediaeval mysticism ; and the ape, the
phantom from the vanishing animal world,
over whose hairy human face already falls
the dawn of the birthday of the first
man.

This baboon may perhaps appear to you
very ugly, but we know that the perception
of physical beauty is an entirely individual
one, and it is quite possible that the
baboon on his side finds us very ugly. You
cannot help smiling now and then when
standing and watching him, but, at least,
try not to let him see it, for, like all
monkeys, it saddens and irritates him to be
laughed at to his face. This old baboon
is deeply unhappy, for, as he has got more
brains than the other animals in the
menagerie, his capacity for suffering is con-
sequently greater — for we all know that
suffering is an intellectual function. He

H

98 Menagerie

alone realises the hopelessness of his
situation, and his restless brain -activity-
refuses him the relative oblivion which
resignation vouchsafes to many others of
his companions in distress.

But as a compensation he possesses one
quality which the other animals lack, and
it is the possession of this quality which
saves him from falling into hypochondria ;
— it is his sense of humour. That the
monkey is a born humorist every one
knows who has had the opportunity of
observing him in society — for instance, in
the monkey-house at the Zoo. This sense
of humour does not even desert the poor
monkey kept in solitary confinement. And
sometimes when I have been standing here
for a while watching the mimicry of this
old baboon I have involuntarily had to ask
myself whether he were not making fun
of me. . . .

The negro has finished his recital, and
it is time for the show-piece of the evening

Menagerie 99

to come off". The spectators crowd in
front of the lion-cage, dividing their admira-
tion between Brutus, the Nubian lion, be-
hind the bars and the keeper who, unarmed,
is about to enter the cage. The man
throws off" his overcoat and the " Lion
King" stands before us in all his pride,
pink tights, riding-boots, and his gold-laced
breast covered with decorations — from
Nubia likewise even these. He is small of
stature like Napoleon, and the constant
intercourse with the wild beasts has given
his face a rough and repulsive expression.
He reeks of brandy, to counteract the stale
smell of the cage, and his pomatumed hair
curls neatly round his low-sloping forehead.
The negro hands him a whip, and the
solemn moment is at hand. Proudly the
Lion King creeps into the cage, and
proudly he cracks his whip at the half-
sleeping Brutus. The lion raises himself
with a sullen roar, and, hugging the walls,
begins to wander round his cage. Proudly

lOO Menagerie

the Lion King stretches out his whip, and
obediently like a dog Brutus leaps lazily
over it. Proudly the negro hands his
master a hoop, and wearily and dejectedly
Brutus jumps through it. Brutus is sulky
to-night ; he does not roar as he ought to do.
Things look up, however, towards the end
of the performance, when the Lion King,
standing in a corner of the cage, paralyses
Brutus with a proud look just as he is about
to attack him. Brutus is no longer ob-
stinate, but roars irreproachably, and shows
his yellow fang. A few half - smothered
cries of alarm are heard from the audience,
an old woman faints, a pistol is fired off
while the Lion King, under cover of the
smoke, hurriedly and proudly creeps out of
the cage.

Captive lion, have you then forgotten
that once you were a king yourself, that
once there was a time when all men
trembled at your approach, that the forest
grew silent when your imperious voice

Menagerie loi

resounded ? Fallen monarch, awake from
the degradation of your thraldom ; rise
giant-like and let the thunder of your royal
voice be heard once more !

Brutus, Brutus, vindicator of lost free-
dom, you are too proud to be a slave!
Rend asunder the chains which coward
human cunning has bound around the
sleeping pawer of your limbs !

Shake your flaming lion mane, and,
strong as Samson, in your mighty wrath
bring down the prison walls around you
to crush the Philistines assembled here to
jeer at the impotence of their once dreaded
enemy !

Brutus, Brutus, vindicator of lost free-
dom !

ITALY IN PARIS

At one time I had many patients in the
Roussel Yard. Ten or twelve families
lived there, but none were so badly off, I
believe, as the Salvatore family. At
Salvatore's it was so dark that they were
obliged to burn a little oil-lamp the whole
day, and there was no fireplace except a
brazier which stood in the middle of the
floor. Damp as a cellar it was at all times ;
but when it rained the water penetrated
into the room, which lay a couple of feet
lower than the street.

And nevertheless one • could see in
everything a kind of pathetic struggle
against the gloomy impression which the
dwelling itself made. Old illustrated papers
were pasted up round the walls, the bed

Italy in Paris 103

was neat and clean, and behind an old
curtain in one corner, the family's little
wardrobe was hung up in the neatest
order. Salvatore himself, with skilful
hand, had made the little girl's bed out of
an old box, and in the day one could sit
upon it as if it were a sofa. The corner shelf
where the Madonna stood was adorned with
bright-coloured paper flowers, and there,
too, the small treasures of the family lay
spread out, — ^the gilt brooch which Salvatore
had presented to his wife when they were
married ; the string of corals which her
brother had brought from the coral fishery
in " Barbaria " (Algeria) ; the two gorgeous
cups out of which coffee was drunk on
solemn occasions ; and there, too, stood the
wonderful porcelain dog which Concetta had
once received as a present from a grand
lady, and which was only taken down
on Sundays to be admired more closely.

I did not understand how the mother
managed it; but the little girls were

I04 Italy in Paris

always neat and tidy in their outgrown
clothes, and their faces shone, so washed
and polished were they. The eldest child,
Concetta, had been at the free school for
more than half a year; and it was the
mother's pride to make her read aloud
to me out of her book. She herself
had never learned to read, and although I
allowed myself to be told that Salvatore
read very well, neither he nor I had ever
ventured to try his capabilities. Now,
since Petruccio could hardly ever get out
of bed, Concetta had been obliged to give
up going to school, so that she might stay
at home with her sick brother whilst la
mamma was at her work away in the
eating-house. This place could not be
given up, as not only did she get ten sous
a day for washing dishes, but sometimes
she could bring home scraps under her
apron, which no one else could turn to
account, but out of which she managed to
make a capital soup for Petruccio.

Italy in Paris 105

Salvatore himself worked the whole
day away in La Villette. He was obliged
to be at the stone-mason's yard at six
o clock every morning, and it was much
too far to go home during the mid-day
rest. Sometimes it happened that I was
there when he came home in the evening
after his day's work, and then he looked
very proudly at me when Petruccio
stretched out his arms towards him. He
took his little son up so carefully with his
big horny hands, lifted him on his broad
shoulders, and tenderly leaned his sun-
burnt cheek against the sick little one s
waxen face. Petruccio sat quite quiet and
silent on his father's arm ; sometimes he
laid hold of his father's matted beard with
his thin fingers, and then Salvatore looked
very happy. " Vedete, Signer dot tore,'* he
then would say, "«'^ vero eke sta meglio
sta sera?"^ He received his week's
wages every Saturday, and then he always

1 " Is it not true that he is better to-night ? "

io6 Italy in Paris

came home triumphantly with a little toy
for his son, and both father and mother
knelt down beside the bed to see how
Petruccio liked it. Petruccio, alas! liked
scarcely anything. He took the toy in his
hand, but that was all. Petruccio's face
was old and withered, and his solemn^
weary eyes were not the eyes of a child.
I had never known him cry or complain,
but neither had I seen him smile except
once when he was given a great hairy
horse — a horse which stretched out its
tongue when one turned it upside down.
But it was not every day that a horse like
that could be got.

Petruccio was four years old, but he
could not speak. He would lie hour after
hour quite quiet and silent, but he did not
sleep : his great eyes stood wide open,
and it seemed as if he saw something far
beyond the narrow walls of the room —
'' Sta sempre inpensierOy'^ said Salvatore.

^ << He lies always buried in thought."

Italy in Paris 107

Petruccio was supposed to understand
everything which was said around him,
and nothing of importance was undertaken
in the little family without first trying to
discover Petruccio's opinion of the affair ;
and if any one believed that they could
read disapproval in the features of the
soulless little one, the whole question fell
to the ground at once, and it was after-
wards found that Petruccio had almost
always been right.

On Sundays Salvatore sat at home, and
there were usually some other holiday-
dressed workmen visiting him, and in low-
toned voices they sat and argued about
wages, about news from il paese, and
sometimes Salvatore treated them to a
litre of wine, and they played a game,
alia scqpa. Sometimes it was supposed
that Petruccio wished to look on, and then
his little bed was moved to the bench
where they sat ; and sometimes Petruccio
wished to be alone, and then Salvatore

io8 Italy in Paris

and his guests moved out into the passage.
I had, however, remarked that Petruccio's
wish to be alone, and the consequent
removal of the company to the passage,
usually happened when the wife was away :
if she were at home she saw plainly that
Petruccio wished his father to stay indoors
and not go out with the others. And
Petruccio was right enough there, too.
Salvatore was not very difficult to persuade
if one of the guests wished to treat him in
his turn. Once out in the passage, it
happened often enough that he went off to
the wine-shop too. And once there, it
was not so easy for Salvatore to get away
again.

What was still more difficult was the
coming home. His wife forgave him
certainly, — she had done it so many times
before ; but Salvatore knew that Petruccio
was inexorable, and the thicker the mist
of intoxication fell over him, the more
crushed did he feel himself under

Italy in Paris 109

Petruccio's reproachful eye. No dis-
simulation helped here; Petruccio saw
through it at once. Petruccio could even
see how much he had drunk, as Salvatore
himself confided to me one Sunday even-
ing when I came upon him sitting out in
the passage, in the deepest repentance.
Salvatore was, alas ! obviously uncertain in
his speech that evening, and it did not
need Petruccio's perspicacity to see that
he had drunk more than usual. I asked
him if he would not go in, but he wished
to remain outside to get un poco daria ;
he was, however, very anxious to know if
Petruccio were awake or not, and I
promised to come out and tell him. I
also thought it was best he should sit out
there till his head should clear itself a little
bit, though not so much for Petruccio's
sake as to spare his wife; and for that
matter this was not the first time I had
been Salvatore's confidant in the like
difficult situation. They who see the lives

I lo Italy in Paris

of the poor near at hand cannot be very
severe upon a working man who, after he
has toiled twelve hours a day the whole
week, sometimes gets a little wine into his
head. It is a melancholy fact, but we
must judge it leniently ; for we must not
forget that here at least society has hardly
offered the poorer classes any other dis-
traction.

I therefore advised my friend Salvatore
to sit outside till I came back, and I went
in alone. Inside sat the wife with her
child of sorrow in her arms ; and the even
breathing of the little girls could be heard
from the box. Petruccio was supposed to
know me very well, and even to be fond
of me — although he had never shown it in
any way, nor, as far as I knew, had any
sort of feeling ever been mirrored in his
face. The mother*s eye, so clear-sighted
in everything, nevertheless did not see
that there was no soul in the child's vacant
eye ; the mother's ear, so sensible to each

Italy in Paris 1 1 1

breath of the little one, yet did not hear
that the confused sounds which sometimes
came from his lips would never form
themselves into human speech. Petruccio
had been ill from his birth, his body was
shrunken, and no thought lived under the
child's wrinkled forehead. Unhappily I
could do nothing for him ; all I could hope
for was that the ill-favoured little one
should soon die. And it looked as if his re-
lease were near. That Petruccio had been
worse for some time both the mother and
I had understood ; and this evening he was
so feeble that he was not able to hold his
head up. Petruccio had refused all food
since yesterday, and Salvatore s wife, when
I came in, was just trying to persuade him,
with all the sweet words which only a
mother knows, to swallow a little milk ;
but he would not. In vain the mother
put the spoon to his mouth and said that
it was wonderfully good, in vain did she
appeal to my presence, '' Per fare piacere

112 Italy in Paris

al Signor dottore^' — Petruccio would not.
His forehead was puckered, and his eyes
had a look of painful anxiety, but no
complaint came from his tightly com-
pressed lips.

Suddenly the mother gave a scream.
Petruccio's face was distorted with cramp,
and a strong convulsion shook his whole
little body. The attack was soon over ;
and whilst Petruccio was being laid in his
bed, I tried to calm the mother as well as
I could by telling her that children often
had convulsions which were of very little
importance, and that there was no further
"danger from this one now. I looked up
and I saw Salvatore, who stood leaning
against the door-post. He had taken
courage, and had staggered to the door,
and, unseen by us, he had witnessed that
sight so terrifying to unaccustomed eyes.
He was pale as a corpse, and great tears
ran down the cheeks which had been so
lately flushed with drink. " Castigo di

Italy in Paris 113

Dio / Castigo di Dio / " ^ muttered he
with trembling voice ; and he fell on his
knees by the door, as if he dared not
approach the feeble cripple who seemed to
him like God's mighty avenger.

The unconscious little son had once
more shown his father the right way ;
Salvatore went no more to the wine-shop.

Petruccio grew worse and worse, and
the mother no longer left his side. And
it was scarcely a month after she lost her
place that Salvatore's accident happened :
he fell from a scaffolding and broke his
leg. He was taken to the Lariboisi^re
Hospital ; and the company for whom he
worked paid fifty centimes a day to his
family, which they were not obliged to do,
— ^so that Salvatore's wife had to be very
grateful for it Every Thursday — the
visiting day at the hospital — she was with
him for an hour ; and I too saw him now
and then. The days went on, and with

1 " The punishment of God."
I

1 14 Italy in Paris

Petruccio s mother want increased more
and more. The porcelain dog stood alone
now on the Madonna's shelf; and it was
not long before the holiday clothes went
the same way as the treasures — to the
pawnshop. Petruccio needed broth and
milk every day, and he had them. The
little girls too had enough, I believe, to
satisfy them more or less; but what the
mother herself lived upon I do not know.

I had already tried many times to take
Petruccio to the children's hospital, where
he would have been much better off, but
as usual all my powers of eloquence could
not achieve this : the poor, as is well
known, will hardly ever be separated from
their sick children. The lower middle
class and the town artisans have learnt to
understand the value of the hospital, but
the really poor mother, whose culture is
very low, will not leave the side of her
sick child : the exceptions to this rule are
extremely rare.

Italy in Paris 115

And so came the 1 5th, the dreaded day
when the quarter's rent must be paid,
when the working man drags his mattress
to the pawn-shop, and the wife draws off
her ring, which in her class means much
more than in ours ; the day full of terror,
when numberless suppliants stand with
lowered heads before their landlord, and
when hundreds of families do not know
where they will sleep the next night.

I happened to pass by there on that
very evening, and at the door stood
Salvatore's little girl crying all to herself.
I asked her why she cried, but that she
did not know ; at last, however, I learned
that she cried because " la mamma piange
tanto''^ Inside the yard I ran against
my friend Archangelo Fusco, the street-
sweeper, who lived next door to the Sal-
vatores. He was occupied in dragging his
bed out into the yard, and I did not need to
wait for his explanation to understand that

^ " Mamma cries so."

1 1 6 Italy in Paris

he had been evicted.* I asked him where
he was going to move to, and he hoped to
sleep that night at the Refuge in the Rue
Tocqueville, and afterwards he must find
out some other place. Inside sat Salva-
tore*s wife crying by Petruccio's bed, and
on the table stood a bundle containing
the clothes of the family. The Salvatore
family had not been able to pay their rent,
and the Salvatore family had been evicted.
The landlord had been there that after-
noon, and had said that the room was let
from the morning of the next day. I
asked her where she thought of going, and
she said she did not know.

I had often heard the dreaded landlord
talked of ; the year before I had witnessed
the same sorrowful scene, when he had
turned out into the street a couple of un-
happy families and laid hands upon the
little they possessed. I had never seen

^ The landlord can take everything in such cases except the
bed and the clothes.

Italy in Paris 1 1 7

him personally, but I thought it might be
useful in my study of human nature to
make his acquaintance. Archangelo Fusco
offered to take me to him, and we set forth
slowly. Oh the way my companion in-
formed me that the landlord was ''molto
ricco "/ besides the whole court he owned
a large house in the vicinity, and this did
not surprise me in the least, because I had
long known that he secretly carried on
that most lucrative of all professions —
money-lending to the poor. Archangelo
Fusco considered that he on his side had
nothing to gain by a meeting with the
landlord, and after he had told me that
besides the rent he also owed him ten
francs, we agreed that he should only
accompany me to the entrance.

A shabbily - dressed old man, with a
bloated, disagreeable face opened the door
carefully, and after he had looked me over,
admitted me into the room. I mentioned
my errand, and asked him to allow Salva-

1 1 8 Italy in Paris

tore to settle his rent in a few days' time.
I told him that Salvatore himself lay in the
hospital, that the child was dying, and that
his severity towards these poor people was
inhuman cruelty. He asked who I was,
and I answered that I was a friend of the
family. He looked at me, and with an
ugly laugh he said that I could best show
that by at once paying their rent. I felt
the blood rushing to my head, I hope and
believe it was only with anger, for one
never ought to blush because one is not
rich. I listened for a couple of minutes
whilst he abused my poor destitute Italians
with the coarsest words ; he said that they
were a dirty thieving pack, who did not
deserve to be treated like human beings ;
that Salvatore drank up his wages; that
the street-sweeper had stolen ten francs
from him ; and that they all of them well
deserved the misery in which they lived.

I asked if he needed this money just
now, and from his answer I understood

Italy in Paris 1 19

that here no prayers would avail. He was
rich ; he owned over 50,000 francs in
money, he said, and he had begun with
nothing of his own. It is a melancholy
fact that the man who has risen from de-
stitution to riches is usually cruel to the
poor: one would hope and believe the
contrary, but this is unhappily the case.

My intention when I went there was to
endeavour with diplomatic cunning to effect
a kind of arrangement, but alas ! I was
not the man for that. I lost my temper
altogether and went further than I had
intended to do, as usual. At first he
answered me scornfully and with coarse
insults, but he soon grew silent, and I
ended by talking alone I should say for
nearly an hour's time. It would serve no
purpose to relate what I said to him ; there
are occasions when it is legitimate to show
one's anger in action, but it is always stupid
to show it in words. I said to him, how-
ever, that this money which had been

1 20 Italy in Paris

squeezed out of the poor was the wages of
sin ; that his debt to all these poor human
beings was far greater than theirs to him.
I pointed to the crucifix which hung against
the wall, and I said that if any divine
justice was to be found on this earth,
vengeance could not fail to reach him, and
that no prayers could buy his deliverance
from the punishment which awaited him,
for his life was stained with the greatest of
all sins — namely cruelty towards the poor.
'*And take care, old blood-sucker!" I
shouted out at last with threatening voice ;
" You owe your money to the poor, but you
owe yourself to the devil, and the hour is
near when he will demand his own again ! "
I checked myself, startled, for the man sank
down in his chair as if touched by an un-
seen hand, and pale as death, he stared at
me with a terror which I felt communicated
itself to me. The curse I had just called
down rang still in my ears with a strange
uncanny sound, which I did not recognise ;

Italy in Paris 1 2 1

and it seemed to me as if there were some
one else in the room besides us two.

I was so agitated that I have no recol-
lection of how I came away. When I got
home it was already late, but I did not
sleep a wink all night ; and even to this
day I think with wonder of the waking
dream which that night filled me with an
inconceivable emotion. I dreamt that I
had condemned a man to death.

When I got there in the forenoon the
blow had already fallen upon me. I knew
what had happened although no human
being had told me. All the inhabitants of
the yard were assembled before the door
in eager talk. *' Sapete Signor dottare ? " ^
they called out as soon as they saw me.

" Yes, I know," answered I, and hurried
to Salvatore*s. I bent down over Petruccio
and pretended to examine his chest; but
breathless I listened to every word that the
wife said to me.

1 "Do you know, doctor?"

122 Italy in Paris

The landlord had come down there late
yesterday evening, she said. The little
girl had run away and hidden herself when
he came into the room ; but Concetta had
remained behind her mother's chair, and
when he asked why they were so afraid of
him, Concetta had answered because he
was so cruel to mamma. He had sat there
upon the bench a long time without saying
a word, but he did not look angry, Salva-
tore's wife thought. At last he said to her
she need not be anxious about the rent ;
she could wait to pay it till next time.
And when he left he laid a five-franc piece
upon the table to buy something for
Petruccio. Outside the door he had met
Archangelo Fusco with his bed on a hand-
cart, preparing to take himself off, and he
had told the street-sweeper too that he
could remain in his lodging. He had asked
Archangelo Fusco about me, and Arch-
angelo Fusco, who judged me with friend-
ship's all-forgiving forbearance, had said

Italy in Paris 123

nothing unkind about me. He had then
gone on his way, and according to what
was discovered by the police investigations
he had, contrary to his habit, passed the
evening in the wine-shop close by, and the
porter had thought he looked drunk when
he came home. As he lived quite alone,
and for fear of thieves or from avarice,
attended to his housekeeping himself, no
one knew what had happened ; but lights
were burning in the house the whole night,
and when he did not come down in the
morning, and his door was fastened inside,
they had begun to suspect foul play and
sent for the police. He was still warm
when they cut him down ; but the doctor
whom the police sent for said that he had
already been dead a couple of hours.
They had not been able to discover the
smallest reason for his hanging himself.
All that was known was that he had been
visited in the evening by a strange gentle-
man who had stayed with him more than

1 24 Italy in Paris

an hour, and the neighbours had heard a
violent dispute going on inside. No one
in the house had seen the strange gentle-
man before, and no one knew who he was.

