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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 /
 
 ; 
 
 VAGARIES
 
 VAGARIES 
 
 By axel MUNTHE 
 
 AUTHOR OF 'letters FROM A MOURNING CITY 
 
 LONDON 
 JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET 
 
 1898
 
 INSTEAD OF A PREFACE 
 
 He who has written these pages is no 
 author ; his life belongs to reality, 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 
 
 920S68
 
 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 ItaHans 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 Httle 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 Mountain 
 
 Raffaella 
 
 The Dogs in Capri, an interior 
 
 Zoology .... 
 
 Hypochondria 
 
 La Madonna del Buon Camming 
 
 PAGE 
 I 
 
 24 
 
 44 
 
 78 
 
 102 
 
 125 
 
 158 
 169 
 192 
 206 
 224 
 
 253 
 
 262 
 2S0
 
 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 
 
 B
 
 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 
 archaeologists 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
 
 ■I, 
 
 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 the)jr 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 
 modern 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 role 
 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 
 — a 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 dernier soiipir 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 
 Vannde 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 r 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
 
 10 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 1S71, 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 5,000,000 
 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 — via 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 attendmit 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 1 5 
 
 whilst the daughter of Germany is char- 
 acteristically careless of her ckaussure — 
 tout conime 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
 
 1 6 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 
 bourgeoisie, 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 1 7 
 
 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 a treize sous does not 
 emigrate, maybe from patriotic motives, 
 maybe from lack of initiative.' Her role 
 
 * The doll a treize sous is a characteristic Parisian type ; she 
 belongs to the family oi poupards and is usually made of papier- 
 mache 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 
 a 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 March^ 
 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 ct 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 role 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 2 1 
 
 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 a 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 and 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 Trovatore, 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 27 
 
 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, 
 " Qttesto e per gli amiciy^ 
 
 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 mo non luce 
 Segn" e 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 e morta e s' e aterrata 
 Chiagneva sempe ca dormeva sola, 
 Mo dorme in distinta 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 Fo7' 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 
 Hotel de I'Avenir, 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 Hotel de I'Avenir, 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 31 
 
 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 Lzicia, while stiffened finofers 
 twanged the mandoline, and the little 
 sister, shivering with cold, banged the 
 tambourine. In vain the old street-sineer 
 sang with hoarse pathos the song about 
 La GLoire and La Patrie, and in vain my 
 friend played that piece pei' gli amici — 
 thicker and thicker fell the snowfiakes 
 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 Mttsic 
 
 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 Hotel 
 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 Httle 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 ivlio 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 
 noticed, I could approach him quite close. 
 He was standing before an elegant con-
 
 For those who love Music 37 
 
 fectloner'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 Hopital de la Pitie, 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 tog^ether 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 roba, eke bella roba, qiianto e buono 
 questa latte con lo zucchero ! Non piange 
 anima mia, adesso sianio prontil " ^ 
 
 A sHght rusthng was heard beneath 
 the Abruzzi cloak, and a black little hand 
 was stretched out towards the red paper 
 bag. 
 
 " Prhno il latte, primo il latte'' ad- 
 monished the old man. ''Non importa, 
 piglia tu una,'"^ 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 ! " 
 2 '< 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 huno: 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 Tiberius's 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 Ischia's 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 i* — 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 ivimderbar. 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 compHment, 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 Tetifel 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 ill the heart of Das grosse Vaterland. 
 At least a good fifty of them are gathered 
 round the table in the bio^ diningf-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 Kneipc 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 ! 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 
 
 1 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 drmnatis personce 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 teleorram 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 
 the 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 Princess 
 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 '' Pi'obenreiter'' 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 ! " ^ 
 
 1 " 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 Felsenstrand, 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 
 Felsenstra7id, 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 Willkojnmen. 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 salo7te. 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 Capi'i 6 1 
 
 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 
 clothes 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 
 siofht. And now the Marina beean 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 landine-staee 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. 
 
 " Heil 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 '' it 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 Hterary 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 Agitatioiis ijt 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 Agitatio7is 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 could 
 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 foi! 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 piazza 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 / .' / 
 
 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 old, 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 
 
 youn. 
 
