The Complete Writings of Charles Dudley Warner Volume 2

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But the order came down from Naples to pack off all the nuns of the
Sacred Heart on a day named, to close up the gates of the nunnery,
and hang a flaming sword outside. The nuns were to be pulled up by
the roots, so to say, on the day specified, and without postponement,
and to be transferred to a house prepared for them at Massa, a few
miles down the promontory, and several hundred feet nearer heaven.
Sorrento was really in mourning: it went about in grief. It seemed
as if something sacrilegious were about to be done. It was the
intention of the whole town to show its sense of it in some way.

The day of removal came, and it rained! It poured: the water came
down in sheets, in torrents, in deluges; it came down with the
wildest tempest of many a year. I think, from accurate reports of
those who witnessed it, that the beginning of the great Deluge was
only a moisture compared to this. To turn the poor women out of
doors such a day as this was unchristian, barbarous, impossible.
Everybody who had a shelter was shivering indoors. But the officials
were inexorable. In the order for removal, nothing was said about
postponement on account of weather; and go the nuns must.

And go they did; the whole town shuddering at the impiety of it, but
kept from any demonstration by the tempest. Carriages went round to
the convent; and the women were loaded into them, packed into them,
carried and put in, if they were too infirm to go themselves. They
were driven away, cross and wet and bedraggled. They found their
dwelling on the hill not half prepared for them, leaking and cold and
cheerless. They experienced very rough treatment, if I can credit my
informant, who says she hates the government, and would not even look
out of her lattice that day to see the carriages drive past.

And when the Lady Superior was driven away from the gate, she said to
the officials, and the few faithful attendants, prophesying in the
midst of the rain that poured about her, "The day will come shortly,
when you will want rain, and shall not have it; and you will pray for
my return."

And it did not rain, from that day for three years.

And the simple people thought of the good Superior, whose departure
had been in such a deluge, and who had taken away with her all the
moisture of the land; and they did pray for her return, and believed
that the gates of heaven would be again opened if only the nunnery
were repeopled. But the government could not see the connection
between convents and the theory of storms, and the remnant of pious
women was permitted to remain in their lodgings at Massa. Perhaps
the government thought they could, if they bore no malice, pray as
effectually for rain there as anywhere.

I do not know, said my informant, that the curse of the Lady Superior
had anything to do with the drought, but many think it had; and those
are the facts.

CHILDREN OF THE SUN

The common people of this region are nothing but children; and
ragged, dirty, and poor as they are, apparently as happy, to speak
idiomatically, as the day is long. It takes very little to please
them; and their easily-excited mirth is contagious. It is very rare
that one gets a surly return to a salutation; and, if one shows the
least good-nature, his greeting is met with the most jolly return.
The boatman hauling in his net sings; the brown girl, whom we meet
descending a steep path in the hills, with an enormous bag or basket
of oranges on her head, or a building-stone under which she stands as
erect as a pillar, sings; and, if she asks for something, there is a
merry twinkle in her eye, that says she hardly expects money, but
only puts in a "beg" at a venture because it is the fashion; the
workmen clipping the olive-trees sing; the urchins, who dance about
the foreigner in the street, vocalize their petitions for un po' di
moneta in a tuneful manner, and beg more in a spirit of deviltry than
with any expectation of gain. When I see how hard the peasants
labor, what scraps and vegetable odds and ends they eat, and in what
wretched, dark, and smoke-dried apartments they live, I wonder they
are happy; but I suppose it is the all-nourishing sun and the equable
climate that do the business for them. They have few artificial
wants, and no uneasy expectation--bred by the reading of books and
newspapers--that anything is going to happen in the world, or that
any change is possible. Their fruit-trees yield abundantly year
after year; their little patches of rich earth, on the built-up
terraces and in the crevices of the rocks, produce fourfold. The sun
does it all.