• . . . . •

The Roussel Yard belongs now to the
dead man's brother ; and to my joy the new
landlord s first action was to have the rooms
in it repaired, so that now they look more
habitable. He also lowered the rents.

The Salvatores moved thence when
Petruccio died ; but the place is still full of
Italians. * I go there now and then ; and
in spite of all the talk about the Paris
doctors' Jalousie demitiery I have never yet
met any one who tried to supplant me in
this practice.

BLACKCOCK-SHOOTING

The passion for the chase is man s passion
for pursuing, and if possible killing,
animals living in liberty. The passion for
the chase is the expression of the same
impulse of the stronger to overthrow the
weaker which goes through the whole
animal series. The wild beast's lust for
murder has been tamed to unconscious
instinct, and thousand years of culture lie
between our wild ancestors who slew each
other with stone axes for a piece of raw fish,
and the sportsman of our day. But it is
only the method which has been refined,
the principle is the same.

The passion for killing is an animal
instinct, and as such, impossible to eradicate.
But it behoves man, conscious of his high

1 26 Blackcock-Shooting

rank, to struggle against this vice of his
wild childhood, this phantom from the
grave in which sleep the progenitors of his
race.

I cannot give you here in detail my
proposals for new game laws — the matter
is not yet quite ripe — but I am very willing
to explain the fundamental principle on
which they rest. I maintain that the very
great start which mankind has gained
through the law of natural selection has
made the struggle between the man and
the animal too unequal to be fair ; I main-
tain that killing animals is an unmanly and
an ignoble occupation.

Yes, but as regards wild beasts, wolves,
foxes, etc., you don*t really mean to stand
up for them ? Of course I do ! First of
all it has never been proved that the wild
animals attacked man the first And
in the hopeless, defensive warfare in
which the animals with vanishing strength
struggle against mankind, all my sym-

Blackcock-Shooting 127

pathies are unhesitatingly given to the
weaker. Yes, it is quite true that now
and then they take a hen or a sheep from
us ; but what is that in comparison with all
we take from them, from woods and fields
which were meant to be their larder as
well as ours ? And do not talk too much
about the ferocity of the wolf, you men,
who have the heart treacherously to put
out poisoned food for the starving animal !
Perhaps you have not seen this way of
killing wolves, but I have. I have seen
the victim's agony written in the snow ;
seen how he has walked a little way and
then begun to totter ; has fallen, and with
ebbing strength tried to get up again ; in
mad delirium has rolled in the snow whilst
the poison was burning his bowels, and
then at last has lain down to die. And I
have watched the trapper when he joyfully
came to seize his prey.

Do not talk too much about the cunning
of the fox, you men who have invented

1 28 Blackcock-Shooting

the spring- traps which cut into his leg
when he tries to take the lying bait which
you have set out for him. In England
you have not seen this way of catching
foxes, but I have. I have seen the
prisoner struggling with his last strength
to get free, with the blood flowing from
his wounded leg, cut to the bone by the
sharp iron ; I have heard the animal's
moan far off in the night, and I have seen
the footmarks in the snow of his comrades,
who have anxiously roamed around.

'' But this is horrible ! how is it possible
that such a thing can be allowed ? "

" Yes, you are right ; it is horrible ; but
this is the death which awaits many foxes
both in Russia and Scandinavia, and in
Germany too."

'* In England it would be considered a
crime to kill a fox in that way."

" Yes, I know well that England is the
country for lovers of animals. What a
fine graceful animal is the fox "

Blackcock-Shooting 1 29

" Only think what would become of
the noblest of all sports, that of fox-
hunting "

Fox-hunting ! and you call that a noble
sport? I will tell you what fox-hunt-
ing is — no, I think I will not tell you. I
will only say that were I a fox, I think
I would rather try to cross the Channel
and become a continental fox than to be
hunted to death by your hounds and your
spurred horses. And the spur which
urges you on, what is that? The love
of galloping away on a fiery horse in
wild chase over hedge and ditch — ah!
I understand that joy well! But why
must you have an animal flying in
terror for its life before you ? Why not
leave the pursuers and the pursued to
themselves if the latter is doomed to die
and has to die ? Why do you wish to wit-
ness his desperate struggle for life against
his manifold stronger enemy ? And why,
if everything be all right, do you often

K

1 30 Blackcock-Shooting

enough feel something akin to satisfaction
if by chance the fox escapes ? I only ask,
I dare not answer — I dare not for fear of
my Editor. And I think we had better
drop this subject altogether; it is too
dangerous a one to discuss before an
English public.

Once when travelling in Norway I
heard of a famous man, the wealthiest of
that country. I was told he had made his
fame and his money as a promoter of a
new method of catching whales. Nature
to protect the whales has given them their
slippery coat and their thick lining of
blubber, but that man has overreached
Nature. He kills them with dynamite.
You ask, as I did, when I heard the
horrible story, if that man has not been
hanged. Alas, my poor friend ! we do not
understand the world at all ; the man has
by no means been hanged. True that a
cord has been put round his neck, but it
was the cord of Commander of St. Olaf —

Blackcock'Shooting 131

sapristi! they are not very particular in
that country! I am very sorry for him,
but were I to meet that man I would
decline to shake hands with him. What
have the whales done to man to be treated
in this way ? Have they not always been
inoffensive and harmless ever since that
kind old whale who happened to swallow
the prophet Jonah, and then spat him
carefully back on the shore ? Only think
what a horrible idea to blast in pieces a
sensitive body as one blasts in pieces a
rock ! Think what a barbarous conception
of man's position towards animals is here
allowed to be put in practice, think of that
— before the man is promoted to a Grand
Cross of his St. Olaf !

Before giving the last touches to my
new game-laws — the fundamental prin-
ciples of which I have hinted to you —
I am perfectly willing to listen to any
legitimate claims of the sportsman, and I
shall be glad to try to satisfy them if they

1 32 Blackcock-Shooting

do not harm the animals. But on one
point I am firm. Under no pretext shall
children be allowed to shoot, on account of
the great development this occupation
gives to the instinctive cruelty of the child,
and the rude colour it lends to the forma-
tion of the whole character. Kindness to
our inferiors we ought to be taught as
children ; life will surely teach us to grow
hard enough. Nor are children to be
allowed to watch shooting ; for men's faces
turn so ugly when they are pursuing a
flying animal, and the child should be
protected as much as possible from the
sight of anything unbeautiful.

Ah ! I remember so well a little lad up in
Sweden who had escaped from school one
clear spring morning. He saw how the trees
were budding and the meadows in flower,
and high up in the air he heard the song
of the first skylark. The boy lay down
silently in the grass and listened with
thankfulness and joy. He knew well what

Blackcock'Shooting 133

the skylark sang : it sang that the long
winter was over, and that it was spring-
time in the North. And he stared at the
little bird high up in the bright air ; he
stared at it till the tears came into his
eyes. He would have liked to kiss the
wings which had borne it far over the
wide sea home again ; he would have liked
to warm it at his heart in the frosty spring
nights ; he would have liked to guard its
summer nest from all evil. Yes, surely the
skylark could have remained longer in the
land of eternal summer ! But it knew that
up in the cold North there wandered about
men longing for spring breezes and summer
sun, for flowers and song of birds. So it
flew home, the courageous little bird, home
to the frozen field from where the pale
morning sun melted the white frost-flowers
of the night, where primroses and anemones
were waking up from their winter sleep.
With the head hidden under the down of
its wings it kept out the cold of the night.

134 Blackcock-Shooting

and when the horizon brightened, it flew
up and sang its joyful morning hymn —
sang Nature's promise of life-bringing sun.
But the next day the boy read in the
newspaper under the title : Forerunner
of Spring — ** Yesterday the first skylark
of the year was shot, and brought to the
Kings palace." Man had killed the
innocent little bird on whose wings Spring
had flown to the North, and whose little
songster s heart was beating with Nature s
jubilant joy ! And in the palace they had
eaten the gray-coated little messenger of
summer! That day the boy swore his
Hannibal oath against shooting. And
when he fell asleep that night he dreamt
about a republican rebellion.

. . • • •

Do not believe that this is nothing but
theoretical nonsense — that I am discussing
matters of which I know nothing. For
there was a time when I felt the fascina-
tion of the gun myself ; there was a time

Blaekcock-Shooting 135

when I too was a great shot. The man
who is now sitting here and scribbling
about his love for animals, shoots no more ;
but it is with an indulgent smile on his
lips that he looks back upon the whimsi-
cal sportsman of bygone days.

Yes, I have been a sportsman — a great
sportsman. I have often made long
journeys to join shooting parties, and
more than once there was no one in the
whole company who fired off as many
cartridges as I did. All my best friends
were amongst sportsmen, and it was
seldom indeed I failed to be present on
the opening day of the season. We had
lots of good sport about my place, but the
best was blackcock - shooting. Do you
know anything about blackcock-shooting "i
A very fine sport. How many pleasant
recollections have I not from those happy
sporting days! how many joyful rambles
through the silent forests! how many
peaceful hours passed away in half-

1 36 Blackcock'Shooting

waking dreams, with the head leaning
against a mossy hillock and soft murmur-
ing pines all around! And how happy,
too, was my poor old Tom during these
never-to-be-forgotten days of sport ! How
glad was he to scamper about on the soft
moss instead of the stones of the streets !
how contentedly he lay down to harmonious
contemplations by my side — so near that I
could now and then caress his beautiful
head and catch a friendly glance from his
half-open eyes. He knew I was always
in splendid temper on those shooting days,
and that was all he required to be perfectly
happy himself. But if I begin to speak
about my dear old dog we shall never
arrive at the blackcock, and it is about
them I want to speak to-day.

The gamekeeper had long known the
whereabouts of the birds, and carefully
exploring the woods he had often enough
heard the call of the hen ; the blackcock
chicks had, so to speak, grown up under

Blackcock'Shooting 137

his eyes, and he had tried in all sorts of
ways to take care of them, the good game-
keeper ! And now since they had grown
up, the important thing had been to keep
them undisturbed lest they should be
dispersed. We sportsmen came down the
day before the opening day, and well do I
remember those pleasant evenings, with a
stroll in the forest to clear the lungs from
the dust of the town, and then supper in
the gamekeeper's cottage in excellent com-
pany, flavoured with stories of first-rate
shots and marvellous adventures. At first
I used to be rather shy, and would silently
sit and listen to the others' wonderful tales,
but I soon got to learn the trick, and
having once mastered the technical terms,
I had shot every kind of game at every
conceivable range. After dinner, when
we got hold of our pipes, I had killed
swallows with bullets at tremendous dis-
tances, and my friends began to consult
me about guns and cartridges and all the

138 Blackcock-Shooting

other paraphernalia, and were most anxious
to have my advice about the arrangements
for the next day. Tom lay beside us in
the grass and stared with solemn dignity
at the company, winking knowingly at
me with one eye when no one else was
looking, whilst I was telling them about
his pedigree and some of his most astound-
ing achievements. When we had de-
livered ourselves of all our stories, and
every one's power of invention had come
to an end, we began to yawn, and soon
dispersed to our sleeping-quarters to gain
strength for next day's hard work.

I remember so well my first blackcock.
I had happened to come upon the birds
during a short walk with the gamekeeper
in the afternoon, and I had heard the
mother's anxious call, and had seen some
clumsy blackcock children following after
her into the forest. I was so excited that
I could not close my eyes all night, and
could think of nothing but blackcock.

Blackcock-Shooting 1 39

Outside, the enchanting summer night
allured me to its darkening fells and mys-
terious woods, and it was as though I could
see before my eyes the condemned black-
cock where they sat and slept their last
sleep. Everything was still in the cottage,
and, silent as ghosts, Tom and I glided out
armed to the teeth. Yes, I could see the
blackcock so distinctly before me, that
I had scarcely reached the glen where we
had come upon them in the afternoon than
I fired off my gun. No blackcock fell.
But hardly had the dreadful thunder of the
gun died away than the whole forest woke
up. Startled small birds fluttered backward
and forward deeper into the brushwood.
A little squirrel peeped cautiously between
two branches, dropped in his fright the fir-
cone he was crunching, and then jumped
hastily away. The nasty smoke spread
with the wind farther in the wood, and
pinched the nose of a hare who sat half-
asleep under a bush. ^' I smell human

140 Blackcock-Shooting

blood," said the hare to himself, like the
giant to Tom Thumb, and off he went in
a tremendous hurry to find a safer refuge
for the day's rest. Tom and I watched
him with interest as he stopped short in
catching sight of us, stamped with his paws,
and then scampered off. The hare has
the reputation of being rather ugly ; we
noticed, on the contrary, that he was quite
graceful in his elegant leap over a fallen
fir-tree, and I was sorry he did not give us
a little longer time in which to look at him.
1 1 is not every day one gets a hare ; and
very satisfied with the beginning of our
day, we went on farther into the forest,
keeping a sharp look-out for the blackcock.
We soon left the forest track and wandered
along over the moss, soft as velvet, with-
out the slightest idea where we were going.
So we came upon a little brook which
cheerfully murmured in our ears as he
hurried along, would we not like to
accompany him down to the lake.^ and

Blackcock-Shooting 1 4 1

that we did, to make sure that he did
not go astray in the gloom between
hillocks and stones. We could not see
him, but we heard him singing to himself
the whole time. Now and then he stopped
short at a jutting rock or fallen tree and
waited for us, and then he rushed down
the vale quicker than ever to make up for
lost time. Yes, it was easy enough for
him, who had nothing to carry but some
flowers and dry leaves, to rush off" with
such a speed ; he should have had that
confounded gun to drag with him, he
would then have seen how easy a matter
it was! And thus it happened that he
ran away from us. We did not know
what to do next, so we fired off a shot
again. No blackcock fell. But we had
scarcely time to load the gun again before
we came upon the whole covey. Fancy
if I had not had time to load ! But they
got it all right. There was a tremendous
whirring up in the tree-tops, and on heavy

142 Blackcock-Shooting

wings they dispersed in different directions.
We thought the blackcock was a very fine
bird, who looks exceedingly well in a
forest.

Hallo ! There he came again, our
friend the brook, dancing toward us
happier than ever, and I bent down to kiss
his night-cool face just as he glided past
me. Ah! now there was no longer any
danger that he should lose his way, for
already the night had fled away on swift
dwarf- feet to hide itself deeper in the
forest under the thick firs. Around us
birches and aspens put on their green
coats, and amongst the moss and fern
at our feet small flowers stretched their
pretty heads out of the gloom and looked
at us as we passed. And deep below
in the misty valley a lake opened its
eyelid.

So we got sick of blackcock-shooting
and we sat down on a mossy stone to
read a chapter of Nature's bible whilst the

Blackcock-Shooting 143

sun rose above the fir-tops and the sky
brightened over our heads.

The disturber of the peace sat there
quite quiet, silently wondering to himself
how it could be possible that men exist
who have the heart to bring sorrow and
death into a friendly forest. And the
small birds also began to wonder, wonder
whether that dreadful thunder which awoke
them was only a bad dream ; the whole
forest was so silent again, and perchance
it might not be so dangerous to try a little
song ! And so they took courage one after
another and began each to sing their tune.
Some were perfect artists and sang long
arias with trills and variations ; some sang
folk-songs ; some knew nothing but a little
refrain, and that they did not in the least
mind repeating over and over again ; and
some only knew how to hum a single little
note, but they were just as merry for all
that. And now and again one could hear
among all the soprani a rich melodious

144 Blackcock-Shooting

alto who sang an old ballad — listen! that
is the greatest artist in the whole forest ;
that is the blackbird !

So I thanked my little wild friends for
their song; they knew well how happy I
felt with them. But I was obliged to turn
home again. I told them that I was a
sportsman and that I had to be at the
rendezvous with my party at seven sharp.
I told them to be prudent, to listen care-
fully for the sound of our voices and to fly
on quick wings as soon as we approached
— they must be aware that men are so
unmusical that they do not know how to
appreciate a soulful artist ; that they are
so unkind, one can never know what may
happen. And the merry squirrels, the
red-skinned little acrobats of the woods, I
told them also to be on the look-out, to
take care not to crunch their fir-cones too
loudly and not to peep too much from
behind their tree-^they must know that
men are so cold in their hearts that to keep

Blackcock'Shooting 145

warm they wrap themselves in furs made
from their small red coats. I had also
prepared a speech for the blackcock, but,
as I never caught sight of them again, I
could not deliver it. But I had the im-
pression that they had grasped the situa-
tion thoroughly, and that was all I wanted
of them.

I was punctual at the rendezvous, and
the party set off in excellent spirits. We
roamed about the whole day, strode miles
and miles with our huge game-bags
dangling behind our backs, sank knee-
deep into morasses and bogs, climbed over
hundreds of hedges and tore our faces
with the branches of the tangled brush-
wood. We were all to meet in the evening
at the shooting-box, where supper (with
roast blackcock) was to be served, and
where also, idyllic enough, ladies were to
come to give the sportsmen welcome, and
to share the spoil.^

As one sportsman after the other, hungry

146 Blackcock-Shooting

and disappointed, reached the meeting-
place, dragging his gun after him, those
who were already there looked eagerly
at his bag. I was one of the last, and I
saw at once that the situation was gloomy.
I was also in a bad temper, having just
discovered that I had unfortunately left my
gun behind somewhere, and I could not
remember in the least where it might be.
I was very disagreeably surprised to see
one of the party with a cry of triumph seize
hold of my bag. The bag looked really as
if it were filled, but the fact was I was
absolutely unprepared for such importunate
examination. I protested and said it con-
tained nothing but small birds and squirrels,
but he took the bag from me and the
whole party watched with avaricious eyes
when he thrust in his hand and fumbled
in the bag. After he had pulled out my
whole little shooting -library, Heine and
Alfred de Musset and my old friend
Leopardi, all the sportsmen looked at each

Blackcock-Shooting 147

other with amazement. And I quite lost
my head. They became absolutely furious
when, with my unfortunate absent-minded-
ness, I happened to let out that I had made
a little private excursion before sunrise and
by chance had come across some black-
cock. ^^But had you not time to fire at
them?'' they cried, shaking me by the
arms and pulling at my coat. '^Yes, of
course^ I had tim^ to fire^ but the blackcock
had also time to get away'' " Did you not
aim at the thick of the covey ? " they yelled
with bloodshot eyes and contorted faces.
'* No^ I think that I aimed at a little cloud,
and, for the matter of that, I think I hit it,
for a moment later I saw that the sky was
beautifully blue." My remark about the
cloud must have been to the point, for it
made them absolutely dumbfounded ; they
only shook their heads in silence and stared
at me while I put my books in the bag
again. I had not time to stay longer,
having to go and look at the effects of the

148 Blackcock-Shooting

sunset deeper in the wood, and I politely
begged them to excuse me for breaking
up the party.

I had not gone many steps before there
broke out a frightful dispute amongst them
as to who was guilty of having brought
me amongst them, and, as far as I could
make out, they called me "that idiot."

I was never invited to that place any
more. For the matter of that, it was an
observation I often made — I was never
invited more than once to any place. To
my astonishment I saw myself cut out
from one house -party after another, and
there sprang up a rumour that I brought
bad luck with me. Isn't it odd, this often-
observed tendency to superstition amongst

sportsmen ?