 £■ : that means that the nest was 
 
 'i> 
 
 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 Hyaena. 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 hysena 
 is known for its cowardice. The hysena 
 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 
 havino; 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 hysena 
 before, but they have seen crouching backs 
 and restless eyes. Not even the dead 
 does the hysena 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 
 
 1 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 Sqtdrrel 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 Menageine 
 
 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 Parj^ot 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 born 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, Hfted 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 
 role 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 epopde 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 Hon-cage, dividing their admira- 
 tion between Brutus, the Nubian Hon, 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
 
 1 00 Menagerie 
 
 the Lion King stretches out his whip, and 
 obediently Hke 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 lono^er 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 i o i 
 
 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 power 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 
 mani7na 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, Signor dot tore,'' he 
 then would say, ''ne vero che sta meglio 
 sta sera?''^ He received his week's 
 wages every Saturday, and then he always 
 
 ' " Is it not true that he is better to-night ? "
 
 io6 Italy in Paris 
 
 came home triumphantly with a Httle 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 in pensie^^Oy'^ 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 Httle 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 scopa. 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 ill Pm'is 
 
 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 1 1 3 
 
 Dio ! Castigo di Dio / " ^ muttered he 
 with trembhng 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 orew 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 Lariboisiere 
 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 1 4 Italy in Pcwis 
 
 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 Paids 1 1 5 
 
 And so came the 15th, 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 
 tantoy^ 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 
 
 1 " 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 
 
 1 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. On 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 ouo^ht 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 
 altoofether 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
 
 I20 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 121 
 
 and it seemed to me as if there wiere 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 
 beinof had told me. All the inhabitants of 
 the yard were assembled before the door 
 in eager talk. " Sapete Signor dottore ? " ^ 
 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 hi 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
 
 124 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 de metier, 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 kilHng, 
 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-SJiooting 
 
 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 tmequal 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-SJiooting 
 
 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
 
 130 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-SJiootmg 1 3 1 
 
 sapristi f 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 1 33 
 
 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.
 
 1 34 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 
 King's 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
 
 Blackcock-Shooting 1 35 
 
 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 ? 
 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. 
 It 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 
 agfain. 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 fiowers 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 1 43 
 
 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 litde 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 1 45 
 
 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 tano-led brush- 
 
 o 
 
 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 time to fire, dut the blackcock 
 had also tiiiie to get away J' " Did y 021 not 
 ai^n 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 bluel' 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-Shootmg 1 49 
 
 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-ShootiJtg 
 
 has so many times ploughed for the seed, 
 which year after year filled the farmer's 
 barn 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 badlv cared for — and that in 
 Florence for aged and infirm cats — it 
 includes a creche 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-Shootiiig 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 
 spelcBtts (cave-bear) prevail against his 
 trident studded with thorns or twig-spikes 
 or set with razor-edp;ed shells } What could 
 the six-inch long canines of Machserodus
 
 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 1 55 
 
 new-crowned king of creation will mount 
 the throne — le roi est fjtort, vive le roi ! 
 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 refuses 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 
 co?}ifort 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'hote; 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 
 servino;- 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, " Voila un homme que je ne 
 voudrais pas mviter a dine7\ il serait ca- 
 pable de 7nanger les 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 cafe, 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 
 habitue 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 Cafe de I'Empereur, 
 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 Birbanti, and Avvele7zatori,^ — 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 I'Empereur 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 Cafe de 
 I'Empereur 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 Ouartier 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 Varietes to see Offenbach's Les 
 Brigands, and somehow or another they 
 carried me off with them. 
 
 I beHeve the whole pit was full of 
 students. We were in tremendous spirits, 
 and applauded quite as vigorously as the 
 claque which occupied the row behind us. 
 It seemed to me as though I were playing 
 my old friend from the Cafe de I'Empereur 
 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 claque 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 claque had recuperated its 
 streneth, 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 177 
 
 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 Hotel de 
 I'Avenir. 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 role, and fully aware of my preference
 
 lyS 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 Poignard, a tragedy in five acts. 
 Monsieur Alfredo himself was the king 
 and I was the marquis. I admit that my 
 debut 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 debut was in the 
 role 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 Alfredo 179 
 
 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 A If redo 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 
 roles 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 re-
 
 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 Hotel de 
 I'Avenir 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-
 
 Monsieitr 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 Theatre 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 Odeon 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 Theatre Fran^ais.
 
