Letters from Italy/Chapter 7

I shall not write on Vesuvius nor the Blue Grotto. Especially shall I say nothing to you about the sea; a respectable man does not speak of the beauties of his merely temporary love. Apart from glorious nature the main point of interest is the original Neapolitan population.

The Neapolitan folk possess traditions older than the Roman Forum. Goethe has already written about the herds of goats, which of a morning run about the streets of Naples to be milked on the spot. At 6.30 a.m. there is a hideous roaring below my window; I thrust out my head, and behold a herd of goats chewing (they have faces like English ladies) and a youngster milking them with an encouraging roar; as soon as he perceives me he desists, reaches out his hand and calls out something. You creep out of the house, and directly across the footway of the parade Via Parthenope there lies a lout, his head on his hands, black as a smoked sausage, warming his grimy figure in the sun. You suppose he is not dead but sleeping there; but scarcely are you within ​range of his mouth when he withdraws a hand from beneath his head and demands Signore, un soldo (a halfpenny, sir). A boy at a street corner will call out Signore, un soldo, no doubt because he forms a local object of interest. If it were practicable to earn by noise every Neapolitan would be an Astor. To sell newspapers with a horrible war-whoop, to spring with them on trams and trains in motion, or to sit from early morning on the path over a pair of socks, four bootlaces, three lemons and a string of corals, and babble until evening in a roaring street, that is the right vocation for these people. You go for a stroll at Pozzuoli; some driver is determined that you shall take his carriage; well, you should resist him in every way. For half an hour he drives beside you with repeated yells: first in Italian, you do not understand; then in English, you make as though you did not; then French, German, and at last he bawls: Da, da, khorosho, gospoda, otto lire, acht, majher, mosjé verà tu, tu kompri, otto lire, ser, ejt, ejt, ejt.^[1] At length you submit to this linguistic phenomenon, and a few steps before your destination you get into his rattling carriage; he emits a yell of triumph, his horse shies, the driver hangs on the reins and howls, by some unaccountable miracle he takes a sharp curve right across the ditch, his exhausted ​horse sinks down a moment, then after three steps shies again, you fly into an abyss and aloft again, right and left, you commend your soul to Providence, and lo and behold—the driver glances round with the air of a victor in the Olympic games: we have reached our destination. “Fifteen lire, signore,” he demands mildly. Very well, you give him eight. “And the tip, asks the virtuoso. Well, you give a lira: perhaps life is worth it. “Now a tip for the horse.”

You go and look at Solfatara (do not go there, the whole aspect suggests slaking limestone). Entrance—six lire, you see. At the entry a distinguished looking gentleman attaches himself to you without a word; in his hand is something like a straw plait and he whistles pleasantly. Too late unhappily you find out that the distinguished gentleman is a guide, who at some hole lights the straw plait for ten seconds so as to raise a little smoke. Then he takes you to a booth, and you begin to feel grateful for some comfortable retreat. Inside is an unshod grandfather, grubbing in the sand with a hoe, who invites you to scorch your hand in it; meanwhile he thrusts three hot pebbles into your pocket, as mementoes he says, and reaches out his hand. The boots of the distinguished gentleman creak and he leads you out. “Ten lire, sir.” You are a little staggered. “Five lire is my charge,” explains the gentleman, “four for the torch and one for wine.”

​You sit at supper at a decent hotel; below is the sea, Vesuvius smokes above—well, it is beautiful. And in the ears of all guitars twang and a pleasant voice sings the well known Neapolitan air, “I have given myself a scratch.” After a time a juvenile stands beside you reaching out a hat, in which on a napkin there lie only five-lire notes. You feel ashamed as you throw in merely a widowed lira; but the pleasant tenor skilfully stirs the hat, the lira vanishes into the napkin, and only the five-lire notes are visible.

Well, I am not an extravagant man and do not give what I am not obliged: but if I return I beg that no one will reach out his hand to me, so that I may not have to put in a tip at last. But for goodness’ sake tell me, is there anything gratis in this world?

Be it said in all truth: Naples for all its beauty is something of a swindle. Naples is not beautiful, unless you contemplate it from a distance. From afar it gleams like gold in the sunlight, the sea is blue, as blue as can be imagined, here in front stands a handsome pine-tree, and the blue yonder is Capri. Vesuvius exhales a small mass of white wadding; remote Sorrento beams in pure light—good heavens, this is lovely. Then twilight comes, all has a bluish tinge, tiny lights emerge, there is a whole ​semi-circle of sparks, and on the sea a vessel rocks in an illumination of green, blue, and golden lights-heavens, this is lovely. But go into the town, my friend; roam the streets, peer into things with your Czech eyes and take what comfort you can from the artistic view of this life; after a time you will feel a little upset with it. Perhaps these streets are picturesque, but they are decidedly very ugly. You stroll under garlands of dirty linen, and make your way through the most miscellaneous jumble—donkeys, lousy knaves, goats, children, motors, baskets with greenstuff and other suspicious-looking nastiness, workshops set up over the path and halfway across the street, rubbish, sailors, fish, carriages, cabbages, greasy fighters, girls with combed hair, dirty loafers sprawling on the ground; all crowded together, bawl, slash animals mercilessly, exclaim, offer, yell, crack whips, and cheat. The proper element of a Neapolitan, so it seems, is selling something: someone takes a chair, old braces, three candles, and some evil-smelling plaice: then sings some incantation over them all day long, and that is commerce of mixed wares. Here is a poor blind man selling seven sticks; you take pity on him and buy one; the poor fellow wants twenty lire for it, you give him five and go on; after that you find you are dreadfully taken in. There goes a boy with a chair on his shoulder, and to keep up his spirits sounds a march on a bugle. ​I had the misfortune to arrive at Naples half an hour after H.M. the King of Italy; he clearly met with a hearty welcome, and the streets were blocked with carriages, motors, carts, donkeys, and the most wonderful rattling things on wheels. To pass the time the drivers kicked their animals and cracked whips, chauffeurs hooted, all yelling frightfully, and somewhere in the harbour cannon boomed; in all my life I never heard such a hullaballoo. And, boys, the Italian parade uniforms—there is fun for you. No one could believe that a man could suspend on his body such canopies, feathers, laces, tassels, scarves, plumes, harness and trappings, embroidery, knobs, galloons, and garlands, as is the custom of major and minor dignitaries in this picturesque country. And then, before I forget, I saw the King pass along the street; the enthusiastic folk applauded him in as simple a fashion as though in a theatre.

But to return to my crotchets: Naples is a thoroughly uncreative city; they have always painted badly and built insignificantly; the blue sky and God’s blessing of exuberant nature suffice for these people. But in one church (whether San Gennaro, Santa Chiara, or some other saint I do not know) I found little votive pictures quite in keeping with the people; there are a few hundreds and among them some are ravishing. Usually a room is depicted in extraordinarily impressive perspective; on a bed, ​regularly overstarched and carefully made up, lies a sick person, a few women in dresses of 1870 wring their hands and rub their eyes with over-ironed handkerchiefs, on the wall is a picture of a saint and before it kneels a man dressed all in black, stiff, erect, and plastic like a well-filled sack. Probably heaven cannot withstand such exemplary prayer and will heal the patient, for which this careful votive picture is a thank-offering. And you see among these pictures some which possess the dignified plainness of a customs-officer of Rousseau, and others which have the uneasiness of Munch; in its way this is a unique gallery of anonymous art.

All else in Naples is merely noise, disorder, and picturesqueness.