• • • • «

I have really no time to linger any

longer over my new game-laws, for I have

so many other reforms concerning the

animals at hand. Only think how much

Blackcock-Shooting 149

there is to be done for domestic animals
also ! The division of labour forms here
a most important chapter. The domestic
animals will only have to work a certain
number of hours a day, in proportion to
their strength, and not, as now, work
themselves to death. And so when age
comes upon them men will have to try to
give back to the tired animals a small part
of all that these humble fellow-workmen
have given to them as long as they were
able. Surely the domestic animals belong
to the family ; and just as the old labourer
is allowed to end his days in peace in his
little cottage, so shall the old horse, when
his eyes begin to grow dim and his legs to
get stiff, be allowed to rest in his stall ;
and now and then one should go and pet
the old servant with grateful hands, and
give him his bit of bread as before. The
old worn-out ox, surely he too might be
allowed at last to glean a little dry hay
from the fields which he in his strong days

1 50 Blackcock-Shooting

has so many times ploughed for the seed,
which year after year filled the farmer s
bam with golden sheaves and sweet clover.
And the kind, sympathetic little donkeys,
whose whole life is a series of self-
renunciation, and whose melancholy is an
unheard protest against the degradation
into which they have fallen — surely I shall
not forget you in my reforms, my poor
Italian friends ! And keep up your
courage, resigned little donkeys! your
cause is a good one, the tyranny of
barbarians shall come to an end one day,
and the oppressed animals shall be given
back their right to enjoy life, even they!
And the day will come when you are to
be reinstated in the high social position
which your misunderstood intelligence and
your subtle humour entitle you to hold,
and when you shall throw back in the
faces of your oppressors the epithet which
short-sighted men now apply to you !
The sanitary condition of animals is to

Blackcock'Shooting 1 5 1

be improved a great deal. Hospitals and
asylums for sick and aged animals are to
be founded. Up till now I know personally
of only two almshouses, that in London
for " lost and starving dogs " — where they
are not so badly cared for — and that in
Florence for aged and infirm cats — it
includes a criche for lost and orphan
kittens (it has been founded by an English
lady, I believe).

The jurisdiction is to be entirely
changed. Flogging is only to be allowed
in certain exceptional cases, and only
after serious remonstrances and repeated
warnings. There is nothing in the whole
of creation so stubborn as a school-boy
when he tries his best ; well, now, when
one is no longer allowed to flog him, why
may one then be allowed to beat the
animal whose duller perception ought so
much the more to protect him from the
birch-rod }

Capital execution — I recognise its

1 52 Blackcock-Shooting

necessity — is to be changed from arbitrary
barbarity to an institution watched over
by mildness and tenderness for the con-
demned animal. The animal-executioners
should form a corporation apart, kept
under the severest supervision. The
profession is a repulsive but a necessary
one, and the individuals who enlist them-
selves on its roll deserve high wages.
• • • • .

It was never meant that man should be
an autocratic tyrant in the great society
which peoples the world, but a constitutional
monarch. I had dreamt of a republic, but
I admit that our earth is not yet ripe for
this form of government. Yes, man is the
ruler of the earth ; always victorious, he
carries his blood-stained banner round the
world, and his kingdom has no longer any
limit. But man is an upstart — I, at any
rate, cannot believe all his talk about his
high birth. He will try to take us in
by saying that he is a foundling who was

Blackcock-Shooting 1 53

mysteriously put into the nursery of creation,
and that he is of far nobler origin than any-
body else on the whole earth. It is true
there is something peculiar about him, and
that he is domineering and arrogant : that
he showed early enough. Even when a
baby, and lying at Nature's mother-breast,
he pushed away the other children of the
earth, and drank the strength of life in
deep draughts. Hardly could he crawl
before he scratched his kind nurse in the
face and beat his weaker foster-brothers.
So he grew up to be a true bully, a
brutish Protanthropos, breaking down each
obstacle, subduing with the right of the
stronger all opposition. And the law of
selection enlarged his facial angle, and
culture put arms in his hands. How
could the sickle -like claws of Ursus
spelaus (cave-bear) prevail against his
trident studded with thorns or twig-spikes
or set with razor-edged shells ? What could
the six-inch long canines of Machsrodus

154 Blackcock-Shooting

do against his sharpened flint? And so
they disappeared, one after the other, these
vanquished giants, into the gloom of past
ages. But the power of man expanded
more and more, and higher and higher
flew his thoughts. Now the earth lies at
his feet, and he prepares to assault heaven !
And he has been so spoiled by all his
success, so refined by all civilisation, that
he turns up his aristocratic nose whenever
one reminds him of his childhood. And
his humble old ancestors, among whom his
cradle stood, and all his poor relations who,
homeless, rove about the earth, these he
will not own at all, and he is so hard to
them. But man is no longer young — no
one knows exactly how many hundred
thousand years he carries on his back;
but I think it is time for him to reflect a
little upon all the evil he has done in his
days, and try to grow a little kinder in
his old age. The day will come when the
last man will lie down to die, and when a

Blackcock-Shooting 155

new-crowned king of creation will mount
the throne — le rat est morty vive le roil
So falls the twilight of ages round the
sarcophagus where the dead monarch
sleeps in the Pantheon of Palaeontology.
The dust covers the inscription which
records all the honorary titles of the dead,
and the standards which witnessed his
victories moulder away. Up there in the
new planet sits a professor, and lectures
about the remains from prehistoric times,
and he hands round to his audience a
fragile cranium, which is carefully ex-
amined by wondering students. It is our
cranium, with that upright facial angle and
that large brain-pan which was our pride !
And the professor makes a casual remark
about Homo Sapiens^ and he points out
the fang which is still to be seen in the
jaw.

We learn from the long story of the
development of our race that the hunter-
stage was the lowest of all human con-

1 56 Blackcock-Shooting

ditions, the most purely animal. The
pursuing and killing of animals for mere
pleasure is a humiliating reminiscence
from this time of savagery. Man's right
over the animal is limited to his right of
defence, and his right of existence. The
former can only very seldom be evoked
in our country ; the latter cannot be evoked
by our class.

A man of culture recognises his obliga-
tions towards animals as a compensation
for the servitude he imposes on them.
The pursuing and killing of animals for
mere pleasure is incompatible with the
fulfilment of these obligations. Sympathy
extending beyond the limit of humanity,
i,e. kindness to animals, is one of the latest
moral qualities acquired by mankind.
This sympathy is absolutely lacking in
the lowest human races, and the degree
of this sympathy possessed by an indi-
vidual marks the distance which separates
him from his primitive state of savagery.

Blackcock'Shooting 1 57

An individual who enjoys the pursuing
and killing of animals is thus to be con-
sidered as a transitional type between a
savage and a man of culture. He forms
the missing link in the evolution of the
mind from brutishness to humanity.

TO

^< The firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend. '

Byron.

We have camped together for the whole
of ten years. We have stuck to each
other in both joy and sorrow; honestly
we have shared good and evil.

When I am happy he is also happy;
he does not for a moment consider if he
has any personal reason to cheer up ; he
doesn't ask for any explanations ; he only
thinks of partaking in my pleasure — only
a glance, a nod, or a single friendly word
is enough for him, and his whole honest
face lights up with my joy. And when I
am depressed and miserable, he then sits
so sorrowfully by my side. He does not

To 159

try to console me, for he knows how little
words of pity avail ; he says nothing, for
he knows that silence is a comfort when
one is sad. He only looks steadfastly
at me, and maybe puts his big head on
my knee. He knows that he cannot
fathom what it is that worries me; that
his poor, dark brain cannot follow me in
all I am thinking about; but his faithful
heart anyhow wants to claim his share
of my burden.

Others think I am quick-tempered and
angry, and pay me back in the same way ;
his patient indulgence knows how to
forgive everything; his friendship stands
the trial against all injustice. Am I
nervous and hard on him when I leave
him, he rewards evil with good and
comes just as friendly and caressingly to
meet me when I come back. Others sit in
judgment over my many faults, and have
only words of blame for whatever I take
in hand; he tries with loving eagerness

i6o To

to find out the least ugly side of every-
thing; he refiises to believe me capable
of anything wrong. When I defend a
cause, I am too often considered to be in
the wrong ; but he thinks always as I do.
In the moment of adversity no friends
are to be found ; he is always at my side
ready to defend me against any peril,
happy, if required, to give his life for
mine.

He never complains ; he is always
satisfied, however uncomfortable he is,
if only he may be allowed to be with
me. He can sit for hours out in the
street waiting patiently, in cold and rain,
whilst I am visiting some of my acquaint-
ances where he is not received. Is there
no room in the carriage when I drive,
he runs just as cheerfully behind me ; he
is even delighted when I am driving; he
is proud of me ; he thinks it looks grand
Do I go out in my boat, without hesita-
tion he jumps in the water after me ; he

To i6i

swims as long as he has any breath left,
and when his strength begins to give
out, with a last effort he raises himself
out of the water to look after the boat,
but to return to the shore he never
dreams of. When I travel by train, he
sits, without complaining, cramped up in
his little compartment for however long
it may be, without a scrap of comfort,
with the sharp wind blowing straight
through, sore in all his bones with the
continual shaking, softened by no springs,
black in his face as a sweep from the
smoke of the engine. And anyhow,
whenever the train stops, he shouts out
cheerfully that he is there, and all well
on board. Have I time to run for-
ward and look at him, he peeps out
patiently and contentedly through his
little barred window, and presses his
dry nose against my hand — never a hint
that he is aware how uncomfortable he is,
compared to me in my luxurious wagon-

M

i62 To

lit; never the slightest complaint against
the railway company who has done so
surprisingly little for travellers of his
class.

But if he, out of delicacy for me, has
never wanted to make any complaint,
I do not see why I should be kept back
from doing so by any such consideration.
And I may as well tell you that I am
thinking of getting up a petition to pro-
test against the unfair distribution of
comfort for railway travellers. I have
been inquiring about it for the many
years I have knocked about on the rail-
ways of all nations, and I am pretty sure
that I may count upon a great number
of signatures from travellers concerned.
Man, who always takes the best of every-
thing, and thinks of nobody but himself,
has also succeeded in securing all sorts of
advantages from the railway companies —
advantages which exclusively benefit him,
but which are a crying injustice towards

To 163

other travellers, who have also paid for
their tickets, and consequently have a
right, even they, to claim the fulfilment of
the obligations which the railway company
has accepted towards them. If I am waked
up in the night in my comfortable berth
by the heating apparatus having gone
wrong, and find the compartment cold,
I have only to complain to the conductor ;
but I have innumerable times heard
loud complaints from the dog -compart-
ments about the ice-cold night-wind blow-
ing straight through them, and I have
never noticed any one pay the slightest
attention to this. If my neighbour lights
a cigar, and having blown a cloud of
smoke in my face, asks me if I object
to his smoking, although it is not a smok-
ing compartment, I have only to answer
'* Yes,'* to get rid of the smoke ; but who
has ever asked the dogs if they object
to the thick fumes of coal which the
engine puffs in their faces the whole time.

164 To

where the poor fellows sit in the front
van ?

All trains stop at certain places for
refreshment, and we have only to run into
the buffet to eat our fill ; but is there
any one who knows how difficult it is
to get a little food and a drink of water
for a travelling dog ? The minutes are
counted, and you are served in turn as
you come to the buffet, you believe.
No, not in the very least, the dogs are
always skipped over, even if they have
their money lying ready before them on
the table ; and as often as not, when
their turn comes the bell rings, and the
train is off. When I was in the first
stage of my human knowledge — the
Idealistic — I always asked for some food
for my dog ; that was no good, no waiter
was kind enough to listen to that. Later,
when in the second stage — that of Vanish-
ing Illusions — I asked at once for a beef-
steak for my dog ; that was not much

To 165

better, the chances of getting anything
are very small. In the third stage — that
of Hopeless Pessimism— I immediately
ask for dinner for two, and turn two
chairs at the table d'hSte; Tappio dis-
appears instantly under the table, and I
hand down to him his portion as it is
placed before his chair. I have acquired
such a practice in this that nobody notices
where the food goes, and silent as a ghost,
Tappio swallows down both cutlets and
pastry in one gulp — the only thing which
has made him lose countenance has been
the, in Italy, not uncommon practice of
serving ice-cream, of the inconvenience of
which, at railway dinners, I agree with
him. I remember how once in Macon
— the Paris -Turin night -train used to
stop there for supper — we had as neigh-
bours a peaceful family of bourgeois, the
members of which, one after the other,
dropped their knives and forks as the
dinner proceeded, and stared at me and

i66 To

my rapidly vanishing double portions with
increasing amazement. At last a little
old lady, who was of the party, exclaimed,
quite aloud, '* Voilci un homnte qtie je ne
voudrais pas inviter cL dtner, il serait ca-
pable de manger Us assiettes aussi / "
• • • • •

Yes, we have seen a good deal of the
world ; we have met many people on our
way ; our experience of life is large enough.
There was a time when we were ambitious
we also, very ambitious. We dreamt of
prize medals and certificates for both of us,
of Persian carpets under our feet, and of
roasted ortolans flying straight into our
mouths. That time is past, one of us is
already gray, but no roasted ortolans have
flown into our mouths, nor any Persian
carpets spread themselves under our feet.
And when the floor feels too cold, I lay
down my cloak for my comrade to lie upon.
And we begin to realise what man is worth.
We used to be idealists because we believed

To 167

that others were idealists. We were gentle
and harmless as lambs because we believed
that others were so. We were philan-
thropists. But we have discovered that
we were mistaken. Men are not at all
kind to each other. They talk so much
about friendship, but there are only very
few of them who are capable of realising
the true signification of this word.

But, to be sure, they laugh if one gives
to a dog's faithful devotion the name of
friendship, if with thankful recognition one
strives to repay as far as lies in one's power
the humble comrade whom they call but a
soulless animal, whose fine, sensitive thought
they call instinct, and for whose honest,
noble soul they deny all right to live any
longer than his faithful dog-heart beats.

If this be not virtue, this all-sacrificing,
all-self-denying, all-injustice-forgetting love,
— well, then, I don't know what virtue
means ; and should his only reward for a
whole life's faithful devotion consist in

i68 To

being shot in his old age and buried under
a tree in the park at home, then all I can
say is, that I do not believe that we either
will get beyond the grave where our
remains will one day be laid.

MONSIEUR ALFREDO

I DO not in the least know how I happened
to come upon the modest little caf<6, nor do
I know how it came to pass that during
the whole of that year I frequented no
other.

I wonder whether it was not on account
of Monsieur Alfredo that I became an
habitud there.

He evidently had his luncheon later than
I, as I had already had time to smoke a
couple of cigarettes before he made his
appearance at the Caf(6 de TEmpereur,
upright and trim in his tightly -buttoned
frock-coat, a roll of manuscript under his
arm, and his gray hair in neat curls
surrounding his wrinkled, childlike face.
The waiter brought him his little cup of

1 70 Monsieur Alfredo

coffee and placed the chess-board between
us. Monsieur Alfredo, with old-fashioned
courtesy, inquired after my health, and I
on my side received satisfactory assurances
as to his well-being. I busied myself in
placing the chess-men, and whilst I groped
under the table to find that pawn which
somehow or other had always fallen to the
ground, Monsieur Alfredo rapidly produced
his lump of sugar out of his pocket and put
it into his cup.

We always played two games. I am
singularly unlucky in games, and the old
man, who loved chess, beamed all over
every time he checkmated me. He played
very slowly, but with amazing boldness,
and even after having played with him
every day for months together, I was still
incapable of forming an opinion as to
which of us played the worse. What
puzzled me most of all was the fact that
Monsieur Alfredo seldom or never played
anything but kings and queens ; occasion-

Monsieur Alfredo 1 7 1

ally, with reluctance, he would put the
knights, castles, and bishops into requisition,
but as to the pawns, he appeared to ignore
them altogether. I had never before seen
anybody play in this way, and often enough
had I to look very sharp to make sure of
losing.

The conversation turned on literature,
and above all, the theatre. Monsieur
Alfredo was extremely exacting as to
dramatic art, and approved of no other
form than the tragic. He was exceedingly
difficult as to authors. I was just then
full of Victor Hugo, but Monsieur Alfredo
considered him much too sentimental.
Racine and Corneille he thought better of,
although he gave me to understand he
considered them lacking in power. He
despised comedy and refused point-blank
to admit Scribe, Augier, Labiche, or Dumas
as celebrities. One only needed to mention
the name of Offenbach or Lecocq to make
the otherwise peaceful Monsieur Alfredo

1 72 Monsieur Alfredo

fall into a complete rage; he then burst
forth into Italian, which he never spoke
unless greatly excited ; he denounced them
as Birbantiy and Awelenatori^ — they had
with their music spread the poison which
had killed the good taste of a whole gener-
ation, and they were, to a great extent, re-
sponsible for the downfall of tragedy in
our days.

He seemed well informed in everything
concerning the Paris theatres, and was
evidently a frequent playgoer himself; I
had once or twice hinted that we should go
to the theatre together some evening, but
had observed that Monsieur Alfredo never
seemed willing to understand me.

As soon as we had finished our second
game, Monsieur Alfredo produced four
sous wrapped up in paper, called the
waiter and asked what he had to pay, and
laid his four sous on the table. The Cafe
de TEmpereur was not a very expensive

^ Scoundrels and poisoners.

Monsieur Alfredo 1 73

place, as you may perceive ; on the
Boulevard St. Michel they charged you
eight sous for a cup of coffee, here you
only had to pay four if you took it without
milk or sugar — Monsieur Alfredo had
long ago confided to me his experience
that sugar took away half the fragrance of
coffee. I, who was not so particular, had
both sugar and milk with my coffee, and
cognac besides, but never once had I
succeeded in getting Monsieur Alfredo
to accept a glass from me. I had tried to
tempt him with everything the Caf6 de
TEmpereur could offer, but the old gentle-
man had always declined courteously but
firmly.

I knew that Monsieur Alfredo was an
author, and that it was the manuscript of
a five -act tragedy he carried under his
arm. I have always admired authors and
artists, and I tried my best to make him
understand how flattered I felt by his
society. I had long ago told him every-

1 74 Monsieur Alfredo

thing about myself and my affairs, but
Monsieur Alfredo showed for a long while
a singular reticence in all that concerned
himself. Sometimes, on leaving the cafe
together, I had tried to accompany him
for a while, but, once in the streets, he
always wished me good-bye, and I could
easily see that I was not wanted. I had
also expressed a wish to be allowed to
call upon him, but had been given to
understand that his time was very limited
just then, and feeling sure that the tragedy
was the cause of it all, I took good care
not to disturb him.

He never came to the cafe in the
evening, so I then lounged there alone
smoking. Every now and then I dined
with some of my fellow-students down on
the boulevards, but as true inhabitants of
the Quartier Latin, it was only seldom
that we crossed the Seine. One evening,
however, some one at the dinner - table
proposed that we should all drive down

Monsieur Alfredo 1 75

to the Vari6t6s to see Offenbach's Les
Brigandsy and somehow or another they
carried me off with them.

I believe the whole pit was full of
students. We were in tremendous spirits,
and applauded quite as vigorously as the
claqtie which occupied the row behind us.
It seemed to me as though I were playing
my old friend from the Caf<6 de TEmpereur
false, and I felt how he would despise me
had he seen me, and I made up my mind
not to tell him anything about it. But I
could not help it, I roared with laughter
the whole time. The last words of a song
were hardly over before the claqtie broke
out with a deafening applause, and we and
the whole pit followed their lead with
right good will. And so when we col-
lapsed and could move our arms no
longer, the claqtte had recuperated its
strength, and the brilliant farce was hailed
once more with thundering applause by
the joyless spectators behind us, where a

1 76 Monsieur Alfredo

whole chorus of poor devils shouted
* * bravo, bravo ! " for next day's bread.

Suddenly I was startled by a " bravo,
bravo ! " which came a little after the rest.
I turned rapidly round, and ran my eye
over the claque^ and then to the astonish-
ment of my comrades, I took my hat and
slunk out of the theatre.

The joyous music rang in my ears the
whole way home, but I felt that tears
were not far from my eyes that night.

No, I never told Monsieur Alfredo
that I had been to see Les Brigands.
I never alluded again in our conversations
to Offenbach and Lecocq, and never more
did I try to accompany the old gentleman
to the theatre.

Next day, after we had finished our
game of chess, I followed him home at
some little distance. I went to his house
that same evening, and whilst I stood
there contemplating the card on Monsieur
Alfredo's door, the concierge made her

Monsieur Alfredo 1 77

appearance, and informed me that he
never spent the evenings at home. " Was
I perhaps a pupil?'* I answered in the
affirmative. I asked her if he had many
pupils just then, and she answered I was
the first she had ever seen.