 Monsieur Alfredo 185 
 
 that I ought to have tried to make him 
 reahse 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 Cafe de I'Empereur, 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 Declamation, de Maintien 
 
 ET DE MISE en Sc6nE. 
 
 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 A If redo 1 8 7 
 
 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 staff 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 Sceur Philomene 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 Socidt^ des Auleurs
 
 1 88 Monsieur Alfredo 
 
 Dra77tatiqties 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 Philomene, 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 again what I had said 
 about the Socidtd des Auteurs Dramaiiques 
 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 Httle 
 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 Theatre FranQais 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- 
 rehef 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 Weisskorn, Dent 
 Blanche, or the Matterhoi^n 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,
 
 Mont 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 mountain's 
 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 Eagle'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 Moiit 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, Schreckhorn, Wetter- 
 horn, FinsteraarkorUy Mo7ite 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 
 w^here 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 bontiet" — the guides' usual and sufficiently 
 characteristic metaphor referring to that little cloud which 
 suddenly covers the summit of Mont Blanc — it announces a 
 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
 
 Mo7tt 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 
 nichts, aber das Sterben ist eine schdndliche 
 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-born 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 Elysees, 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 Pres 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 cafes 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, ziito f (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 Hotel 
 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-
 
 2 1 2 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 2 1 3 
 
 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 veno-eance, 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,
 
 2 1 6 Raffaella 
 
 no culture had entered Into her thought- 
 M^orld, 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 Eitfants 
 frojw^s (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 ''la piccerella'' 
 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
 
 Rafiaella 2 1 7 
 
 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
 
 2 1 8 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 2 1 9 
 
 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 nonna!s 
 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 
 
 ^ The harbour 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
 
 Rajfaella 221 
 
 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
 
 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.
 
 Raffaclla 223 
 
 severely censured by them ; let him take 
 it as praise for il ity a que la vdritd qui 
 blesse ! 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 
 pubHc 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 ItaHan but Capri dialect. 
 The old Emperor, who lived on the island for eleven years, is 
 never called Tiberio here, but "Timberio."
 
 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 cheerful, 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," 
 
 Capri, 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 virill 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 dolce 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 
 farmacia 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 T^^-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 
 Scurmi, 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 q>{ forestieri 
 are waiting impatiently whilst saddles are 
 laid upon the donkeys' bleeding backs, 
 and rusty bits are stuffed into their sore 
 mouths. Aaaaah ! Aaaaah ! Avanti ! ! 
 Off, little donkeys, for Monte Solaro, one 
 hour and a half's 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 — 
 A aaaaah ! Aaaaaaaah ! ! 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-
 
 TJie Dogs in Capri 231 
 
 tance of the Mediterranean — wundci''bar ! 
 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 : " Date u soldo Eccellenza al 
 povero cieco ! La Madonna vi accom- 
 pagna ! " 
 
 Up on the Piazza the dogs are begin- 
 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 Hotel de France's 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 ! 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 '^^^^ 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 Corriere di Napoli or a Ptmgolo, 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 
 
 strang^ers have returned from their ex- 
 es 
 
 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 : " Ve7iti- 
 qtiattro ore'' yawns Don Nicolino, shutting 
 up his Salone; " Ventiquattro ore,'' say
 
 236 The Dogs in Cap in 
 
 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 Piazza — 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 Hnger 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 239 
 
 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 : 
 
 1 Few strangers visit the grotto of Mitromania, the name of 
 which may be derived from Magnum Mitrae Antrutn. It 
 faces 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 TJie Dogs in Capri 
 
 " So che Natura e 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 
 
 ^ Leopardi.
 
 The Dogs in Capri 243 
 
 Solaro. Down at their feet the three 
 rocks of FaragHone 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 11 Cacciatore rubs his eyes 
 and looks dreamily around, and Spadaro 
 investigates with amazement the bag, 
 
 1 Pumaroli-pomidoro, i.e. tomato, the Southern Italian's 
 favourite 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 
 // purgato7'io, 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 Farmacia 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 NicoHno'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 viixtwn compositum. 
 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. 
 