Every walk that we take here with open mind and cheerful heart is
sure to be an adventure. Only yesterday, we were coming down a
branch of the great gorge which splits the plain in two. On one side
the path is a high wall, with garden trees overhanging. On the
other, a stone parapet; and below, in the bed of the ravine, an
orange orchard. Beyond rises a precipice; and, at its foot, men and
boys were quarrying stone, which workmen raised a couple of hundred
feet to the platform above with a windlass. As we came along, a
handsome girl on the height had just taken on her head a large block
of stone, which I should not care to lift, to carry to a pile in the
rear; and she stopped to look at us. We stopped, and looked at her.
This attracted the attention of the men and boys in the quarry below,
who stopped work, and set up a cry for a little money. We laughed,
and responded in English. The windlass ceased to turn. The workmen
on the height joined in the conversation. A grizzly beggar hobbled
up, and held out his greasy cap. We nonplussed him by extending our
hats, and beseeching him for just a little something. Some passers
on the road paused, and looked on, amused at the transaction. A boy
appeared on the high wall, and began to beg. I threatened to shoot
him with my walkingstick, whereat he ran nimbly along the wall in
terror The workmen shouted; and this started up a couple of yellow
dogs, which came to the edge of the wall and barked violently. The
girl, alone calm in the confusion, stood stock still under her
enormous load looking at us. We swung out hats, and hurrahed. The
crowd replied from above, below, and around us, shouting, laughing,
singing, until the whole little valley was vocal with a gale of
merriment, and all about nothing. The beggar whined; the spectators
around us laughed; and the whole population was aroused into a jolly
mood. Fancy such a merry hullaballoo in America. For ten minutes,
while the funny row was going on, the girl never moved, having
forgotten to go a few steps and deposit her load; and when we
disappeared round a bend of the path, she was still watching us,
smiling and statuesque.

As we descend, we come upon a group of little children seated about a
doorstep, black-eyed, chubby little urchins, who are cutting oranges
into little bits, and playing "party," as children do on the other
side of the Atlantic. The instant we stop to speak to them, the
skinny hand of an old woman is stretched out of a window just above
our heads, the wrinkled palm itching for money. The mother comes
forward out of the house, evidently pleased with our notice of the
children, and shows us the baby in her arms. At once we are on good
terms with the whole family. The woman sees that there is nothing
impertinent in our cursory inquiry into her domestic concerns, but, I
fancy, knows that we are genial travelers, with human sympathies. So
the people universally are not quick to suspect any imposition, and
meet frankness with frankness, and good-nature with good-nature, in a
simple-hearted, primeval manner. If they stare at us from doorway
and balcony, or come and stand near us when we sit reading or writing
by the shore, it is only a childlike curiosity, and they are quite
unconscious of any breach of good manners. In fact, I think
travelers have not much to say in the matter of staring. I only pray
that we Americans abroad may remember that we are in the presence of
older races, and conduct ourselves with becoming modesty, remembering
always that we were not born in Britain.

Very likely I am in error; but it has seemed to me that even the
funerals here are not so gloomy as in other places. I have looked in
at the churches when they are in progress, now and then, and been
struck with the general good feeling of the occasion. The real
mourners I could not always distinguish; but the seats would be
filled with a motley gathering of the idle and the ragged, who seemed
to enjoy the show and the ceremony. On one occasion, it was the
obsequies of an officer in the army. Guarding the gilded casket,
which stood upon a raised platform before the altar, were four
soldiers in uniform. Mass was being said and sung; and a priest was
playing the organ. The church was light and cheerful, and pervaded.
by a pleasant bustle. Ragged boys and beggars, and dirty children
and dogs, went and came wherever they chose--about the unoccupied
spaces of the church. The hired mourners, who are numerous in
proportion to the rank of the deceased, were clad in white cotton,--a
sort of nightgown put on over the ordinary clothes, with a hood of
the same drawn tightly over the face, in which slits were cut for the
eyes and mouth. Some of them were seated on benches near the front;
others were wandering about among the pillars, disappearing in the
sacristy, and reappearing with an aimless aspect, altogether
conducting themselves as if it were a holiday, and if there was
anything they did enjoy, it was mourning at other people's expense.
They laughed and talked with each other in excellent spirits; and one
varlet near the coffin, who had slipped off his mask, winked at me
repeatedly, as if to inform me that it was not his funeral. A
masquerade might have been more gloomy and depressing.