It was towards the end of autumn that
I communicated to Monsieur Alfredo my
irrevocable decision to throw medicine to
the winds and to devote myself to the
stage, and to my great satisfaction he
consented to become my instructor in
deportment and declamation. The lessons
were given at my rooms in the H6tel de
TAvenir. The old fellow s method was a
peculiar one, and his theories on acting as
bold as those he held on chess. I listened
with the utmost attention to all he said,
and tried as well as I could to learn the
fundamental rules of deportment he saw
fit to teach me. After a while he acceded
to my request to be allowed to try myself
in a r61e, and fully aware of my preference

N

1 78 Monsieur Alfredo

for tragedy, it was decided that, under the
immediate superintendence of the author
himself, I should get up one of the
characters in Monsieur Alfredo's last
work, Le Potgnard^ a tragedy in five acts.
Monsieur Alfredo himself was the king
and I was the marquis. I admit that my
d6but was not a happy one. I saw that
the author was far from satisfied with me,
and I realised myself that my marquis was
a dead failure. My next d^but was in the
r61e of the English lord in the five-act
tragedy, La Vengeance^ but neither there
were there any illusions possible as to my
success. I then tried my luck as the
count in Le Secret du Tombeau, but with a
very doubtful result. I then sank down
to a viscount, and made superhuman efforts
to keep up to the mark, but notwithstand-
ing the indulgent way in which Monsieur
Alfredo pointed out my shortcomings, I
could not conceal from myself the fact
that I was not fit to be a viscount either.

Monsieur A If redo 1 79

I began to have serious doubts as to
my theatrical vocation, but Monsieur
Alfredo thought that the reason of my
failure might be traced to my unfamiliarity
with the highest society, and my difficulty
in adapting myself to the sensations and
thoughts of these high personages. And
he was right — it was anything but easy.
All his heroes and heroines were very
sorry for themselves, not to say desperate,
although as a rule it was impossible for
me to understand the reason of their
being so. Love and hatred glowed in
every one's eyes. True that as a rule
everything went wrong for the lovers, but
even if they got each other at last, they
did not seem to be a bit the more cheerful
for that. I remember, for instance, the
third act of Le Poignard, where I (the
marquis), after having waded through blood,
succeed in winning the lady of my heart,
who on her side has gone through fire
and water to be mine. The Archbishop

i8o Monsieur Alfredo

marries us by moonlight, and we, who had
not seen each other for ten years, are left
alone for a while in a bower of roses. We
had nothing on earth to be afraid of; no
one was likely to disturb us, as I had
previously run my sword through every
grown-up person in the play, and I thought
that I ought to be a little kind to the
marchioness. But Monsieur Alfredo never
found my voice tragic enough during the
few brief moments of happiness he granted
us. (We perished shortly afterwards in
an earthquake.)

For the matter of that, those who
escaped a violent death were not much
better off — they were carried off in any
case in the flower of their youth by sudden
inexplicable ailments, which no amount of
care could contend against. At first I
tried to save some of the victims, but
Monsieur Alfredo always looked very
astonished when I suggested that some
one might be allowed to recover ; and

Monsieur Alfredo 1 8 1

knowing his theory that it was sentiment-
ality that spoiled Victor Hugo as a
dramatist, I ceased more and more to
interfere in the matter.

After a few more abortive attempts
to pose as a nobleman, I submitted to
Monsieur Alfredo my opinion that I
might do better in a more humble
position. But here we were met by an
unforeseen obstacle — Monsieur Alfredo
did not descend below viscounts. If by
the exigencies of the plot a lonely re-
presentative of the lower orders had to
appear on the scene, he had no sooner got
a word out of his mouth before the author
would fling a purse at his head, and send
him back into the wings with an imperial

«

wave of his shiny coat sleeve. Well,
away with all false pride ! It was in these
rdles I at last hit upon my true genre ; it
was here I scored my only triumphs.
Imperceptibly to the old man, I dis-
appeared more and more from the r6-

1 82 Monsieur Alfredo

pertoire, would now and then cross the
stage and with a deep obeisance deliver a
manuscript letter from some crowned head,
or would occasionally come to carry off a
corpse — that was all.

So the autumn passed on, we had gone
through one tragedy after another, and
still Monsieur Alfredo constantly turned
up with a new manuscript under his arm.
I began to be afraid that the old man
would wear himself out with this fathom-
less authorship, and I tried in every
possible way to make him rest a little.
This was, however, quite impossible. He
now came every single day to H6tel de
TAvenir to his only pupil and literary
confidant. His guileless, childish face
seemed to grow more and more gentle,
and more and more was I drawn towards
the poor old enthusiast with a sort of
tender sympathy.

And unquenchable and ever more un-
quenchable became his literary blood-

Monsieur Alfredo 183

thirstiness. By Christmas -time his new
tragedy was ready, and Monsieur Alfredo
himself looked upon it as his best work.
The scene was laid in Sicily at the foot
of Mount Etna in the midst of burning
lava -streams. Not a soul survived the
fifth act. I begged for the life of a
Newfoundland dog, who, with a dead heir
in his mouth, had swum over from the
mainland, but Monsieur Alfredo was in-
exorable. The dog threw himself into the
crater of Etna in the last scene.

But while the lava of Mount Etna
was heating Monsieur Alfredo's world
of dreams, the winter snow was falling
over Paris. All of us had long since
taken to our winter coats, but my poor
professor was still wandering about in his
same old frock-coat, so shiny with constant
brushing, so thread -bare with the wear
and tear of years. The nights became
so cold, and sadly did I follow in my
thoughts the poor old man tramping home

184 Monsieur Alfredo

every night across the streets of Paris
after the theatre was over. Many times
was I very near broaching the delicate
subject, but was always deterred by the
sensitive pride with which he sought to
disguise his poverty. Yet had I never
seen him in such excellent spirits as he
was just then, he placed greater expecta-
tions than ever on his new tragedy. Like
all his previous plays it was written for
the Th^tre Fran9ais. The systematic
ill-will with which Mons. Perrin^ had
refused to accept any work of his had
certainly made him turn his thoughts to
the Od6on Theatre; but with due con-
sideration to the colossal proportions of
his new drama, Monsieur Alfredo did not
quite see how to avoid offering it to the
very first theatre in Paris.

Maybe it seems to you that I ought
to have pointed out to Monsieur Alfredo
the dangerous flights of his imagination,

1 The then manager of the Th^tre Fran9ais.

Monsieur Alfredo 185

that I ought to have tried to make him
realise that his theatre was erected on
quite another planet than ours. I did
nothing of the sort, and you would not
have done so either had you known him
as I did, had you witnessed the anxiety
with which his kind eyes sought for my
approval, how his sad old child - face
brightened up when he recited some
passage which he expected would especi-
ally dumbfound me — which alas ! it
seldom failed to do. But I had arrived
so far that I was quite incapable of
spoiling his pleasure by a single word
of criticism. Silently I listened to tragedy
after tragedy, and there was no need to
simulate being serious, for all my laughter
over his wild creations was silenced by
the tragedy of reality, all my criticism was
disarmed by his utter helplessness — he did
not even possess an overcoat ! The only
audience the poor old man ever had was
me, why then shouldn't I bestow upon

1 86 Monsieur Alfredo

him a little approval, he whom life had so
unmercifully hissed ?

One afternoon he did not turn up at
the Caf6 de TEmpereur, and in vain I
waited for him before the chess-board the
next day. I waited still another day, but
then, driven by uneasy forebodings, I went
to look him up towards evening. The
concierge had not seen him go out, and
there was no answer to my knock at his
door. I stood there for a moment or two
looking at the faded old visiting-card
nailed on his door —

Mr. ALFREDO

AUTEUR DRAMATIQUE

PROFESSEUR de Dix:LAMATION, DE MAINTIEN

ET DE MiSE EN SC^NE.

And then I quietly opened the door and
went in.

The old man lay on his bed delirious,
not recognising the unbidden guest who

Monsieur Alfredo 187

stood there, sadly looking round the empty
garret cold as the streets without, for there
was no fireplace.

It was sunny and bright next day, and
it was easy to remove him to the hospital
close by — I was on the stafif there for the
matter of that He had pneumonia. They
were all very kind to the old gentleman,
both the doctors and the students, and
dear Soeur Philom^ne managed matters
so successfully that she got a private room
for him. He continued delirious the whole
of that day and night, but towards morn-
ing he became conscious and recognised
me. He then insisted on returning at
once to his own quarters, but quieted down
considerably on being told he was in a
private room, and that he was quite inde-
pendent of all the other patients. After
some hesitation he inquired what he would
have to pay, and I answered him I did
not think the hospital could charge him
anything, as the Sociiti des Auteurs

1 88 Monsieur Alfredo

Dramattques was entitled to a free bed,
and I doubted whether it would be the
right thing to refuse to avail himself of
this privilege, as of course every one
knew who he was. Soeur Philomfene, who
stood behind his pillow, shook her finger
reprovingly at my little white lie, but I
could well see by the expression of her
eyes that she forgave me. I had touched
the poor old author s most sensitive chord ;
with keenest interest he made me repeat
over and over s^ain what I had said
about the SocUti des Auteurs DramcUiqti^s
and a faint smile of content lit up his
faded old face when at last I had succeeded
in making him believe me. From that
moment he seemed quite pleased and
satisfied with everything, and he did not
realise himself how rapidly he was sinking.
According to his wish, a little table with
writing materials had been placed beside
his bed, but he had not yet tried to write
anything.

Monsieur Alfredo 189

The night had been worse than usual,
and during the morning round I noticed
that Soeur Philomene had hung a little
crucifix at the head of his bed. He lay
there quite silent the whole day, once only
when he was given his broth he asked
for the name of the most rapid poison,
and Soeur Philomene thought it was
prussic acid.

Towards evening he became more
feverish, and his eyes began to be rest-
less. He begged me to sit down beside
him, and after swearing me over to secrecy
he unveiled to me the plot of his new
tragedy where the rival gives prussic acid
to the bride and bridegroom during the
wedding ceremony. He spoke rapidly
and cheerfully, and with a triumphant
glance he asked me whether I thought
the Theatre Fran9ais would dare to reject
him this time, and I answered that I
did not believe it would dare to do so.
The work was to proceed with great

190 Monsieur Alfredo

speed, the first act was to be ready next
morning, and in a week's time at the very
latest he intended to send in the manu-
script for perusal.

He became more and more delirious,
and he did not pay any more attention
to my answers. His eye still rested on
mine, but his horizon widened more and
more, for the barriers of this world began
to fall away. His speech became more
and more rapid, and I could no longer
follow his staggering thought. But his
face still expressed what his failing per-
ception could no longer form into words,
and with deep emotion I witnessed death
bestow on him the joy that life had denied
him.

He seemed to listen. There flew a
light over his pale features, his eye
sparkled, and with head erect the old
man sat up in bed. He shook away his
gray curls, and a shimmer of triumph fell
over his brow. With his hand on his

Monsieur Alfredo 191

heart the dying author made a low bow,
for in the silence of the falling night he
heard the echo of his life's fondest dream ;
he heard the Th^dtre Fran^ais jubilant
with applause !

And slowly the curtain sank upon the
old author's last tragedy.

MONT BLANC

KING OF THE MOUNTAINS

Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains ;

They crown'd him long ago

On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds,

With a diadem of snow.

Byron.

Note, — The following paper may perhaps be con-
sidered rather too whimsical by those unacquainted with
a little adventure I had while descending Mont Blanc,
an adventure which began in an avalanche and ended
happily in a crevasse. The article dances away on the
rope of a single metaphor, and dances over precipices.
But the sentiment reflected in the word-picture of the
title impresses me still so strongly, so much do I still
admire the anger of the mighty snow-mountain, that I
dare not approach it with the familiarity of a reporter.
I see that here and there I have tried to smile — that is
because of the pain in my frozen foot. When I make
fun of Mont Blanc I am reminded of an antique bas-
relief once seen in Rome, representing a little Satyr,
who, a look of blank astonishment on his face, measures
the toe of a sleeping Polyphemus.

Mont Blanc 193

The ascent of Mont Blanc is easy.

No one attempts the Weiss horn, Dent
Blanche^ or the Matterhorn unless his eye
be calm and his foot sure, but we all know
that Tartarin of Tarascon went up Mont
Blanc — although he never arrived at the
top.

They are indomitable revolutionists,
these other mountain giants, freedom's
untamed heroes who refuse to be sub-
jugated save by the sun alone, haughty
lords of the Alps who know themselves
to be princes of the blood.

But Mont Blanc is the crowned king
of the Alps. There was a time when he
was sullen and cruel, but he has grown
kinder -hearted in his old age, and now,
like a venerable patriarch, he sits there,
the white-haired Charlemagne, looking
out in calm majesty over his three
kingdoms.

Good-humouredly he suffers the Lilli-
putians to crawl up the marble - bright

194 Mont Blanc

steps that lead into his citadel, and with
royal hospitality he allows them to visit
his ice-shining castle.

But when the summer day begins to
darken into autumn, he goes to sleep in
his white state bed under a canopy of
clouds. And then he does not like to be
disturbed, the old king.

No, he does not like to be disturbed ;
I knew it well. I had addressed myself
to his retainers and had been told that it
was too late for an audience, that the
king did not receive at this time. I had
come from afar, my knapsack on my back,
my head full of wonderful stories about
the far-famed palace, and longing to see
the proud old mountain-king.

Somewhat disconcerted I hung for a
while about the castle gates, muttering
socialistic sentences to myself. I had
taken in radical newspapers all the summer
and was not to be treated in that off-hand
way. It is the lot of the great to be

Mont Blanc 195

subjected to the gaze of inquisitive eyes,
and I can but be turned away, thought
I to myself, and up I went with two
followers. Perhaps it was a trifle un-
ceremonious on my part, but I am not
used to the court etiquette of conven-
tionality.

Summer accompanied me a little way ;
at first she climbed the slopes with ease,
planting her foot firmly in the clefts, but
it was not difficult to see that she, the fair
daughter of the valley, did not look
forward to the royal visit as ardently as
I did. I had got myself up in court-
dress to pay my respects to the ice-gray
monarch, in sharp-spiked mountain shoes,
snow gaiters, and steel - pointed pilgrim
staff, but she was in no wise equipped to
meet the requirements of such a journey,
poor little one! The wind pulled and
tugged at her leaf-woven petticoat, and
sharp stones cut her green velvet shoes
adorned with bows of harebell and forget-

196 Mont Blanc

me-not. But she did not give in so
easily ; she bound her poor feet with soft
moss ; she patched her petticoat with
bracken and juniper, and although her
fingers were stiff-frozen, neatly and grace-
fully she managed to weave some tiny
heather-bells between.

And thus we reached the summit of a
rock, and on the edge thereof sat Cerberus,
the fierce sentinel of the castle, barking
and howling and shaking his arctic fur
till great white tufts flew in the air around.
I have never been afraid of bad-tempered
dogs and hailed old Boreas by his name
and asked him in our own language if he
did not recognise me, he, the guardian of
my childhood's home. And sure enough
he rushed at me full speed ! He laid his
paws upon my breast with such force that
he nearly knocked me backward over the
cliff, and licked my face with his icy tongue
till I could hardly breathe. But suddenly,
in the midst of his friendly demonstrations.

Mo7tt Blanc 197

he bit my nose, and, what is more, he
nearly bit it off — that is what I have
always said, one cannot be too careful
where strange dogs are concerned! If
any one is a lover of dogs I am, but I
did not know how to take that, and hurried
on as quickly as possible. He evidently
thought he belonged to the party, and
followed us growling like the brute that
he was. But Summer took fright and
said she dared not go any farther, and
so we took leave of each other. Light-
footed and joyous she returned to the
green of the alpine meadows, and I,
drawing my coat closer round me, went
on my way. Some firs also took courage,
and, gripping the rugged granite with
sinewy arms, they followed us up the rock.
Steeper and steeper became the track,
fewer and fewer the green-clad bodyguard
which advanced with me. And soon the
last of them halted beneath the shelter of
a jutting rock. I asked them if they

198 Mont Blanc

would not come a little farther, but they
shook their white heads and bade me
farewell. Deeper and deeper penetrated
the chill of death into the mountains
veins ; slower and slower beat the heart
of Nature ; higher and higher went my
path. And there she stood, the last out-
post of Summer, the courageous little
child -flower of the mountain heights,
beautiful as her name, Edelweiss! She
stood there quite alone with her feet in
the snow ; no living soul had she to bear
her company, but she was just as neat
for all that in her gray little woollen gown
edged with frost pearls, and just as frankly
for all that did she look up at the sun.
She also had her part to play, and it was
not for me to do her any harm. I glanced
at her a moment and thought how pretty
she was, although so simply dressed in
her homespun clothes, poor little half-
frozen Cinderella amongst her summer-fair
sisters of the valley.

Mont Blanc 199

I stood now on the frontier of the
kingdom of Eternal Winter, and firm of
foot I crossed the moat of frozen glacier-
waves which surrounded the citadel of the
ice -monarch. There reigned a desolate
repose over the sleeping palace, and I felt
that I was drawing nigh unto a king. I
wandered through deserted castle-halls on
whose dazzling white carpets no human
foot had ever trod, beneath crystal-glit-
tering temple vaults through which the
organ thundered like the roar of a sub-
terranean river, between tall colonnades
whose cloud-hidden capitals supported the
firmament.

So I gained the highest tower of the
castle. The winding staircase leading
thereunto was gone, but with ice-axe
and rope we assaulted the Royal Essie's
nest?

And I stood face to face with the
mountain - king. Upon the giant's fore-
head sat the beaming diadem of the sun,

200 Mont Blanc

and an unspeakable splendour of purple
and gold fell over his royal mantle. No
echo from the valleys disturbed his proud
repose ; mournful in isolated peace he sat
on high surveying his mute kingdom.
Silent stood the bodyguard about his
throne, the tall grenadiers with steel-
glinting ice armour upon their granite
breasts and cloud - crested helmets upon
their snow-white heads. I knew the
weather-beaten features of more than one
of them full well, and reverently I greeted
the giants by name, Sckreckhom, Wetter-
horn, Finsteraarhom, Monte Rosa, Monte
Viso, and her, the virgin warrior with
lowered vizor over her beautiful face
immaculate as Diana in her snow-white
garb, Die Jungfrau ! And my eye dwelt
long upon the proud combatant yonder,
Achilles - like in his god -forged armour
purpled with blood, the Matterhorn !

But suddenly the king's face darkened
and a sombre cloud fell over his forehead.

Mont Blanc 201

He took off his crown, and his white curls
flew in the wind, and without paying the
slightest attention to us he put on his night-
cap.^ And we understood that the audience
was ended.

But he must be a good sleeper indeed
if he be able to rest in such a noise as this,
thought we, for around us there arose a
fearful tumult. The storm raged over our
heads till we thought the roof of the castle
would fall in upon us, and Boreas, like a
hungry wolf, howled at our heels. Hastily
we retraced our steps through the darken-
ing palace; through deserted courtyards
where spirit hands swept every trace of
path away ; through vast state halls, gloomy
as chambers of death in their white
draperies ; through vaults adown which the
organ stormed as on the Day of Judgment.

But there was something wrong with

^ *< // met son bonnet " — the guides' usual and sufficiently
characteristic metaphor referring to that little cloud which
suddenly covers the summit of Mont Blanc — it announcesja
storm. It looks its best from a certain distance.

202 Mont Blanc

these old castle-halls — I began to think
they were haunted. There were groans
and shrieks; a shrill and scornful laugh
rang suddenly through the air, and beside
us flew long shadows swathed in white — it
was not easy to make out what they were ;
mountain-wraiths, I suppose.

We then reached a big plain called " le
grand plateau^' but we had hardly got half-
way across it before a cannon shot rent the
skies. I looked up to see the white smoke
dancing down the Mont Maudit and a
whole mountain of projectiles bearing down
upon us with the speed of an avalanche —
Sapristi / On we went Then there came
a crash as though the thunder had burst
over our heads, the ground gaped under
our feet, and I fell into Hades. Every-
thing became silent and the chill of death
fell over me.

But the instinct of self-preservation
roused me, and half awake I sat up in the
coffin and looked around. At the same

Mont Blanc 203

moment one of my companions also crept
out of his shroud, and by the help of the
ice-axe we forced open the lid that had
already been screwed down over our third
companion. And to our astonishment we
discovered that we were not dead at all.
We sat imprisoned in a subterranean
dungeon waiting for trial, but we all agreed
that we were in the cell of the condemned.
Daylight fell through a narrow rift over
our heads, and beside us yawned a great
chasm — it was like the Mamertine prison
in Rome. We had time to meditate upon
a good many things. To complain was
useless ; to protest against our fate was
useless too ; all we could do was to hope
that the judicial formalities might be con-
ducted as quickly as possible — der Tod ist
nichtSy aber das Sterben ist eine schandliche
Erfindung ! ^

Now and then a white wraith peeped
through the opening and with mocking

1 Heine.

204 Mont Blanc

laugh threw down great heaps of snow,
then swept away over our heads. "Are
you still the lords of the earth, you miser-
able little human microbes ? " they howled
until the vault shook again. We clenched
our teeth and said nothing. At last I got
quite angry and shouted back to them that
they were nothing but microbes them-
selves. I glanced at my companions and
all three of us made a sort of grimace to
show how excellent we thought the joke,
but it did not come to much, for the muscles
of laughter had been paralysed in our blue
faces. But the wraiths seemed taken aback
all the same, and, summoning up all my
courage, I went on calling out that it was
useless to give themselves such airs, that
there was something higher than Mont
Blanc itself, and I pointed towards a
star which just then glanced down at us
poor devils through the gray fog bars of
the opening. I had hardly got the words
out of my mouth before the wraiths

Mont Blanc 205

vanished one and all, and by the light of
the brightening evening we saw that they
had been transformed into huge blocks of
ice, which, impelled by the avalanche, had
stopped short at the very edge of the
crevasse — witchcraft, nothing but witch-
craft ! . But it was not witchcraft that got
us out that time. It was something else
that helped us — that which is higher than
Mont Blanc.