 1 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 comes and scatters some white almond 
 blossom upon their heads. The buoyant 
 delights of the senses are benumbed, 
 youth's far -flying 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 Nicolino'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 her. 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 ? 
 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 days 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 enoueh ; 
 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
 
 Hypochondi'ia 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 
 sardonicus, 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 
 patiefit 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 HypocJiondria 
 
 stances of the individual havino- 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 Bohhne ?) 
 
 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 neea- 
 tive, but there is a certain amount of 
 interest still attached to these experi- 
 ments which, pursued with more patience,
 
 HypocJioiidria 271 
 
 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 lun^s. 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. 
 Intelligence 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
 
 HypocJiojidria 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 mountain's answer ; high 
 above his head he heard the thunder of 
 loosening rocks, and while the echo replied 
 from the Ebihorn clifls, an avalanche of 
 ratding 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
 
 HypocJwndria 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 ! " 
 
 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
 
 Hypochondina 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 giorno, Do7i Dionisio !'' ""Ben 
 venuto, Sign or Dotto7x ! " 
 
 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 Btion Canimmo 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 Canimino 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 ? 
 Aliro che la Madonna del Carmine !^ 
 
 " And as the cholera has never reached 
 this side of the Piazza, and never will reach 
 it, whom do you suppose you have to thank 
 for that, if not the holy Madonna del Buon 
 
 ^ " Madonna del Carmine indeed !"
 
 284 La Madonna del Biion 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 che 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 
 dell'Aiuto, 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 Biton Camnimo 
 
 kissed without gaining comfort and peace ? 
 Had they not La Madonna dell'Immacolata, 
 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 capelh, la 
 vostra Madonna / " ^ an old woman had once 
 
 1 " Your Madonna has not even got any hair on her head ! "
 
 La Madonna del Bnon 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 Caniniino 
 
 had not yet subsided. '' Dicono che non 
 tiene capelli f' he called out as soon as he 
 caught sight of the doctor ; " mo vogliamo 
 vedere chi tieni i piu 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 e bella, come e 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 difondaco 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 Camrnino 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 
 
 tremblingr 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 La Madonna del Btioji Cainmino 
 
 the chapel to Hsten 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 comniare ^ 
 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 
 
 1 Gossips.
 
 La Madonna del Buon Canimino 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 Hfted her head 
 and looked searchingly at the doctor, and 
 it seemed to him as if he could 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 Bnon 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 co^nmare 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 Madojtna del Buon Cmmnino 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 7in altra g07inella, poverella ! 
 Benedetto San Ge^tnaro, eke briitta faccia 
 che r/ianno dato, pove^'a vecchia / " ^ 
 
 ^ " Go and make thyself another gown, poor thing ! Blessed 
 San Gennaro, what an ugly face they have given her, poor old 
 creature ! "
 
 294 J^<^ Madonna del Bnon 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! Salvatemi ! Madonna 
 Sanctissi7na / " ^ 
 
 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 Madonna ! "
 
 La Madonna del Btton 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 Btion Camniijio 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 Madojina del Buon CaiJtmino 
 
 others knew. He knew that fate reigns 
 over death as over Hfe. 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 Biwn Cainmino 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 Biton 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 Eicon Cammino 30 1 
 
 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 fury 
 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 del Bnon Camniino 
 
 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 coi7zmare 
 that in one of the bassi in Orto del Conte 
 lay a dying woman, and that her husband 
 had been avvelenato^ in the hospital 
 the day before. He went there the same 
 evening, but it was with great difficulty 
 
 * Poisoned.
 
 La Madonna del Biwn 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- 
 bmiere 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 ! " " Assassin ! " ^ <( Poisoner ! '"
 
 304 La Madonna del Btion Ca^mnino 
 
 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 Bitoii 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 
 
 X
 
 3o6 La Madonna del Buon 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 e bella, 
 come e 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 Biwn Cammino 307 
 
 the Madonna del Buon Cammino, 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 more. 
 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 alley 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 
 
 i 
 
 Printed by R. & R. Clark, Limited, Edinburgh
 
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