SAINT ANTONINO

The most serviceable saint whom I know is St. Antonino. He is the
patron saint of the good town of Sorrento; he is the good genius of
all sailors and fishermen; and he has a humbler office,--that of
protector of the pigs. On his day the pigs are brought into the
public square to be blessed; and this is one reason why the pork of
Sorrento is reputed so sweet and wholesome. The saint is the friend,
and, so to say, companion of the common people. They seem to be all
fond of him, and there is little of fear in their confiding relation.
His humble origin and plebeian appearance have something to do with
his popularity, no doubt. There is nothing awe-inspiring in the
brown stone figure, battered and cracked, that stands at one corner
of the bridge, over the chasm at the entrance of the city. He holds
a crosier in one hand, and raises the other, with fingers uplifted,
in act of benediction. If his face is an indication of his
character, he had in him a mixture of robust good-nature with a touch
of vulgarity, and could rough it in a jolly manner with fishermen and
peasants. He may have appeared to better advantage when he stood on
top of the massive old city gate, which the present government, with
the impulse of a vandal, took down a few years ago. The demolition
had to be accomplished in the night, under a guard of soldiers, so
indignant were the populace. At that time the homely saint was
deposed; and he wears now, I think, a snubbed and cast-aside aspect.
Perhaps he is dearer to the people than ever; and I confess that I
like him much better than many grander saints, in stone, I have seen
in more conspicuous places. If ever I am in rough water and foul
weather, I hope he will not take amiss anything I have here written
about him.

Sunday, and it happened to be St. Valentine's also, was the great
fete-day of St. Antonino. Early in the morning there was a great
clanging of bells; and the ceremony of the blessing of the pigs took
place,--I heard, but I was not abroad early enough to see it,--a
laziness for which I fancy I need not apologize, as the Catholic is
known to be an earlier religion than the Protestant. When I did go
out, the streets were thronged with people, the countryfolk having
come in for miles around. The church of the patron saint was the
great center of attraction. The blank walls of the little square in
front, and of the narrow streets near, were hung with cheap and
highly-colored lithographs of sacred subjects, for sale; tables and
booths were set up in every available space for the traffic in
pre-Raphaelite gingerbread, molasses candy, strings of dried nuts,
pinecone and pumpkin seeds, scarfs, boots and shoes, and all sorts of
trumpery. One dealer had preempted a large space on the pavement,
where he had spread out an assortment of bits of old iron, nails,
pieces of steel traps, and various fragments which might be useful to
the peasants. The press was so great, that it was difficult to get
through it; but the crowd was a picturesque one, and in the highest
good humor. The occasion was a sort of Fourth of July, but without
its worry and powder and flowing bars.

The spectacle of the day was the procession bearing the silver image
of the saint through the streets. I think there could never be
anything finer or more impressive; at least, I like these little
fussy provincial displays,--these tag-rags and ends of grandeur, in
which all the populace devoutly believe, and at which they are lost
in wonder,--better than those imposing ceremonies at the capital, in
which nobody believes. There was first a band of musicians, walking
in more or less disorder, but blowing away with great zeal, so that
they could be heard amid the clangor of bells the peals of which
reverberate so deafeningly between the high houses of these narrow
streets. Then follow boys in white, and citizens in black and white
robes, carrying huge silken banners, triangular like sea-pennants,
and splendid silver crucifixes which flash in the sun. Then come
ecclesiastics, walking with stately step, and chanting in loud and
pleasant unison. These are followed by nobles, among whom I
recognize, with a certain satisfaction, two descendants of Tasso,
whose glowing and bigoted soul may rejoice in the devotion of his
posterity, who help to bear today the gilded platform upon which is
the solid silver image of the saint. The good old bishop walks
humbly in the rear, in full canonical rig, with crosier and miter,
his rich robes upborne by priestly attendants, his splendid footman
at a respectful distance, and his roomy carriage not far behind.

The procession is well spread out and long; all its members carry
lighted tapers, a good many of which are not lighted, having gone out
in the wind. As I squeeze into a shallow doorway to let the cort6ge
pass, I am sorry to say that several of the young fellows in white
gowns tip me the wink, and even smile in a knowing fashion, as if it
were a mere lark, after all, and that the saint must know it. But
not so thinks the paternal bishop, who waves a blessing, which I
catch in the flash of the enormous emerald on his right hand. The
procession ends, where it started, in the patron's church; and there
his image is set up under a gorgeous canopy of crimson and gold, to
hear high mass, and some of the choicest solos, choruses, and
bravuras from the operas.