RAFFAELLA

The picture was considered one of the
very best in the whole Salon, and the
young painter's name was on every one's
lips. It was always surrounded by a group
of admirers, fascinated by its beauty. She
lay there on a couch of purple, and around
her loveliness there fell as it were a shimmer
from life's May-sun. Refined art-critics
had settled her age to be at most sixteen.
There was still something of the enchant-
ing grace of the child in her slender limbs,
and it was as if a veil of innocence pro-
tected her.

Who was she, the fair sleeper, the shap-
ing of whose features was so noble, the
harmony of whose limbs was so perfect ?
Was it true, what rumour whispered, that

Raffaella 207

the original of the dazzling picture bore one
of the greatest names of France, that a
high-bom beauty of Faubourg St, Germain
had, unknown to the man, allowed the
artist to behold the ideal he had sought for
but never found ? Who was she ?

The doctor had stood there for a while
listening to the murmur of praise which
bore witness to the young painter's triumph,
and slowly making his way through the
fashionable crowd he approached the exit.
He stopped there for a moment or two
watching one carriage after another roll
down the Champs £lys6es, and then he
wandered away across Place de la Concorde
and entered the Boulevard St. Germain.
The clock struck seven as he passed St.
Germain des Pr6s and he hastened his steps,
for he had a long way still to go. He
turned into one of the small streets near
the Jardin des Plantes, and it soon seemed
as if he had left Paris behind him. The
streets began to darken, and narrowed into

2o8 Raffaella

lanes, the great shops shrank into small
booths, and the caf(6s became pot-houses.
Fine coats became more and more rare,
and blouses more numerous. It was nearly
eight o'clock, just theatre time down on the
brilliant boulevards, and up here groups of
workmen wandered home after the day's
toil. They looked tired and heavy-hearted,
but the work was hard, already by six in
the morning the bell was rung in the manu-
factories and workshops, and many of them
had had an hour's walk to come there.
Here and there stood a ragged figure with
outstretched hand, he carried no inscription
on his breast telling how he became blind,
he did not recite one word of the story of
his misery — ^he did not need to do that here,
for those that gave him a sou were poor
themselves, and most of them had known
what it meant to be hungry.

The alleys became dirtier and dirtier,
and heaps of sweepings and refuse were
left in the filthy gutters ; it did not matter

Raffaella 209

so much up here where only poor people
lived.

The doctor entered an old tumble-down
house, and groped his way up the slippery
dark stairs as high as he could go. An
old woman met him at the door — he was
expected. *' Zitto, zittoT' (hush, hush),
said the old woman, with her fingers on
her lips ; " she sleeps." And in a whisper
la nonna (the grandmother) reported how
things had been going on since yesterday.
Raffaella had not been delirious in the
night, she had lain quite still and calm the
whole day, only now and then she had
asked to see the child, and a short while
ago she had fallen asleep with the little
one in her arms. Did il signor Dottore
wish to wake her up ? No, that he would
not do. He sat himself down in silence
beside the old woman on the bench.
They were very good friends these two,
and he knew well the sad story of the
family.

2 1 o Raffaella

They were from St Germano, the
village up amongst the mountains half
way between Rome and Naples, whence
most of the Italian models came. They
had arrived in Paris barely two years ago
with a number of men and women from
their neighbourhood. Raffaella's mother
had caught la febbre and died at Hdtel
Dieu a couple of months after their arrival,
and the old woman and the grandchild had
had to look after themselves alone in the
foreign city.

And Raffaella had become a model like
the others.

And a young artist painted her picture.
He painted her beautiful girlish head, he
painted her young bosom. And then fell
her poor clothes, and he painted her
maiden loveliness in its budding spring, in
the innocent peace of the sleeping senses.
She was the butterfly- winged Psyche,
whose lips Eros has not yet kissed; she
was Diana's nymph who, tired after hunt-

Raffaella 2 1 1

ing, unfastens her chiton and, unseen by
mortal eyes, bathes her maiden limbs in
the hidden forest lake ; she was the fair
Dryad of the grove who falls asleep on her
bed of flowers.

His last picture was ready. Fame
entered the young artist's studio, and a
ruined child went out from it.

They separated like good friends, he
wrote down her address with a piece of
charcoal on the wall, and she went to pose
to another painter. So she went from
studio to studio, and her innocence pro-
tected her no longer.

One day the old grandmother stood
humbly at the door of the fashionable
studio, and told between her sobs that
Raffaella was about to become a mother.
Ah yes! he remembered her well, the
beautiful girl, and he put some pieces
of gold in the old woman's hand and
promised to try to do something for her.
And he kept his word. The same even-

212 Raffaella

ing he proposed to his comrades to make
a collection for Raffaella's child, and he
assumed that there was no one who had
a right to refuse. There was no one who
had the right to refuse. They all gave
what they could, some more and some
less, and more than one emptied his
purse into the hat which went round for
Raffaella's child. They all thought it was
such a pity for her, the beautiful girl, to
have had such bad luck. They wondered
what would become of her, she might of
course continue to be a model, but never
would she be the same as before. The
sculptors all agreed that the beautiful lines
of the hip could never stand the trial, and
the painters knew well that the exquisite
delicacy of her colouring was lost for ever.
The child would of course be put out to
nurse in the country, and the money
collected was enough to pay for a whole
year. And it was not a bad idea either to
beg their friend, that foreign doctor, who

Raffaella 213

was so fond of Italians, to give an eye to
Raffaella, he might perhaps be useful in
many future contingencies.

And the doctor, who was so fond of
Italians, had often been to see her of late.
Raffaella had been so ill, so ill, she had
been delirious for days and nights, and
this was the first quiet sleep she had had
for a long time.

No, the doctor certainly did not wish
to wake her up; he sat there in silence
beside the old grandmother, deep in
thought. He was thinking of Raffaella's
story. It was not new to him, that story,
the Italian poor quarter had more than
once told it him, and he had often enough
read it in books. It seemed to him that
what he saw in life was far simpler and far
sadder than what he read in books. Nor
was there in Raffaella s story anything very
unusual or very sensational, no great dis-
play of feeling either of sorrow or despair,
no accusations, no threat for vengeance, no

2 1 4 Raffaella

attempt at suicide. Everything had gone
so simply in such everyday fashion. It
was not with head erect and flaming eyes
that the old grandmother had stood before
him who was guilty of the child's fall, but
in humble resignation she had stopped at
the door and sobbed out their misery, and
when she left she had prayed the Madonna
to reward him for his charity. The poor
old woman had her reasons for this — she
could not carry her head erect, for life had
long since bent her neck under the yoke
of daily toil ; her eyes could not flame with
menace, for they had too often had to beg
for bread. She knew not how to accuse,
for she herself had been condemned un-
heard to oppression ; she knew not how
to demand justice, for life had meant
for her one long endurance of wrongs.
Her path had lain through darkness
and misery, she had seen so little of life's
sunlight, and her thoughts had grown
so dim under her furrowed brow. She

Raffaella 2 1 5

was dull, dull as an old worn-out beast of
burden.

And the seducer, he was perhaps after
all not more of a blackguard than many
others. He had done what he could to
atone for a fault, which from his point of
view was hardly to be considered so very
great, he had provided for a whole year
for a child which he said was none of
his — what could he do more ? He had
asked the doctor if he knew of any virtuous
models, and the doctor had answered him,
** No," for neither did he know of any
virtuous models.

And Raffaella had borne her degrada-
tion as she had borne her poverty, without
bitterness and without despair ; she wept
sometimes, but she accused no one, neither
herself nor him who had injured her. She
was resigned. Authors believe that it is
so easy to jump into the Seine or to take
a dose of laudanum, but it is very difficult.
Raffaella was a daughter of the people,

2i6 Raffaella

no culture had entered into her thought-
world, either with its light or its shadow,
she was far too natural even to think of
such a thing.

He who was cultured had brought for-
ward the question of sending the child into
the country or placing it in the En/ants
trouvis (foundling hospital), and she who
was uncultured had known of no other
answer than to wind her arms still closer
round her child's neck. And la nonna
(the old grandmother), who scrubbed steps
and carried coals all day, and having at last
lulled the child to rest in the evening,
dead -tired went to sleep with half- shut
eyes and a string round her wrist, so as
now and then to rock the little one's
cradle ; neither could she understand that
it would be any relief if **^ ptccerella''
were to be sent away.

The light fell on the squalid bed, and
the doctor looked at his patient. Yes!
it was indeed very like her, he certainly

Raffaella 217

was a clever artist that young painter!
Her face was only a little paler now, that
painful shadow over the forehead was
probably not to be seen in the bright
studio where the picture was painted,
those dark rings round her eyes very
likely were not suitable for the Salon.
But the same perfection of form in every
feature, the same noble shape of the head,
the same childishly soft rounding of the
cheek, the same curly locks round the
beautiful brow ; yes, rumour spoke true,
she bore the mark of nobility on her fore-
head, not that of Faubourg St. Germain,
but that of Hellas, she bore the features
of the Venus of Milo.

It was quite still up there in the dim
little garret. The doctor looked at the
young mother who slept so peacefully
with her child in her arms, he looked at
the old woman who sat by his side finger-
ing her rosary. With foreboding sadness
he looked into the future which awaited

2i8 Raffaella

these three, and sorrowfully his thoughts
wandered along the way which lay before
his poor friends.

Ah yes, Raffaella soon got well, for she
was healthy with Nature's youth. Model
she never became again, for she could not
leave her child. She did not marry, for
her people do not forgive one who has
had a child by a Signore. With the baby
at her breast she wandered about in search
of work, any work whatever. Her de-
mands were so small, but her chances
were still smaller. She found no work.
The old woman still held out for a time,
then she broke down and Raffaella had
to provide food for three mouths. The
last savings were gone, and the Sunday
clothes were at the pawn-shop. Public
charity did not help her, for she was a
foreigner, and private charity never came
near Raffaella. She had to choose be-
tween want or going on the streets. Her
child lived and she chose want. The

Raffaella 219

world did not reward her for her choice,
for virtue hungers and freezes in the poor
quarters of Paris. And she ended like so
many others hy fare la Scopa} Pale and
emaciated sat the child on la nonncHs
knee, and with low bent back Raffaella
swept the streets where pleasure and
luxury went by. Poverty had effaced her
beauty, she bore the features of want and
hardship. Sorrow had furrowed her brow,
but the stamp of nobility was still there.
Hats off for virtue in rags ! It is greater
than the virtue of Faubourg St. Germain !
.....
Perhaps a clever writer could make a
nice little sketch out of Raffaella's story ;
it is, however, as I said before, neither a
very original nor a very exciting one, it
is quite commonplace. But I can give
you a subject for another little sketch ; it

1 The hartwnr of refuge for most of the shipwrecked ones
who still can and will work. The street scavengers of Paris
are to a great extent Italians.

220 Raffaella

is that doctor who is so fond of Italians
who has hit upon it. He has been think-
ing it over for many years, but he never
gets further than thinking. Write a story
about female models and dedicate it to
artists! Write it without lies and with-
out sentimentality. Write it without ex-
aggeration, for it needs none ; without
severity, for we all have need of forbear-
ance. Tell them, the artists, how much
we all like them, the light-hearted good-
natured comrades, tell them how proud
we are of them, the happy interpreters of
our longing for beauty. But ask them
why they so despise their models, ask
them if they know what becomes of the
originals of their female pictures !

They know it well.

If they answer you that they are young,
that their temptations are greater than
those of any others, then reflect if you
yourself have the right to say any more
to them. But if they answer you that

\

Raffaella 22 1

the fault lies with the models, then tell
them to their faces that they lie. Then
tell them what road the greater part of the
women models take — the statistics are
there and they cannot be contradicted.
We know well that many of these models
have themselves to blame for their mis-
fortunes, but by far the greater part of
them owe their fall to the misleading of
an artist.

And look here! Is he then quite
wrong, that doctor who thinks that the
artist stands towards his woman model in
the same position as the physician towards
his woman patient ? Society demands,
and is right in demanding, a passionless
eye from the physician, and between the
physician's respect for his profession and
the temptation of the man, honour has no
choice. The present day ranks art higher
than science, why then is not the artist's
respect for his profession great enough to
protect a woman model ! Why are there

A

222 Raffaella

no virtuous models? Is not the model
the unknown collaborator in the artist's
creation, is she not, even she, although
unconsciously a humble servant in the
temple of art, in that temple where the
ancients placed the statue of the chaste
Pallas Athene ?

Yes, a clever writer may have a good
deal more to say about this, and he may
also make use of that doctor's meditations
if he thinks there is any meaning in them,
they have at least the merit of being
founded upon experience, experience of
the art world of Paris as well as that of
Rome.^

But he must not forget that it is the
spoiled children of our day that he is
daring to blame. Should his article be to
the point he may be sure he will be very

^ I was for ten years the confidant, the friend, and the doctor
to most of the poor Italians in Paris, the greater number of
whom are models. My experience during these years was a
terrible one. Nine years in Rome have made the evidence still
more conclusive. Of English models I know nothing and have
nothing to say.

Raffaella 223

severely censured by them; let him take
it as praise for il n'y a que la v^ritd qui
blessel And besides, let him remember
that the world's blame is as little worth
caring about as its praise.

THE DOGS IN CAPRI

AN INTERIOR

Like the ancient Romans, the Capri dogs
devote the greater part of their day to
public life. The Piazza is their Forum,
and it is there they write their history.
When Don Antonio opens the doors of his
osteria, and Don Nicolino, barber and
bleeder, steps out of his " Salone," Capri
begins a new day. From all sides the
dogs then come gravely walking forth— the
doctor's, the tobacconist's, the secretary's,
Don Archangelo's, Don Pietro's, etc. etc.,
and, after a greeting in accordance with
nature's prescribed ceremonial, they seat
themselves upon the Piazza to meditate.
Don Antonio places a couple of chairs in
front of his cafe, and whilst some of them

The Dogs in Capri 225

accept the invitation to lean against them,
others prefer the steps leading up to the
Church, or that comfortable corner by the
Campanile, to whose clock generations
have listened with ever-increasing astonish-
ment where, indomitable as the sun, it
presses forward on its own path, but alas !
not that of the sun.

After a while the dogs from Hotel
Pagano make their appearance. They
get up later than the others, for they eat
a terribly solid dinner. They all descend
from the venerable old ** Timberio " ^
Pagano, who walks a little behind the rest
of his family. Timberio has a cataract in
one eye, but the other eye looks out upon
life with immovable calm. The Pagano
dog -family has always ranked amongst
the very first in Capri, and now, since one
of their masters, Manfredo, was made

^ I write here as I talk here — not Italian but Capri dialect.
The old Emperor, who lived on the island for eleven years, is
never called Tiberio here, but "Timberio."

Q

226 The Dogs in Capri

Sindaco, they have still further accentu-
ated that reserved bearing which they
always understood how to maintain to-
wards the lower orders. They usually
form a " circle " of themselves and some of
the Liberal dogs in the Municipal Portico.
The Conservative dogs, who were beaten
at the last election when the Liberal can-
didate, Manfredo Pagano, became Sindaco,
cluster together in a hostile minority on
the other side of the Piazza by the steps
leading up to the Church. Now and then
they take a look inside the Church, and
seat themselves down by the door with the
greatest decorum, like humble publicans,
whilst the Mass is said in the chancel or
the Figlie di Maria intone the Litany
with half-singing voices.

About ten o'clock appear II Caccia-
tore's ^ two dogs, mother and son. They

1 Our friend old Mr. X , for fifteen years the delight

and ornament of the Piazza of Capri, always cheerAil, always
thirsty, a great destroyer of quails and wine - bottles, now
at last gone to rest in the quiet little field outside the town of

The Dogs in Capri 227

go without hesitation straight into Don
Antonio's wineshop. They were born
upon the island, but they have received
an English education, and they well know
the taste of a leg of mutton or a piece
of roast beef. Don Antonio's dogs have
also a certain idea of these things. After
several generations a vague Anglicism still
survives amongst them from the time when
Don Antonio was steward on board an
English steamboat, and it is with a
visible pride that they say to their Capri
colleagues their " Bow-wow-wow — how do
you do, sir ? " as any stranger approaches
their osteria. The German dogs never
enter this place ; in spite of all Bismarck's
efforts to win Don Antonio over to the
triple alliance, they are not well looked
upon there, their permanent headquarters
are still at Morgano's **Zum Hiddigeigei,"

Gipri, where the sombre green of some laurel and cypress-trees
stands out between the waving branches of his favourite plant,
the vine. Old Spadaro is still alive, and will tell you all about
his lamented master.

228 The Dogs in Capri

whence one can hear them barking and
yelping till late at night

The morning passes in calm doke far
niente as a preparation for the exertions of
the day. Seldom has anything happened
since they met here yesterday, seldom is
there the slightest indication that the day
which now begins will bring in its train
any change in the imperturbable harmony
of their status quo. An Arcadian peace
reigns over their whole being, a contem-
plative calm is stamped upon their faces.
And yet this peace hovers over a volcano,
like the summer which brightens the
slopes of Vesuvius away on the far
horizon. Now and then the thunder
growls from the depths of Timberio
Pagano's broad breast when Hotel Quisi-
sana's shaggy black guardian goes too
near him. Seated on each side of the
fannacia door the two doctors' four-
footed assistants stick out their tongues
at each other on the sly, and often enough

The Dogs in Capri 229

do the dogs of Don Nicolino and Don
Chichillo (the new barber) fall upon each
other, so that tufts of hair fly around.
Animosity, however, soon sinks down
again, and, calm as the rippling waves
against the old Emperor's bath palace
below, the hours glide away in rhythmical
monotony.

They watch the girls as they stride past
with mighty 7«/a- stones on their well-
poised heads, like the Caryatides of the
Erechtheum ; they watch the Marina fisher-
men bringing up for sale in baskets the
night's haul of golden Triglie and great
Scurmt, of bright -coloured mussels from
some rocky reef, or perhaps a coral-spun
old Roman amphora dragged up by the
deep Palamido nets from out of its thou-
sand-years-old hiding-place at the bottom
of the sea.

Sometimes the longing for activity
awakes, and they slowly cross the Piazza
to the corner of the Anacapri road to gaze

230 The Dogs in Capri

dreamily upon the bustling life in front of
the stables, where cavalcades oi farestieri
are waiting impatiently whilst saddles are
laid upon the donkeys' bleeding backs,
and rusty bits are stuffed into their sore
mouths. Aaaaah! Aaacuihf Avanti/f
Off, litde donkeys, for Monte Solaro, one
hour and a halTs stiff climbing with the
happy tourists! Yes, the road is beauti-
ful, winding up along the side of the
mountain, clad with myrtle and broom.
The view widens more and more —
Aaaaaah / Aaatmaaah // one more climb,
and the vineyards and olive woods lie deep
under your feet, and over your head rise
steep cliffs as wild in their mighty desola-
tion as the Via Mala of the Alps; and
Barbarossa's half-crumbling castle riveted
fast upon the edge of the precipice.
Beyond gleams the gulf girdled by the
immortal beauty of the shore, and from
Posilipo's pine-crowned cape, island after
island floats away towards the blue dis-

The Dogs in Capri 23 1

tance of the Mediterranean — wunderbar !
kolossal! !

Under the saddle it burns like fire, and
the mouth is so sore with the incessant
tugging at the heavy bridle ; but courage,
little donkey! up above upon the heights
lives Padre Anselmo in his hermit chapel,
and he has good wine for thirsty throats !

