For
Italy the change is significant enough; in a few more years
spontaneous melody will be as rare at Naples or Venice as on the
banks of the Thames.
Happily, the musicians errant still strum their mandoline as you
dine. The old trattoria in the Toledo is as good as ever, as bright,
as comfortable. I have found my old corner in one of the little
rooms, and something of the old gusto for zuppa di vongole. The
homely wine of Posillipo smacks as in days gone by, and is commended
to one's lips by a song of the South. . . .
Last night the wind changed and the sky began to clear; this morning
I awoke in sunshine, and with a feeling of eagerness for my journey.
I shall look upon the Ionian Sea, not merely from a train or a
steamboat as before, but at long leisure: I shall see the shores
where once were Tarentum and Sybaris, Croton and Locri. Every man
has his intellectual desire; mine is to escape life as I know it and
dream myself into that old world which was the imaginative delight
of my boyhood. The names of Greece and Italy draw me as no others;
they make me young again, and restore the keen impressions of that
time when every new page of Greek or Latin was a new perception of
things beautiful. The world of the Greeks and Romans is my land of
romance; a quotation in either language thrills me strangely, and
there are passages of Greek and Latin verse which I cannot read
without a dimming of the eyes, which I cannot repeat aloud because
my voice fails me. In Magna Graecia the waters of two fountains
mingle and flow together; how exquisite will be the draught!
I drove with my luggage to the Immacolatella, and a boatman put me
aboard the steamer. Luggage, I say advisedly; it is a rather heavy
portmanteau, and I know it will be a nuisance. But the length of my
wanderings is so uncertain, its conditions are so vaguely
anticipated. I must have books if only for rainy days; I must have
clothing against a change of season. At one time I thought of taking
a mere wallet, and now I am half sorry that I altered my mind. But
- -
We were not more than an hour after time in starting. Perfect
weather. I sang to myself with joy upon the sunny deck as we steamed
along the Bay, past Portici, and Torre del Greco, and into the
harbour of Torre Annunziata, where we had to take on cargo. I was
the only cabin passenger, and solitude suits me. All through the
warm and cloudless afternoon I sat looking at the mountains, trying
not to see that cluster of factory chimneys which rolled black fumes
above the many-coloured houses. They reminded me of the same
abomination on a shore more sacred; from the harbour of Piraeus one
looks to Athens through trails of coal-smoke. By a contrast pleasant
enough, Vesuvius to-day sent forth vapours of a delicate rose-tint,
floating far and breaking seaward into soft little fleeces of
cirrus. The cone, covered with sulphur, gleamed bright yellow
against cloudless blue.
The voyage was resumed at dinner-time; when I came upon deck again,
night had fallen. We were somewhere near Sorrento; behind us lay the
long curve of faint-glimmering lights on the Naples shore; ahead was
Capri. In profound gloom, though under a sky all set with stars, we
passed between the island and Cape Minerva; the haven of Capri
showed but a faint glimmer; over it towered mighty crags, an awful
blackness, a void amid constellations. From my seat near the stern
of the vessel I could discern no human form; it was as though I
voyaged quite alone in the silence of this magic sea. Silence so
all-possessing that the sound of the ship's engine could not reach
my ear, but was blended with the water-splash into a lulling murmur.
The stillness of a dead world laid its spell on all that lived.
To-day seemed an unreality, an idle impertinence; the real was that
long-buried past which gave its meaning to all around me, touching
the night with infinite pathos. Best of all, one's own being became
lost to consciousness; the mind knew only the phantasmal forms it
shaped, and was at peace in vision.
CHAPTER II
PAOLA
I slept little, and was very early on deck, scanning by the light of
dawn a mountainous coast. At sunrise I learnt that we were in sight
of Paola; as day spread gloriously over earth and sky, the vessel
hove to and prepared to land cargo. There, indeed, was the yellowish
little town which I had so long pictured; it stood at a considerable
height above the shore; harbour there was none at all, only a broad
beach of shingle on which waves were breaking, and where a cluster
of men, women and children stood gazing at the steamer. It gave me
pleasure to find the place so small and primitive. In no hurry to
land, I watched the unloading of merchandise (with a great deal of
shouting and gesticulation) into boats which had rowed out for the
purpose; speculated on the resources of Paola in the matter of food
(for I was hungry); and at moments cast an eye towards the mountain
barrier which it was probable I should cross to-day.
At last my portmanteau was dropped down on to the laden boat; I, as
best I could, managed to follow it; and on the top of a pile of rope
and empty flour-sacks we rolled landward. The surf was high; it cost
much yelling, leaping, and splashing to gain the dry beach.
Meanwhile, not without apprehension, I had eyed the group awaiting
our arrival; that they had their eyes on me was obvious, and I knew
enough of southern Italians to foresee my reception.