In the public square I find a gaping and wondering crowd of rustics
collected about one of the mountebanks whose trade is not peculiar to
any country. This one might be a clock-peddler from Connecticut. He
is mounted in a one-seat vettura,, and his horse is quietly eating
his dinner out of a bag tied to his nose. There is nothing unusual
in the fellow's dress; he wears a shiny silk hat, and has one of
those grave faces which would be merry if their owner were not
conscious of serious business on hand. On the driver's perch before
him are arranged his attractions,--a box of notions, a grinning
skull, with full teeth and jaws that work on hinges, some vials of
red liquid, and a closed jar containing a most disagreeable
anatomical preparation. This latter he holds up and displays,
turning it about occasionally in an admiring manner. He is
discoursing, all the time, in the most voluble Italian. He has an
ointment, wonderfully efficacious for rheumatism and every sort of
bruise: he pulls up his sleeve, and anoints his arm with it, binding
it up with a strip of paper; for the simplest operation must be
explained to these grown children. He also pulls teeth, with an ease
and expedition hitherto unknown, and is in no want of patients among
this open-mouthed crowd. One sufferer after another climbs up into
the wagon, and goes through the operation in the public gaze. A
stolid, good-natured hind mounts the seat. The dentist examines his
mouth, and finds the offending tooth. He then turns to the crowd and
explains the case. He takes a little instrument that is neither
forceps nor turnkey, stands upon the seat, seizes the man's nose, and
jerks his head round between his knees, pulling his mouth open (there
is nothing that opens the mouth quicker than a sharp upward jerk of
the nose) with a rude jollity that sets the spectators in a roar.
Down he goes into the cavern, and digs away for a quarter of a
minute, the man the while as immovable as a stone image, when he
holds up the bloody tooth. The patient still persists in sitting
with his mouth stretched open to its widest limit, waiting for the
operation to begin, and will only close the orifice when he is well
shaken and shown the tooth. The dentist gives him some yellow liquid
to hold in his mouth, which the man insists on swallowing, wets a
handkerchief and washes his face, roughly rubbing his nose the wrong
way, and lets him go. Every step of the process is eagerly watched
by the delighted spectators.

He is succeeded by a woman, who is put through the same heroic
treatment, and exhibits like fortitude. And so they come; and the
dentist after every operation waves the extracted trophy high in air,
and jubilates as if he had won another victory, pointing to the stone
statue yonder, and reminding them that this is the glorious day of
St. Antonino. But this is not all that this man of science does. He
has the genuine elixir d'amour, love-philters and powders which never
fail in their effects. I see the bashful girls and the sheepish
swains come slyly up to the side of the wagon, and exchange their
hard-earned francs for the hopeful preparation. O my brown beauty,
with those soft eyes and cheeks of smothered fire, you have no need
of that red philter! What a simple, childlike folk! The shrewd
fellow in the wagon is one of a race as old as Thebes and as new as
Porkopolis; his brazen face is older than the invention of bronze,
but I think he never had to do with a more credulous crowd than this.
The very cunning in the face of the peasants is that of the fox; it
is a sort of instinct, and not an intelligent suspicion.

This is Sunday in Sorrento, under the blue sky. These peasants, who
are fooled by the mountebank and attracted by the piles of adamantine
gingerbread, do not forget to crowd the church of the saint at
vespers, and kneel there in humble faith, while the choir sings the
Agnus Dei, and the priests drone the service. Are they so different,
then, from other people? They have an idea on Capri that England is
such another island, only not so pleasant; that all Englishmen are
rich and constantly travel to escape the dreariness at home; and
that, if they are not absolutely mad, they are all a little queer.
It was a fancy prevalent in Hamlet's day. We had the English service
in the Villa Nardi in the evening. There are some Englishmen staying
here, of the class one finds in all the sunny spots of Europe, ennuye
and growling, in search of some elixir that shall bring back youth
and enjoyment. They seem divided in mind between the attractions of
the equable climate of this region and the fear of the gout which
lurks in the unfermented wine. One cannot be too grateful to the
sturdy islanders for carrying their prayers, like their drumbeat, all
round the globe; and I was much edified that night, as the reading
went on, by a row of rather battered men of the world, who stood in
line on one side of the room, and took their prayers with a certain
British fortitude, as if they were conscious of performing a
constitutional duty, and helping by the act to uphold the majesty of
English institutions.