Other dogs who do not get so far as
the donkey-stand lean thoughtfully against
the parapet of the Piazza, where some
lounging sailors look out over the gulf.
The eyes wander far over the gleaming
line of Naples, and the mighty silhouette
of Vesuvius, or follow absently the direc-
tion of some outstretched hand pointing
towards Capo Sorrento, whence can be
seen the steamboat on its way to Capri.
And here come the two blind old men,
Fenocchio and Giovanni, groping their
way across the Piazza to their usual corner
at the edge of the path, where the hum of
thousands of gay tourists has rustled by

232 The Dogs in Capri

them, where they have sat for so many
years with their old fisher -caps in out-
stretched hands, and their vacant eyes
staring into their eternal night of gleaming
sunshine : '' DcUe u soldo Eccellema al
povero cieco ! La Madonna vi accom-
pagna ! "

Up on the Piazza the dogs are ban-
ning to awake, and in scattered groups
they wander across to the parapet to stare
at the steamboat which glides past in the
blue water on its way to the Grotto. It
is time to start down to the Marina to
greet the arriving strangers. Quisisana's,
Pagano's, and H6tel de Frances dogs
solemnly escort their respective porters
to the arched entrance of the Piazza with
its Bourbon coat -of- arms still enthroned
above it. Small ready-saddled donkeys
also clatter patiently down the old stairway
to the Marina, and with loud cracks of the
whip Felicello's coachmen rattle down the
new carriage - road. From the Piazza

The Dogs in Capri 233

above, they watch the steamer anchoring
outside the harbour, and the small boats
landing the passengers. A faint interest
lights up the passive faces of the lookers-on
when the first strangers reach the Piazza.
But alas I always the same invariable types,
always the same colossal matron on the
same slender little donkey, always the same
correct "misses'' in Felicello's landau,
always the same fiery-red noisy Germans,
wrangling over prices with the girls who
have dragged their boxes up the heights
to the town. Seldom are there any dogs
amongst the arrivals, seldom does any
occasion whatever arise for interference in
one way or another — passivity, nothing
but passivity !

Now the hotel bells ring for luncheon,
and they one and all wander home. The
processes of digestion are carried out,
according to correct physiological laws
undisturbed by any brain-work, and the
afternoon is passed in a siesta on some

234 The Dogs in Capri

loggia, whilst the sun's rays slowly climb
the Anacapri cliff, and long shadows begin
to glide down Monte Solaro's slopes to-
wards the town. The air is cool and
refreshing, and they prepare to resume
public business on the Piazza. The
second event of the day is about to
happen. The post arrives. Don Pep-
pino (post- master) solemnly shuts his
office -door, and the loiterers wait with
interest whilst the post-bag is being
opened inside. Always the same disap-
pointment—no letters for them, all the
letters and newspapers are for the strangers
in the hotels! Sometimes they get hold
of a CoT'riere di Napoli or a Pungolo, and
then they disappear into some corner by
themselves to make people believe that
they can read ; but after they have de-
voured the whole newspaper they are none
the wiser for it. So they become drowsy
again and wander a few times round the
Piazza, past Don Antonio's osteria with

The Dogs in Capri 235

the faded photographs and dried -up
biscuits in the window, and a few un-
conscious philosophers meditating inside ;
past II Salone, where the flies keep
watch over Don NicoHno's dreams ; past
La Farmacia, where the morphia of
idleness soothes Don Petruccio's ideas to
rest ; past the stables where the donkeys
are pushed into their dark holes after the
strangers have returned from their ex-
pedition. They look out over the gulf
where Ischia blushes in fading sunlight,
while dark -blue twilight falls around
Vesuvius. The day's session draws to an
end and the Piazza is becoming deserted.
Up in the Campanile there suddenly breaks
out a terrible row amongst the cogs and
wheels, and at last the old machinery loses
its temper altogether, and, getting hold of
a rusty hammer, begins to beat with all its
might on some unwilling bells : " Venti-
quattro ore*' yawns Don Nicolino, shutting
up his Salone ; ** Ventiqttattro ore,'' say

236 The Dogs in Capri

the flies, and go to sleep amongst the
brushes and combs ; " Ventiquattro ore,''
say the dogs, and go home with the feeling
of having performed their duty to gather
strength for the next day's toils by twelve
or fourteen hours' dreamless sleep.

Then the church bells ring out the Ave
Maria, and the day sinks into the sea.

So passes day after day, each like the
other, as are the beads of the rosaries
which glide between the fingers of the
Figlie di Maria inside the Church. Each
morning collects the citizens for social
duty on the Fiazza, — each evening the
campanile exhorts them to go to rest.

Under the walls of the houses the
shadows begin to grow smaller and smaller,
and the paving-stones of the Piazza get
hotter and hotter in the sun-bath. Un-
easy dreams begin to disturb the peace of
the siesta, and Capri is seized with an
irresistible desire to scratch itself. Don
Antonio spreads the awning before his

The Dogs in Capri 237

wineshop, and the questions of the day
are oftener and oftener dealt with under
its protecting shade. They linger later on
the Piazza in the warm evenings, and with
nose in the air they sit for long hours on
the parapet looking out over the gulf
towards Vesuvius, whose mighty smoke-
cloud slowly spreads over the mainland —
the wind is south, all is as it should
be ! And, with apprehensive thoughts of
fatigues to come, they troop home to their
much-needed repose.

The Piazza is quite empty, now and
then a short bark is heard from some wine-
shop, or a howling " Potz Donner Wetter! "
from Hiddigeigei's beer - house, then
everything is still, and only the old watch-
man in the Campanile counts over the
hours of the night in a sonorous brazen
voice to keep himself awake. Still for a
while the white town gleams out amongst
the cliffs, then it becomes quite dark and
Capri's isle sinks into the gloom of night.

238 The Dogs in Capri

But lo ! already climbs the moon over
Sorrento's mountain, and the veil of twi-
light glides down Monte Solaro's heights,
over shimmering olive woods, over orange
and myrtle groves, and vanishes amid the
waves of the gulf. Night dreams a beauti-
ful dream, and mysteriously the siren's
moonlit island rises out of the dark sea.
A gentle south wind breathes over the
water, murmurs amidst the half-slumbering
waves, flies fragrantly over orange-trees in
blossom, and playfully rocks the tender
vine branches. Jubilant voices call out
from the sea, louder and louder they sound
in the stillness of the night, and the
wanderer on Monte Solaro hears the
rustling of wings in the moonlit space
above.

When Capri awakes the next morning,
every one knows that the wild geese have
passed. Spring has come, and the shoot-
ing season has begun ! From early morn-
ing the Piazza is full of dogs. The quiet

The Dogs in Capri i2f)

of everyday life has departed, a certain
energy animates their dull features, and
the reflection of an idea lights up the con-
templative gloom of their eyes.

In front of Maria Vacca's butcher-shop
hangs a dead quail, and outside Don
Antonio's osteria stand guns in long rows,
and upon the chairs lie great game-bags
and powder-horns. II Cacciatore has been
in the wineshop since sunrise, in colossal
shooting-boots with cartridge-belt round
his waist Woe to the quail which may
now appear in Maria Vacca's shop! It
vanishes at once into II Cacciatore's game-
bag. Inside the Municipal Portico a
younger generation listens to old Timberio
Pagano's shooting stories of the days of
his youth, when many thousand quails were
caught in a day, and up on the Church
steps the clericals think sadly of that
period of vanished splendour when Capri
had its own Bishop, whose maintenance
was paid by the quail harvest — *^ Vescovo

240 The Dogs in Capri

delle quaglie " ^ as he was called in Rome.
Excitement increases as the hours pass,
and when at last the Campanile's bells
announce that the first day's shooting is
over, each one goes to his home to gather
strength for the next day's exertions.
Once again darkness falls upon the island,
and Capri sleeps the sleep of the just.

On tired wings swarms of birds fly
over the sea. Thousands have fallen on
Africa's coasts, where they assembled for
their long journey, thousands have sunk
exhausted amidst the waves, thousands will
die on the rocky island which glimmers
from afar in the darkness. Sheltered by
the last hour of gloom they approach the
island and silently swoop down upon its
steep coast, upon the heights by Villa di
Tiberio, where the hermit watches behind
his snares; amongst the cliffs of Mitro-

1 Quail bishop. Capri no longer owns a bishop, but the
quail harvest still forms one — and perhaps the most important
— item of the island's revenue.

The Dogs in Capri 241

mania and the Piccola Marina, where nets
are spread to catch their wings ; upon the
headlands of Limbo and Punta di Carena,
where the Capri dogs, stealthy as cats,
sneak round after their prey. When day
dawns over Monte Solaro, and its first rays
stream even as they did two thousand
years ago in sacred fire upon the old
sun-god's crumbling altar in the grotto
of Mitromania,^ hundreds of birds, quails,
wood-pigeons, larks, thrushes, flutter in
the nets around, and hundreds of others
bleed to death amongst the cliffs — but
what cares the sun for that ! What
matters it to the sun that the darkness
he disperses conceals a multitude of worn-
out birds from rapacious eyes, that to-day
death stalks from cliff to cliff along the
track shown by his gleaming light :

^ Few strangers visit the grotto of Mitromania, the name of
which may be derived from Magnum Mitrae Antrum, It
&ces east, and the first rays of the sun light up its mysterious
gloom. One knows from excavations made here that once
upon a time the old, yet ever young, sun-god was worshipped
in this cave.

R

242 The Dogs in Capri

" So che Natura h sorda,
Che miserar non sa ;
Che non del Ben sollecita
Fu, ma dell 'esser solo." ^

Upon the heights of Monte Solaro sits
II Cacciatore, armed to the teeth, looking
with the eye of a conqueror over the field
of battle below. The day has been a hot
one, II Cacciatore has fired some hundred
shots in different directions. At his feet
lie his two dogs, mother and son, and
behind him sits Spadaro with an extra gun
in his hands and an enormous game-bag
over his shoulder. Now and then mother
and son give little yelps and wag their
tails, following in their dreams an escap-
ing bird, now and then II Cacciatore's
hand fumbles after his trusty gun to bring
down an imaginary quail or pigeon, now
and then Spadaro seems to stuff some
new booty into his vast bag. Deeper and
deeper grows the silence over Monte

^ LeopardL

The Dogs in Capri 2.^2>

Solaro. Down at their feet the three
rocks of Faraglione shine in purple and
gold, and the glow of the sinking sun
falls on the waves of the gulf. From the
town of Capri hotel bells ring for dinner.
A fragrant hallucination of quail-pie tickles
II Cacciatore's nostrils, and from under
his half-shut eyelids the whole gulf assumes
a tantalising resemblance to a sea of pure
Capri rosso — that purple hue which
already old Homer likened to red wine —
whilst Spadaro s more modest imagination
hears the macaroni splutter and boil in the
murmur of the waves against the cliff
below, and sees the purple glow of the
evening sun pour masses of " pumaroli " ^
sauce over it.

Suddenly II Cacciatore rubs his eyes
and looks dreamily around, and Spadaro
investigates with amazement the bag.

^ Pumaroli-pomidoro, i.e, tomato, the Southern Italian's
fjEivourite fruit, the most important ingredient in everything he
eats, sweetening the monotony of his macaroni. .

244 ^^^ Dogs in Capri

where only a single little lark, which was
on its way to give spring concerts in the
north, sleeps his last sleep. Hallo!
Spadaro ! Andiamonci!^ The dogs wake
up by degrees, and the caravan starts
slowly on its way towards Capri. Tired
by the day's toil, at last they reach the
Piazza and its friendly wineshop, where
II Cacciatore sits down to rest whilst
Spadaro and the dogs carry home the
lark in triumph.

So pass the weeks of the shooting
season in continued exertions. Every
morning before daybreak they start off to
try and capture Spring in its flight, every
evening they meet on the Piazza to rest,
and often enough do we assemble round
our friend II Cacciatore's table to partake
of a magnificent quail-pie, such as only he
can put before us.

But although the ranks are thinned, the
March of The Ten Thousand still advances

1 "Let us be off/*

The Dogs in Capri 245

victoriously. Soon the larks sing over the
frosty fields in the distant North, soon the
swallows twitter under the eaves of the
far-off little cottage, which has lain so long
half-buried in snow, and the quails sound
their monotonous note in the spring
evenings.

The shooting season is over, and the
Capri dogs sit blankly upon the Piazza,
staring out over the gulf in the direction
the bird flew when he escaped out of their
hands. Higher and higher the sacred fire
flames each morning upon the sun-god's
altar down in Mitromania's grotto, brighter
and brighter the Faraglioni rocks gleam
each evening with purple and gold, with a
still ruddier glow the wine-hue of the gulf
fascinates II Cacciatore's retina. Silently
the liberal dogs ponder over the burning
questions of the day, and, panting, the
clericals listen from their sunny church
steps to the prophecies of the fires of
// purgatorioy which the priests proclaim

246 The Dogs in Capri

every Sunday inside the cool Church.
Public life ceases by degrees, and it seems
as if a reaction sets in after the excitement
of the shooting season. The arrival of the
steamer is certainly still watched from the
Piazza, and with one eye open they look
at the few strangers who wander up to the
Piazza with outspread sketching-umbrellas
and easel and colour-box on a boy*s head.
True, they still assemble in front of the
closed door of the office to await the
opening of the post-bag, but interest in
political life has slackened, and their hope
of letters has become a quiet resignation.
Inside the Fannacia the drugs ferment in
their pots, and in Don Nicolino s Salone
living frescoes of flies adorn the walls.
About the slopes of Monte Salaro the
Scirocco hangs in heavy clouds, and an
irresistible drowsiness settles down upon
the Piazza. Capri enters into its summer
torpor.

When it awakes the sun has subdued

The Dogs in Capri 247

his fire, and the table stands ready spread
for the lords of creation to seat themselves
and feast, and for the dogs to gather up
the fragments that remain. From the
pergola over their heads hang grapes in
heavy clusters, and amidst the shade of
the orange-groves peep out juicy figs and
red-cheeked peaches. Then comes the
Bacchanalia of the vintage, with song and
jest and maiden's bright eyes looking out
from under huge baskets of grapes, and
naked feet freeing the slumbering butterfly
of wine from its crushed chrysalis.

Over the Piazza a cooling sea breeze
blows now and again, and Capri takes a
refreshing bath of heavy autumnal rain to
wash away the heat and dust of summer.
The dogs save themselves in time from
the vivacity of the unknown element, but
millions of obscure lives are drowned in
the streams which force their way like a
deluge over the bloody battle-field of
summer, whilst others find their Ararat

248 The Dogs in Capri

amongst the brushes in Don Nicolino*s
Salone.

The mist of unconsciousness is gradually
lifted from the dogs' brains, and waking
dreams about activity and strength stare
out from their half- shut eyes. Don
Nicolino smilingly dusts the halo of flies
from his portrait, and, deep in thought,
Don Petruccio composes a new elixir of
life from summer's mixtum campositum.
Fenocchio and Giovanni seat themselves
again in their corner to wash a little copper
out of the tourist stream, and with
trembling legs the small donkeys once
more unload numbers oi forestieri in the
Piazza. From Vesuvius the smoke falls
in long cloud-streamers over the gulf, and
upon the wings of the Tramontana (the
north wind), Summer flies home again
after her wedding-trip to the North. In
vain do the Capriotes spread their nets
once more round the shores of the island ;
in vain do the dogs lie in wait amongst the

The Dogs in Capri 249

rocks ; in vain does II Cacciatore sit in full
armour on the heights of Monte Solaro
and shoot off his cartridges after the
fugitive — Summer passes by.

With drooping tails the dogs sit huddled
together upon the stones of their Piazza,
thinking with sorrow of their departed
summer idyll. From snow-covered Apen-
nines, Winter comes sailing in his foam-
hidden dragon-ship over the uneasy waters
of the gulf. The storm thunders amidst
the ruins of the old watch-tower, whose
alarm-bell ^ has been silent for so long, and
amongst the foaming breakers the mad
Viking boards Capri's cliffs. Strong as a
whirlwind he cuts in pieces the pergola
garlands which were left hanging after
Autumn's Bacchanalian feast, and, brutal as
a savage, he tears asunder the leaf-woven
chiton which clothed the Dryad of the
grove.

^ The alarm-bell used to be rung from the old tower to
warn the shores of the gulf of the approach of pirates.

250 The Dogs in Capri

But down in Mitromania's grotto the
sacred fire flames as before upon the old
Persian god's altar, and tenderly the God
of Day spreads his shining shield over his
beloved island and bids the barbarian
from the North go to sea again. So he
departs, the rough stranger, his errand
unaccomplished, without having robbed a
single rose from the maiden's sun-warmed
cheek, without having stolen a single
golden fruit from the everlasting green of
the orange groves. And scarcely has
he turned his back before tiny fearless
violets peep carefully out from among the
hillocks, and narcissus and rosemary
clamber high up on the steep cliffs to see
whither the harsh Northerner has gone,
and soon a whole flock of flower children
come and set themselves down to play at
summer in the grass.

Upon the Piazza the dogs sit as before
in sunny contemplation. The cycle of
their life's emotions has been run through,

The Dogs in Capri 251

and they begin to turn over anew the
blank pages of their history, page after
page in unvarying sequence. Day follows
day and year follows year, and soon old
age conies and scatters some white almond
blossom upon their heads. The buoyant
delights of the senses are benumbed,
youth's far-jflying thoughts have broken
their wings against the four walls of the
Piazza, and like tame ducks they go round
and round their enclosed space, from Don
Antonio's wineshop to Felicello's donkey-
stand, from Don NicoHno's Salone to
Don Petrucchio's Farmacia. Now and
again the free cry of the passing wild
geese high above in space reaches the
Piazza, the early youthful courage wakes
anew, and they sluggishly tramp along
towards the Anacapri road as far as their
heavy limbs can carry them. Now and
again a faint echo from some world's
revolution trembles on their tympanums
through Don Peppino's post-office, and

252 The Dogs in Capri

they look away in dreaming peace to the
white town of Naples, the noise of whose
human life is lost amidst the murmur of
the waves, or away to the old revolutionist
Vesuvius, whose threatening wrath will
never reach their Eden.

So they sit on their Piazza, staring out
upon the river of time as it flows past
them. They still sit there staring for a
few more years to come, then they move
no more — they have become hypnotised.
The struggle for existence has ceased, and
imperceptibly they sink into Buddha's
Nirvana, unconscious, painless, inebriate
with the sun.

ZOOLOGY

They say that love for mankind is the
highest of all virtues. I admire this love
for mankind, and I know well that it only
belongs to noble minds. My soul is too
small, my thought flies too near the earth
ever to reach so far, and I am obliged to
acknowledge that the longer I live the
farther I depart from this high ideal. I
should lie if I said that I love mankind.

But I love animals, oppressed, despised
animals, and I do not care when people
laugh at me because I say that I feel
happier with them than with the majority
of people I come across.

When one has spoken with a human
being for half an hour, one has, as a rule,
had quite enough, isn't it so .^^ I, at least,

254 Zoology

then usually feel inclined to slip away, and
I am always astonished that he with whom
I have been speaking has not tried to
escape long before. But I am never bored
in the society of a friendly dog, even if I
do not know him or he me. Often when
I meet a dog walking along by himself, I
stop and ask him where he is going and
have a little chat with him ; and even if
no further conversation takes place, it does
me good to look at him and try to enter
into the thoughts which are working in
his mind. Dogs have this immense ad-
vantage over man that they cannot dissimu-
late, and Talleyrand's paradox that speech
has been given us in order to conceal our
thoughts, cannot at all be applied to dogs.
I can sit half the day in a field watching
the grazing cattle; and to observe the
physiognomy of a little donkey is one of
the keenest pleasures of a psychologist.
But it is specially when donkeys are free
that they are most interesting, a tied-up

Zoology 255

donkey is not nearly so communicative as
when she is loose and at liberty, and that
after all is not much to be wondered at.

At Ischia I lived for a long time almost
exclusively with a donkey. It was Fate
which brought us together. I lived in a
little boat-house down at the Marina, and
the donkey lived next door to me. I had
quite lost my sleep up in the stifling rooms
of the hotel, and had gladly accepted my
friend Antonio's invitation to live down at
the Marina in his cool boat-house, while
he was out fishing in the bay of Gaeta.
I fared exceedingly well in there amongst
the pots and fishing-nets ; and astride on the
keel of an old upturned boat I wrote long
love-letters to the sea. And when even-
ing came and it began to grow dusk in the
boat-house, I went to bed in my hammock,
with a sail for a covering and the memory
of a happy day for a pillow. I fell asleep
with the waves and I woke with the day.
Each morning came my neighbour, the old

256 Zoology

donkey, and stuck in her solemn head
through the open door, looking steadfastly
at me. I always wondered why she stood
there so still and did nothing but stare at
me, and I could not hit upon any other
explanation than that she thought I was
nice to look at I lay there half awake
looking at her — I thought that she too was
nice to look at. She resembled an old family
portrait as she stood there with her gray
head framed by the doorway against the
blue background of a summer's morning.
Out there it grew lighter and lighter, and
the clear surface of the sea began to glitter.
Then came a ray of sunlight dancing right
into my eyes, and I sprang up and greeted
the gulf. I had nothing whatever to do all
day, but the poor donkey was supposed to
be at work the whole forenoon up in
Casamicciola. There grew, however, such
a sympathy between us that I found a
substitute for her, and then we wandered
carelessly about all day long, like true

Zoology 257

vagabonds wherever the road led us.
Sometimes it was I who went first with
the donkey trotting quietly at my heels,
sometimes it was she who had got a fixed
determination of her own, and then I
naturally followed hen I studied the
whole time with great attention the inter-
esting personality I had so unexpectedly
come across, and it was long since I had
found myself in such congenial company.
I might have much more to say about all
this, but these psychological researches may
prove far too serious a topic for many of
my readers, and I therefore believe I had
better stop here.

