Reading the city papers, one would think that south Italian youths are
the most broken-hearted creatures in the world; they are always trying
to poison themselves for love.
Sometimes they succeed, of course; but
sometimes - dear me, no! Suicides look manly, that is all. They are part
of the game. The more sensible youngsters know exactly how much
corrosive sublimate to take without immediate fatal consequences,
allowing for time to reach the nearest hospital. There, the kindly
physician and his stomach-pump will perform their duty, and the patient
wears a feather in his cap for the rest of his life. The majority of
these suicides are on a par with French duels - a harmless institution
whereby the protagonists honour themselves; they confer, as it were, a
patent of virility. The country people are as warmblooded as the
citizens, but they rarely indulge in suicides because - well, there are
no hospitals handy, and the doctor may be out on his rounds. It is too
risky by half.
And a good proportion of these suicides are only simulated. The wily
victim buys some innocuous preparation which sends him into convulsions
with ghastly symptoms of poisoning, and, after treatment, remains the
enviable hero of a mysterious masculine passion. Ask any town
apothecary. A doctor friend of mine lately analysed the results of his
benevolent exertions upon a young man who had been seen to drink some
dreadful liquid out of a bottle, and was carried to his surgery,
writhing in most artistic agonies.
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