And the birds, who can ever tire of them 'i
Hour after hour I can sit on a mossy stone
and listen to what a dear little bird has to
say — I, who can never keep my thoughts
together when some one is talking to me.
But have you noticed how sweet a little
bird is to look at when he sings his song,
and now and again bends his graceful head,

258 Zoology

as if to listen for some one to answer far
away in the forest? In the late summer,
when the bird-mother has to teach her
children to talk — do not believe it is only
a matter of instinct, even they have to take
lessons in learning their singing language
— have you watched these lessons when
the mother from her swinging-chair lectures
about something or other, and the summer-
old little ones stammer after her with their
clear child- voices ?

And when the birds are silent, I have
only to look down among the grass and
moss to light on other acquaintances to keep
me company. Over waving grass and corn
flies a dragon-fly on wings of sun-glitter
and fairy-web, and deep down in the path,
which winds between the mighty grass
stems, a little ant struggles on with a dry
fir-needle on her back. Rough is the road,
now it goes up-hill and now it goes down-
hill, now she pushes the heavy load like a
sledge before her, now she carries it upon

Zoology 259

her slender shoulders. She pulls so hard
up-hill that her whole little body stiffens,
she rolls down the steep slopes with her
burden clasped tightly in her arms ; but
she never lets go, and onward it goes, for
the ant is in a hurry to get home. Soon
the dew will fall, and then it is unsafe to be
out in the trackless forest, and best to be
home in peace after the day s work is
ended. Now the road becomes moun-
tainous and steep, and suddenly a mighty
rock rises in front of her — what the name
of that rock is the ant knows well enough ;
I know nothing, and to me it looks like
an ordinary pebble. The ant stops short
and ponders awhile, then she gives a signal
with her antennae, which I am too stupid to
understand but which others at once re-
spond to, for from behind a dry leaf I see
two other ants approach to the rescue. I
watch how they hold a council of war, and
how the new arrivals with great concern
pull the log to try how heavy it is. Sud-

26o Zoology

denly they stand quite still and listen — an
ant-patrol marches by a little way off, and
I see how a couple of ants are told off to
lend assistance. Then they all take hold
together, and like sailors they haul up the
log with a long slow pull.

I understand it is to repair the havoc
made by an earthquake that the log is to
be used — how many hard-working lives
were perhaps crushed under the ruins of
the fallen houses, and what evil power was
it that destroyed what so much patient
labour built up ? I dare not ask, for who
knows if it were not a passing man who
amused himself by knocking down the ant-
hill with his stick !

And all the other tiny creatures, whose
name I do not know, but into whose small
world I look with joy, they also are fellow-
citizens in Creation's great society, and
probably they fulfil their public duties far
better than I fulfil mine !

And besides, when thus lying down and

Zoology 26 1

staring into the grass, one ends by becom-
ing so very small oneself.

And at last it seems to me as if I were
nothing but an ant myself, struggling on
with my heavy load through the trackless
forest. Now it goes up-hill and now it
goes down-hill. But the thing is not to
let go. And if there is some one to help
to give a pull where the hill seems too
steep and the load too heavy, all goes well
enough.

But suddenly Fate comes passing by
and knocks down all that has been built
up with so much hard labour.

The ant struggles on with her heavy load
deep in the trackless forest. The way is
long, and there is still some time before
the day's work is over and the dew falls.

But high overhead flies the dream on
wings of sun-glitter and fairy- web.

HYPOCHONDRIA

The study of micro-organisms has directed
medical science into new channels, and
thrown open a hitherto undreamt-of world
for eager investigators. The list of recent
discoveries in bacteriology is already a
long one. Koch's researches in cholera
and tuberculosis, and Pasteur's method
of vaccination against hydrophobia, are
but links in the chain which one day
shall fetter the hydra -headed dragon of
disease. Less known, but hardly less
important, are the very latest studies of
hypochondria, which have led to the
discovery that this evil also belongs to
infectious diseases.

Struck by the constant disorder of
thought and sensibility which characterise

Hypochondria 263

the hypochondriac, the doctors have up
till now placed this malady amongst the
nervous diseases, and it is in the central
organs of the nervous system, more especi-
ally the brain, that its seat and origin
have been determined. We finally know
that hypochondria is an infectious disease,
caused by a microbe which has been
isolated, and named Bacillus niger (A.. M.).
It is after all astonishing that this
discovery has escaped so many investi-
gators ever since Burton, whose Ana-
tomy of Melancholy still remains un-
paralleled — it is astonishing when one
considers the many analogies which con-
nect this so-called nervous disease with
some of the best-known bacterial diseases,
such as hydrophobia, tuberculosis, and
cholera. As in hydrophobia, so in hypo-
chondria the virus spreads over the
nervous system, produces constant and
well-known disorders in the brain, and

ends here also by paralysis, paralysis of

264 Hypochondria

the affected individual's intellectual and
moral functions, and, at last, mental
death. As in hydrophobia, one also
notices by the bacillus niger infection
cramp in certain groups of muscles — ^that
of the muscles of laughter being, for in-
stance, very common. This cramp, risus
sardonicusy is excessively painful, and its
prognostic signification is a bad one, for
it is a characteristic of absolutely incurable
cases (Heine).

The tendency to bite, which charac-
terises hydrophobia, is also encountered
in certain forms of hypochondria (Scho-
penhauer). As a rule the affected indi-
vidual is, however, inoffensive and re-
signed (Leopardi).

The cholera characteristic, Stadium
algidum, is also to be found in bacillus
niger infection — a Stadium algidum when
the soul slowly grows cold, and at last
reaches the zero of insensibility (Tibe-
rius).

Hypochondria 265

The curious, and, up till now, unex-
plained immunity which protects certain
individuals from cholera, appears again
in hypochondria — so, for instance, have
idiots shown themselves absolutely re-
fractory, i.e. not receptive of the bacillus
niger infection. The explanation of the
relative rarity of hypochondria is probably
to be found in this fact. . . .

In analogy with what experimental
pathology has taught us about the
microbes of cholera and tuberculosis, the
bacillus niger does not seem to thrive
on animals, though several exceptions
to this rule are to be found, and as
the tuberculosis bacillus is exceedingly
common amongst cows, so may be pointed
out the great diffusion of bacillus niger
infection amongst old donkeys (Rosina).
I do not believe, though, that here, as
with the cows, one can speak of spon-
taneous infection — the virus has, in the
case of the old donkey, more probably

266 Hypochondria

been introduced into the blood through
a flogged back. Dogs seem, after a long
contact with infected individuals, to be
receptive of contagion (Puck).

Bacillus niger originates in the heart
— ^there is no doubt about that — the dis-
orders of the brain are secondary. The
explanation why the seat of the evil has
been supposed to be the brain is natural
enough, because as a rule it is only since
the infection has spread to the brain
that the malady can be diagnosed. So
long as bacillus niger has only attacked
the heart, the diagnosis is much more
difficult. The nature of the evil can,
however, here, as in certain forms of
tuberculosis, be easily enough detected
at the back of the eyes. This is prob-
ably in relation with the morbid altera-
tion of the organ of sight, which charac-
terises the bacillus niger infection — the
patient sees life as it is; when, on the
contrary, as is well known, in the normal

Hypochondria 267

eye the vision of the outer world is re-
flected through certain media, illusions
and never-dying hope, before it is trans-
ferred through the optic nerve to the
brain.

As with microbes of the before-men-.
tioned diseases, bacillus niger is also
exceedingly tenacious of life. Its viru-
lence can be temporarily reduced by
alcohol, ink, and music. As for alcohol,
its effect is indubitable, but unfortunately
of very short duration. The microbe
very soon — indeed, already the next
morning, according to all experimental-
ists — regains its full vigour, and its tem-
porary inactivity seems rather to have
increased its virulence instead of decreas-
ing it. Like most of the other anti-
microbic agents, alcohol is in itself a
deadly poison, and its application in the
treatment of the disease is therefore very
limited. It is to be used with the greatest
precaution, for there are numerous in-

268 Hypochondria

stances of the individual having followed
his microbe to the grave.

May I here mention en passant a harm-
less old quack remedy — the common
practice of smoking out the microbe.
.The home of the tobacco -plant is the
same land where the poppy of oblivion
blossoms, the silent shores between which
flows the stream of Lethe. The frag-
rance of its leaf has deadened the microbe
in more than one diseased brain, the
clouds from an old pipe have hidden the
reality from more than one sorrowful
eye. (Do you remember Rodolphe in
Henri Murger's Vie de Boheme ?)

Ink as a bactericide is less known, but
worth consideration. I know of a case,
to which I shall return later, where a
momentary amelioration was produced
by an ink-cure. Contrary to alcohol, this
specific can be used without any danger
whatever to the individual himself — ^the
danger being limited to his surroundings.

Hypochondria 269

The microbe is dipped in the ink-stand,
and fixed on paper to dry. It maintains,
however, its virulence long enough, and
can, transplanted in a fertile soil, regain
its vigour and grow. The preparation
must, therefore, be strictly locked up in
the writing-desk, which now and then
must be disinfected, the surest disinfectant
being here, as always, fire.

As for music, this treatment was known
even in the childhood of science ; it was
already highly esteemed by the ancients
— hypochondria is, as is well known, one
of the oldest of all diseases ; it resounds
already in the choruses of Sophocles and
Euripides. The new world of bacteri-
ology was then undreamt of, but the
discoveries of thousands of years have
done no more than verify the experience
of the ancients. Music still remains
the greatest consoler of sorrow-stricken
man. Still to-day Saul seeks relief for
his sombre soul from David's harp, still

270 Hypochondria

to-day does Orpheus conquer the shades
of Hades by the sound of his lute ; still
to-day the song calls out for the Eurydice

of our longing.

• • • • •

As was to be expected, the discovery
of the microbe of hypochondria gave
quite a new direction to the study of the
treatment of this disease. To relate
here the far-reaching experiences which
followed the isolation of the bacillus
niger would carry us too far — enough
to say that the results of these investiga-
tions have unfortunately up till now been
hopelessly negative. We, however, find
it expedient to mention in a few words
the experiments in air -therapeutics by
which the discoverer of the microbe
hoped to find a remedy for the evil —
true that the result was even here nega-
tive, but there is a certain amount of
interest still attached to these experi-
ments which, pursued with more patience,

Hypochondria 27 x

might perhaps have led to a more satis-
factory result. Starting from the ana-
logy between the bacillus niger infec-
tion and tuberculosis, the doctor emitted
his hypothesis of a region of immunity
from hypochondria as well as from con-
sumption, of a possibility of finding in
the pure air of the high altitudes a
medium where the development of bacil-
lus niger in the mind would cease, as
well as the development of the tubercu-
losis-bacilli in the lungs. It was in the
domain of experimental pathology — the
field where Pasteur and Koch reaped
their laurels — that the solution of the
problem was to be looked for, and the
bacterium in question living almost ex-
clusively on mankind, the suitable animal
for experiment had in this case neces-
sarily to be a man. The doctor had
for several years attended an individual
affected with the complaint in question.
It was a fine case. We quote here

272 Hypochondria

from the notes of the doctor : " Man
about thirty. The patient maintains an
obstinate silence as to the origin of his
sufferings; it is, however, evident that
the evil dates from several years back.
External examination nothing remarkable
— on the contrary. Big dog at his heels.
Energy but little developed. Active im-
pulses wanting. Ambition rudimentary.
I ntelligence mediocre — maybe slightly
above. Sense of humour well defined,
as usual in these cases. Sensibility
abnormally developed. Heart perhaps
rather large. Tendency for idealism.
Patient has hallucinations — fancies, for
instance, he is surrounded by people who
suffer and hunger; imagines seeing all
sorts of animals oppressed and tortured
to death." The doctor had in vain pre-
scribed several things in order to calm
and distract his diseased mind, rest-cure
in Anacapri for a whole year ; earthquake
in Ischia, cholera in Naples, etc. etc.,

Hypochondria 273

but without any enduring result. Re-
turned to Paris, the patient had, though
with visible aversion, gone through a cure
of ink -treatment, and in the beginning
had felt a little better for it, but had
soon fallen back to his normal condition
of hopeless dejection. The doctor was
at his wit's end, and began to be bored
to death by the continual lamentations of
his patient. The unfortunate man was
perpetually hanging about in the doctor's
consulting-room, and ended by taking up
nearly his whole day, to the great detri-
ment of his other practice. It was then
the doctor communicated to his patient
his hypothesis of the possibility of a
region of immunity from hypochondria,
as from consumption, and the desirability
of finding a fitting animal for experiment,
for the purpose of studying the influence
of high altitudes on hypochondria.

The patient placed himself at the doctor s
absolute disposal.

274 Hypochondria

On the top of Mont Blanc (4810
metres) the doctor still found a considerable
quantity of microbes in the thoughts of
his patient. The patient complained that
he felt so small and forlorn up there on
the pinnacles of Nature's temple, where
all around him the Alps raised their marble-
shining arch of triumph over the silent
cloud-heavy earth. With awe he bent his
eyes before the beaming majesty of the
sun, where, indomitable and unconscious,
the Almighty Ruler trod his course over
the shade and light of the valleys, over
the sorrow and joy of man.

Chained to the ice-axe firmly riveted
in the frozen snow, did the doctor leave
his patient for a whole night on a pro-
jecting rock, under the shoulder of the
Matterhorn (4273 metres), while the
snowstorm passed. Now and then a
flash of lightning flamed through the icy
night of the desolate precipices ; like com-
bating Titans, giant-shaped crags stood out

Hypochondria 275

between storm - driven clouds, and the
mighty mountain shook, while the thunder
rolled over the snow-fields. Then every-
thing became still ; the storm passed by,
and like silent birds of the night heavy
flakes of snow floated through the dark-
ness. With stiff-frozen limbs, half-covered
with snow, sat the patient in mute wonder,
looking out over Matterhorn's sombre
cliffs, over Monte Rosa's desolate glaciers.
The patient complained of feeling so
utterly helpless before the magnificent
force which had built up this, the proudest
monument of the Alps, so crushed before
the time-defying Titan, who, it seemed to
him, was only going to fall with the world,
which was his footstool. ... He listened
with awe to the mountains answer; high
above his head he heard the thunder of
loosening rocks, and while the echo replied
from the Ebihorn cliffs, an avalanche of
rattling stones rolled along the flank of
the mountain to break into fragments and

276 Hypochondria

disappear deep down amongst the crevices
of the Zmutt glacier — mute testimonies
that even the mightiest mountain of the
Alps was condemned to crumble away
into grains of sand in the hour-glass of
the Eternal, broken fragments from the
oldest monument of creation, teaching,
like the modern hieroglyphics from the
Nile, that all shall perish.

As the night passed on the patient
felt more and more downcast and miser-
able. The doctor had already given up
the experiment as hopeless, when towards
daybreak, to his great astonishment,
symptoms of an unmistakable amelioration
showed themselves. The patient's head
had fallen on the guide's shoulder ; a
painless repose crept over his stiffening
limbs, and with utmost interest the doctor
found an almost complete absence of
bacillus niger in the benumbed thought of
his patient. The doctor watched for a
while in great excitement the patient's

Hypochondria 277

pale face, while the darkness of the night
vanished more and more, and the dawn of
a new day flew over the horizon. He
was just going to make a new test on
bacillus niger, when one of the guides
suddenly leaned his ear against the patient's
breast, and then anxiously began to rub
his nostrils and half-open eyelids with
brandy, and to pull his arms and legs. . . .

When he shortly afterwards slowly
opened his eyes, he was more depressed
than ever, and remained decidedly worse
for several days.

After renewed experiments on Monte
Rosa, Schreckhorn, Die Jungfrau, and a
prolonged observation in a crevasse under
the Mont Maudit cliffs of Mont Blanc
(147 1 metres), the doctor had to give up
his hypothesis of immunity from hypo-
chondria. In spite of the isolation of the
microbe, we are obliged to admit that no
positive result has been gained up till
now as to the treatment of the affected

278 Hypochondria

individual — the analogy with cholera and
even tuberculosis can, alas! be applied
even here. We continue to remain
powerless to cure hypochondria. We are
able to soothe the sufferings of the hypo-
chondriac, because we are able to deaden
his microbe — kill it, we cannot. After
more or less time the bacillus niger re-
covers his virulence, and the diseased
individual retakes his momentary inter-
rupted course towards the sombre land
whence no traveller returns, and over
whose doors are written those words of
the great seer :

** Lasciate ogni Speranza, voi ch'entrate I "

A severe scientific critic might, how-
ever, object that the above-mentioned
experiment on the influence of high alti-
tude on hypochondria was not pursued
long enough to make its negative result
absolutely conclusive. Who knows if the
solution of the problem did not slip out

Hypochondria 279

of the doctor's hands that night on the
Matterhorn ? Who knows if the patient
might not for all time have been freed
from his bacillus, if he had been allowed
to remain a little longer up there on the
Matterhorn's cliff, under the cover of the
falling snow, while the darkness of the
night vanished more and more from his
benumbed thought, and the dawn of a new
day flew past his half-opened eye ?

LA MADONNA DEL BUON

CAMMING

Naples, 1884.

The doctor had often seen him at the door
of the sanctuary looking out over the dirty
lane, and, even when a long distance from
each other, friendly salutations were ex-
changed between them in the usual
Neapolitan fashion of waving hands, with
^* Buon giomOy Don Dionisiof^' ^^ Ben
venutOy Signor Dottore ! "

Often, too, he had looked in at the old
deserted cloister garden, with its dried-up
fountain and a few pale autumn roses
against the wall of the little chapel. And
Don Dionisio had related to him many of
the miracles of the Madonna of Buon

La Madonna del Buon Cammino 281

Cammino. The Madonna of Buon Cam-
mino stood there quite alone in her half-
ruined sanctuary, and only one tiny little
oil-lamp struggled with the darkness within.
With great solemnity Don Dionisio had
drawn aside the curtain which veiled his
Madonna from profane eyes ; and tenderly
as a mother he had arranged the tattered
fringes of her robe, which threatened to
fall to pieces altogether. And the doctor
had looked with compassionate wonder
upon the pale waxen image with the im-
passive smile on the rigid features, which
to Don Dionisio s eyes reflected the highest
physical and spiritual beauty. '* Come e
bella, come e simpatica / '* ^ said he, looking
up at his Madonna.

Inside the old church of Santa Maria
del Carmine, close by, hundreds of votive
candles were burning before the altars, and
night and day the people flocked in there
to implore the mighty Madonna's pro-

^ *< How beautiful, how sympathetic she is ! "

282 La Madonna del Buon Cammino

tection. Mothers took the rings off their
hands and hung them as sacred offerings
round the Madonna's neck, girls drew the
strings of coral out of their dark plaits to
adorn the rich robe of the statue, and, with
brows pressed against the worn marble
floor, strong men knelt, murmuring prayers
for help and mercy.

Death dwelt in the slums of Naples.
Three times the wonder-working image of
the Madonna del Carmine had been carried
round the quarter in solemn procession to
protect the people of the Mercato from the
dreaded plague, and many miracles were
reported of dying people brought back to
life on being permitted to kiss the hem of
the garment of the blessed Maria del
Carmine.

The doctor had seen Don Dionisio
disappear into his little portico with a
disdainful shrug when the procession of
Maria del Carmine passed by, and he had
more than once heard the old priest express

La Madonna del Buon Cammino 283

his doubts about the far-famed Madonna's
wonder-working power to one gossip or
another, whom he had succeeded in stop-
ping on her way to the church of the
Madonna.

*'What, after all, has your Madonna
done for you, you people of Mercato ? '' he
called out mockingly. "If she is so power-
ful, why has she not saved Naples from the
cholera? And here, in the midst of her
own quarter in Mercato, whose inhabitants
for centuries have knelt before her, what
has she done to prevent the disease spread-
ing here ? Do not people die every day
round her own sanctuary, round the very
Piazza del Mercato, in spite of all your
prayers, in spite of all your votive candles ?
Altro che la Madonna del Carmine ! ^

" And as the cholera has never reached
this side of the Fiazzsi, and never will reach
it, whom do you suppose you have to thank
for that, if not the holy Madonna del Buon

1 « Madonna del Carmine indeed ! "

284 La Madmina del Btum Cammino

Cammino, who stretches her protecting
hand over you although you do not deserve
it, although you leave her sanctuary dark
and take all your offerings to the other
Madonnas, whatever their names may be !
And yet you cannot see in your blindness
that the blessed Madonna del Buon Cam-
mino is far more powerful than all your
Madonnas put together! Altro eke la
Madonna del Carmine / "

But no one seemed to take any heed of
the old man's words, no votive candles
dispersed the darkness within the chapel
of the blessed Madonna del Buon Cammino,
and no lips murmured her name in their
prayers for help and protection against the
dreaded sickness. Had they not Santa
Maria del Carmine close by, who from all
time had been the patron saint of the
quarter, who had helped them through so
much distress, and consoled them in so
much misery? Was there not in her
church that miraculous crucifix out of whose

La Madonna del Buon Cammino 285

pierced side blood trickled every Good
Friday, and whose hair the priests solemnly
cut every Christmas, — that same crucifix
which had bowed its head to avoid the
enemy *s bullet, and sent death to the
besieger's camp and victory to Naples ?
And if the Madonna del Carmine could
not give sufficient protection to all of them
in these days of distress, had they not the
venerable Madonna del Colera, who saved
their city in the year 1834 from the same
sickness which now raged amongst them ?
And in the Harbour quarter close by, did
not the Madonna del Porto Salvo stand in
her sumptuous chapel dressed in silk and
gold brocade, ready to listen to their
prayers? Was there not to be found by
the Banchi Nuovi the far-famed Madonna
deirAiuto, who would certainly not belie
her name of Helper in the hour of need ?
Had they not La Madonna dell'Addolorata
with the mantle of solid silver and the black
velvet robe, whose folds no one had ever

286 La Madonna del Buon Cammino

kissed without gaining comfort and peace ?
Had they not La Madonna deirimmacolata,
whose sky-blue garment was strewn with
gold stars from the vault of heaven itself ?
Had they not La Madonna di Salette in
her purple skirt dyed with the blood of
martyrs? And did not San Gennaro
himself stand in his shining dome above, —
he, the patron saint of Naples, whose con-
gealed blood flows anew every year, — he
who protected the city of his care from
plague and famine, and commanded the
flowing lava of Vesuvius to stop before its
gates ? But La Madonna del Buon Cam-
mino — who knew anything of her ? Who
knew whence she came or who had seen
with their own eyes a single miracle worked
by her hand ? What kind of Madonna
was that whose shrine remained -without
candles or flowers, and whose mantle was
in rags? ^' Non tiene neppure capelli, Icl
vostra Madonna / '* ^ an old woman had once

^ << Your Madonna has not even got any hair on her head ! "

L

La Madonna del Buon Cammino 287

shouted in Don Dionisio's face, to the
great joy of the crowd. The effect of this
argument had been crushing, and Don
Dionisio had disappeared in great fury
inside his portico, and had not been seen
again for several days.

The doctor's road lay in that direction
one evening, and he determined to visit
his old friend. From inside the chapel
he heard Don Dionisio with mighty voice
singing an old Latin hymn in honour of
his Madonna.

<< Consolatrix miserorum,
Suscitatrix mortuorum,
Mortis rumpe retia ;
Intendentes tuae laudi,
Nos attende, nos exaudi,
Nos a morte libera ! "

He lifted the curtain before the door,
and in the light of the little oil-lamp he
saw Don Dionisio on his knees before
the image of his Madonna, very busy
brushing the cobwebs off an enormous old
wig of an indescribable colour. His anger

288 La Madonna del Buon Cammino

had not yet subsided. '' Dicono che non
tiene capelli!'' he called out as soon as he
caught sight of the doctor ; ^' mo vogliamo
vedere chi tieni i pin belli capelli!''^
And with a triumphant glance at his
visitor he placed the wig upon the bald
head of La Madonna del Buon Cammino.
" Come I bella, come ^ simpatica ! '* said he,
with sparkling eyes, and he arranged as
well as he could the entangled curls round
the forehead of the image.

When the doctor went away Don
Dionisio's anger had cooled, and again
he took up his position in the little
portico in excellent spirits, quite ready to
fight both on the offensive and defensive
for his Madonna's sake. The same
evening the doctor was told of a case of
cholera in ^fondaco close by the street in
which Don Dionisio lived, and he went
to look at it early the next morning. In

^ *< They say she has got no hair ! but we shall soon see who
has the most beautiful hair ! "

La Madonna del Buon Cammino 289

passing by he saw the old fellow already

at his post, rubbing his hands and looking

very cheerful, and the doctor had not

the heart to tell him then that even the

protecting presence of his Madonna had

now failed. But Don Dionisio waved

his hand eagerly as soon as he caught

sight of the doctor, and when he was

still some distance he called out, so as to

be heard throughout the whole lane, " Ecco

il colera / See now what I have always

said ! Here you have got it because you

would not believe in La Madonna del

Buon Cammino ; now you are all of you

going to see what becomes of those who

believe more in the Madonna del Carmine

than in her ! Ecco il colera ! in our very

midst, Ecco il colera ! "

The lane was full of people, who in

trembling terror had fled out of their

houses to pray in the churches and before

the shrines at the street corners, and some

of them stopped irresolutely in front of

u

290 Lm Madonna del Boon Cammino

the chapel to listen to Don Dionisio's
threatening prophecy of death to every
one who had dared to brave the anger of
the blessed Madonna del Buon Cammino.
The fondaco seemed quite empty, for as
many as were able had run away at the first
alarm ; but, guided by the sound of praying
voices, the doctor came at last to a dark
hole, where the usual sight met his eyes.
Round the door some kneeling commare ^
in earnest prayer ; stretched out at full
length upon the floor a mother wringing
her hands in despair ; and in a corner the
livid face of a child, half-hidden under a
heap of ragged coverings. The little girl
was quite cold, her eyelids half shut, and
her pulse scarcely perceptible. Now and
again a convulsive trembling passed over
her; but except for that she lay there
quite motionless and insensible — cholera!
At the head of the bed lay a picture
of the Madonna del Carmine, and the

^ Gossips.

La Madonna del Buon Cammino 291

doctor gathered from the muttering of the
women that the wonder-working Madonna
had been brought there the evening before.
Now and then the mother lifted her head
and looked searchingly at the doctor, and
it seemed to him as if he Qould read some-
thing like confidence in her anguished
eyes. And yet it appeared as if he could
do nothing. Ether - injections, frictions,
all the usual remedies proved fruitless to
bring the warmth of life back, and the
pulse grew weaker and weaker. Again
the doctor saw to his surprise the same
trusting expression in the mother's eyes
when she looked at him, and he deter-
mined to try his new remedy. He knew
well that in a case like this there was
nothing to lose, for left to herself the
child was evidently dying; but for some
time he had been pursued by a wild idea
that maybe there was everything still to
gain. No one cared any longer to watch
what he did; the mother lay with her

292 La Madonna del Btwn Cammino

forehead pressed against the floor, calling
upon the Madonna with touching voice
to take her own life in exchange for the
child's; and amongst the commare the
prayers had ceased and in their place a
lively discussion broken out as to whether
it would not be better to fetch some other
Madonna, since the Madonna del Carmine
would not help them in spite of all their
prayers, in spite of the candles before her
image, in spite of the mother's promise
to dress the child in the Madonna's colour
for a whole year, if only it might live.
The child was quite insensible, and every-
thing was easily done. When all was
finished the doctor slightly touched the
mother's shoulder, and whilst she stared
at him, as if she hardly understood his
words, he said that there was no time to
lose if they wished to fetch another
Madonna, and he suggested that they
should send for the holy Madonna del
Buon Cammino, whose chapel was close

La Madonna del Buon Cammino 293

by. A deep silence followed his words,
and it was plain that his suggestion did
not meet with the smallest sympathy.
He pretended to take their silence for
consent, and with a little difficulty suc-
ceeded in persuading one of the women,
whom he knew well, to go to the chapel
of the Madonna del Buon Cammino.

Don Dionisio came like a shot with
his Madonna in his arms. He put the
little oil-lamp at the feet of the image, and
began eagerly to sing the hymn to the
honour of his Madonna, now and then
casting a furious glance at the image of
her powerful rival, before which the mother
still lay outstretched; whilst by the door
the women were muttering all sorts of
opprobrious remarks about his idol :
'* Vatene farti un altra gonnella^ poverella !
Benedetto San Gennaro^ che brutta faccia
che thanno dato^ povera vecchia / " ^

^ « Go and make thyself another gown, poor thing I Blened
San Gennaro, what an ugly face they have given her, poor old
creature 1 "

294 ^ Madonna delBuon Cammino

Suddenly they became quite silent, and
in breathless amazement they all stared
at the doctor's pale waxen assistant in
his fight for the child's life. For from
the closely compressed lips of the dying
girl a subdued moan was heard, and the
half-opened eyes turned slowly towards
the Madonna del Buon Cammino. All
crossed themselves repeatedly ; and the
doctor perceived the child's pulse grow
stronger, and the warmth of life slowly
begin to spread over the icy limbs. The
terror of death began to glow in her
eyes, and she cried with half- broken
voice: *^ Salvatemi! Salvatemif Madonna
Sanctissima ! " ^

With a louder voice Don Dionisio
began again his song of praise, and all
round him now murmured the name of
the blessed Madonna del Buon Cammino.
Don Dionisio left the fondaco about an
hour afterwards, followed by a procession

^ << Save me, save me, most holy Madomia ! *'

La Madonna del Buon Cammino 295

of almost all its inhabitants. The child
was then quite conscious ; and all agreed
that the holy Madonna del Buon Cammino
had worked a miracle. '

The doctor sat for a good while longer
at the child's side, watching with the
keenest interest the slow but sure return
of its strength. Late in the evening, when
he looked in again, the improvement was
so marked that it was probable the child
would live. Everywhere — in the fondaco
and in the alleys around — nothing was
talked, of but the new miracle ; and when
the doctor went home he saw for the first
time lights shining in the chapel of the
Madonna del Buon Cammino.

He did not sleep a wink that night,
for he could not keep his thoughts away
from what he had witnessed in the morn-
ing, and he could hardly restrain his
impatience to meet with a fresh case on
which to repeat the experiment.

He had not to wait long. The same

296 La Madonna del Buon Cammino

night another woman in the fondaco was
attacked, and when he saw her the next
day she was already so bad that it seemed
as if she might die at any moment. His
advice to fetch the Madonna del Buon
Cammino was taken now without hesita-
tion, and whilst everybody's attention was
fixed upon Don Dionisio and his image,
the doctor could busy himself with his
patient, undisturbed by any suspicious and
troublesome eyes.

Here again a speedy and decided re-
action set in, which became more and
more confirmed during the day ; and that
same evening the rumour spread through
the alleys of the Mercato of a second
miracle by the wonder-working Madonna
del Buon Cammino.

Thus began those strange never-to-be-
forgotten days, when, insensible to fatigue,
yes ! to hunger, the doctor went day and
night from bed to bed, borne as by strong
wings of an idea which almost blinded his

La Madonna del Buon Cammino 297

sight, and made all his scepticism waver.
He would come with Don Dionisio at his
heels to meet the usual sight of some poor
half-dead creature for whom it seemed as
if human skill could do nothing, and when,
an hour or two later, the Madonna del
Buon Cammino was carried away in
solemn procession, followed by the deepest
devotion of the crowd, he would slip out
unnoticed, forgetful of everything, in silent
wonder at the sudden and constant im-
provement he had witnessed — an improve-
ment which often seemed like a rising
from the dead.

Ah ! he had gone down there where it
had seemed to him so easy to die, just as
easy as it had been to delude himself with
the thought that he had gone there only
to help others. He had done very little
for others, but a good deal for himself —
he had almost forgotten his own misery.
His experience of cholera was already
wide enough, he knew about as much as

298 La Madonna del Buon Cammino

others knew. He knew that fate reigns
over death as over life. Method after
method he had tried honestly and con-
scientiously, and he had learnt that in
spite of Koch, in spite of the microbes,
his ignorance was as great as ever when
it came to the treatment of a cholera
patient. So he had wandered round the
quarters of Naples with remedies in his
hands in which he did not believe himself,
and words of encouragement and con-
fidence on his lips, but hopeless scepticism
in his heart.

And now this last experiment, so bold
that he had almost shrunk from trying it,
which had resulted in an unbroken series
of successes in the midst of an epidemic
with an enormous mortality ! Once again
he was a doctor and nothing more. With
redoubled zeal he followed every case,
scarcely for a minute did he leave his
patient's side, and with increasing excite-
ment he watched every symptom, every

La Madonna del Buon Cammino 299

detail, with his former scepticism — and yet
the fact remained, for a whole week not a
single fatal case !

He had almost forgotten that Don
Dionisio and the Madonna del Buon
Cammino followed his footsteps—he had
forgotten them as he had forgotten him-
self. Now and then his vacant eyes
' would fall upon the unconscious assistant
at his side, and he felt glad that he had
been able to give the old man a share
in his success. Don Dionisio seemed to
need no more rest than the doctor, day
and night he was going about with his
Madonna. His face shone with ecstasy,
and he enjoyed to the full his short
happiness.

The Madonna del Buon Cammino was
now clothed in a flame -coloured silken
mantle, a diadem of showy glass beads
encircled her brow, and round her neck,
strung upon a cord, hung numbers of
rings and gold ear-rings. Night and day

300 La Madonna del Buon Cammino

votive candles were lighted in her chapel,
and on the walls, so naked before, hung
ex votos of all possible kinds, thank-
offerings for deliverance from sickness
and death. The chapel was always full
of people, praying fervently on their knees
for help from that mighty Madonna who
had performed so many miracles, and who
stretched out her protecting hand over
the street. For, to his amazement, the
doctor had heard Don Dionisio prophesy
that as long as the lights burned in the
chapel of the Madonna del Buon Cammino,
the cholera would never dare to approach
her street.

It was now that the poor people of
Naples were to suffer their deepest misery,
that the infection, swift as fire, broke out
all over the alleys and slums of the four
poor quarters. It was now that people
fell down in the street as if they had been
struck by lightning; that the dying and
dead lay side by side in almost every

La Madonna del Buon Cammino 301

house ; that the omnibuses of Portici,
filled with the day's death -harvest, were
driven every evening up to the Campo
Santo dei Colerosi,^ where over a thousand
corpses every night filled the enormous
grave. It was now that trembling hands
broke down the walls with which modern
times had hidden the old shrines at the
street corners, that the people in wild ftiry
stormed the Duomo to force the priests
to carry San Gennaro himself down to
their alleys. It was now that anxiety
reached the borders of frenzy, that despair
began to howl like rage, that from
trembling lips prayers and curses fell in
alternating confusion, that knives gleamed
in hands which just before had convulsively
grasped rosary and crucifix.

The doctor and his friend went on
their way as before, undisturbed by the
increasing terrors which surrounded them.
And wherever they went Death gave way

* Cholera cemetery.

302 La Madonna delBuon Cammino

before them. The doctor needed all his
self-control to enable him still to maintain
his doubts, and before his eyes he saw
like a mirage the goal which his daring
dreams already reached. As for Don
Dionisio, no questioning doubt had ever
awakened his slumbering freedom of
thought, and long ago the doctor had
given up all attempts to restrain the old
fellow's joyous conviction of his victory.

The epidemic had now reached its
highest point, almost every house in the
quarter was infected, and still Don
Dionisio's prophecy held good, for not a
single case had occurred in the street of
the Madonna del Buon Cammino.

The doctor had been told by a commare
that in one of the bassi in Orto del Conte
lay a dying woman, and that her husband
had been awelenato^ in the hospital
the day before. He went there the same
evening, but it was with great difficulty

^ Poisoned.

La Madonna del Buon Cammino 303

that he succeeded in getting through the
hostile crowd which had assembled in
front of the infected house. He heard
that the husband had been removed almost
by force to the hospital, that he had there
died, and that when, a couple of hours
afterwards, they had tried to remove his
wife too, who had been attacked in the
night, the people had opposed it, a cara-
biniere had been stabbed, and the others
had had to save their lives by flight. As
usual, the unfortunate doctors bore the
blame of all the evil, and he heard all
around him in the crowd the well-known
epithets of " Ammazzacane !" "Assassino!"^
" Avvelenatore ! " ^ After several fruitless
efforts to gain their confidence and make
friends with them, he had no choice but
to give up all attemps of helping the sick
woman and to wait till Don Dionisio
came. As soon as he entered the room
the attention of every one was at once

1 " Dog-murderer I '» "AssMsin!" « "Poisoner!"

304 La Madonna del Buon Cammino

fixed upon him and his Madonna, and
they all fell on their knees and prayed
fervently, without caring in the least about
either the patient or the doctor. The
woman was in Stadium algidum^ but her
pulse was still perceptible. Strong in the
confidence of his previous successes, the
doctor went to work. He had hardly
finished before the heart began to flag.
Just as Don Dionisio with triumphant
voice announced that the miracle was
done, the death-agony began, and it was
with the greatest difficulty that the doctor
could keep up the action of the heart until
the Madonna del Buon Cammino had left
the house, followed by the crowd outside
in solemn procession. Shortly afterwards
the doctor slipped out of the house like a
thief, and ran for his life to the corner
of the Via del Duomo, where he knew he
would be in safety.

^ The state of collapse, characteristic of cholera, when the
body becomes cold.

La Madonna del Buon Cammino 305

The same night three of his patients
died. He did his utmost to prevent Don
Dionisio accompanying him the following
day, but in vain. Every one of the sick
he visited and treated that day died under
his eyes.

The wings which had borne him during
those days had fallen from his shoulders,
and dead tired he wandered home in the
evening with Don Dionisio at his side.
They said good -night to each other in
front of the chapel of the Madonna del
Buon Cammino, and in the flickering light
of the lamp before her shrine the doctor
saw a deathly pallor spread over his
friend's face. The old man tottered and
fell, with the Madonna in his arms. The
doctor carried him into the chapel and
laid him upon the straw bed where he
slept, in a corner behind a curtain. He
placed the Madonna del Buon Cammino
carefully on her stand, and poured oil for
the night into the little lamp which burned

3o6 La Madonna del Boon Cammino

over her head. Don Dionisio motioned
with his hand to be moved nearer, and
the doctor dragged his bed forward to the
pedestal of the image. ''Come i bella,
come i simpatica!'' said he, with feeble
voice. He lay there quite motionless and
silent, with his eyes intently fixed upon
his beloved Madonna. The doctor sat
all night long by his side, whilst his
strength diminished more and more and
he slowly grew cold. One votive candle
after another flickered and went out, and
the shadows fell deeper and deeper in the
chapel of the Madonna del Buon Cam-
mino. Then it became all dark, and only
the little oil -lamp as of old spread its
trembling light over the pale waxen image
with the impassive smile upon her rigid
features.

The next day the doctor fainted in the
street, and was picked up and taken to
the Cholera Hospital. And, indomitable
as fate, death swept over the street of

La Madonna del BuonCammino 307

the Madonna del Buon CamminOi over
Vicolo del Monaco. For it was Vicolo
del Monaco— that name which filled Naples
with terror, and which, through the news-
papers, was known to the whole world as
the place where the cholera raged in its
fiercest form.*

• • • • •

The dark little chapel which sheltered the
old visionary's confused devotion has been
razed to the ground by the new order of
things which has dawned over Naples at
last, and Vicolo del Monaco is no 4nore.
Don Dionisio sank unconscious from the
dim thought-world of his superstition into
the impenetrable darkness of the great
grave up there on the Campo Santo dei
Colerosi.

The other, the fool, who for a moment
had believed he could command Death to
stop short in his triumphant march, he is

1 Almost the whole allejr died. An official report stated
that there were over thirty cases in a single hour.

3o8 La Madonna del Buon Cammino

still alive, but with the bitter vision of
reality for all time shadowing his sight.
So will he sink, he also, into the great
grave of oblivion ; and of all those who
lived and suffered in the Vicolo del Monaco
nothing will remain— nothing.

But behind a curtain in some dark
little chapel stands the Madonna del Buon
Cammino, with the impassive smile upon
her rigid features.

THE END

Printed ^ R. & R. Clark, Limited, Edinburgh

r.'.AY 2? .S57