PUNTA DELLA CAMPANELLA

There is always a mild excitement about mounting donkeys in the
morning here for an excursion among the hills. The warm sun pouring
into the garden, the smell of oranges, the stimulating air, the
general openness and freshness, promise a day of enjoyment. There is
always a doubt as to who will go; generally a donkey wanting;
somebody wishes to join the party at the last moment; there is no end
of running up and downstairs, calling from balconies and terraces;
some never ready, and some waiting below in the sun; the whole house
in a tumult, drivers in a worry, and the sleepy animals now and then
joining in the clatter with a vocal performance that is neither a
trumpet-call nor a steam-whistle, but an indescribable noise, that
begins in agony and abruptly breaks down in despair. It is difficult
to get the train in motion. The lady who ordered Succarina has got a
strange donkey, and Macaroni has on the wrong saddle. Succarina is a
favorite, the kindest, easiest, and surest-footed of beasts,--a
diminutive animal, not bigger than a Friesland sheep; old, in fact
grizzly with years, and not unlike the aged, wizened little women who
are so common here: for beauty in this region dries up; and these
handsome Sorrento girls, if they live, and almost everybody does
live, have the prospect, in their old age, of becoming mummies, with
parchment skins. I have heard of climates that preserve female
beauty; this embalms it, only the beauty escapes in the process. As
I was saying, Succarina is little, old, and grizzly; but her head is
large, and one might be contented to be as wise as she looks.

The party is at length mounted, and clatters away through the narrow
streets. Donkey-riding is very good for people who think they cannot
walk. It looks very much like riding, to a spectator; and it
deceives the person undertaking it into an amount of exercise equal
to walking. I have a great admiration for the donkey character.
There never was such patience under wrong treatment, such return of
devotion for injury. Their obstinacy, which is so much talked about,
is only an exercise of the right of private judgment, and an
intelligent exercise of it, no doubt, if we could take the donkey
point of view, as so many of us are accused of doing in other things.
I am certain of one thing: in any large excursion party there will be
more obstinate people than obstinate donkeys; and yet the poor brutes
get all the thwacks and thumps. We are bound to-day for the Punta
della Campanella, the extreme point of the promontory, and ten miles
away. The path lies up the steps from the new Massa carriage-road,
now on the backbone of the ridge, and now in the recesses of the
broken country. What an animated picture is the donkeycade, as it
mounts the steeps, winding along the zigzags! Hear the little
bridlebells jingling, the drivers groaning their " a-e-ugh, a-e-ugh,"
the riders making a merry din of laughter, and firing off a fusillade
of ejaculations of delight and wonder.

The road is between high walls; round the sweep of curved terraces
which rise above and below us, bearing the glistening olive; through
glens and gullies; over and under arches, vine-grown,--how little we
make use of the arch at home!--round sunny dells where orange
orchards gleam; past shrines, little chapels perched on rocks, rude
villas commanding most extensive sweeps of sea and shore. The almond
trees are in full bloom, every twig a thickly-set spike of the pink
and white blossoms; daisies and dandelions are out; the purple
crocuses sprinkle the ground, the petals exquisitely varied on the
reverse side, and the stamens of bright salmon color; the large
double anemones have come forth, certain that it is spring; on the
higher crags by the wayside the Mediterranean heather has shaken out
its delicate flowers, which fill the air with a mild fragrance; while
blue violets, sweet of scent like the English, make our path a
perfumed one. And this is winter.

We have made a late start, owing to the fact that everybody is
captain of the expedition, and to the Sorrento infirmity that no one
is able to make up his mind about anything. It is one o'clock when
we reach a high transverse ridge, and find the headlands of the
peninsula rising before us, grim hills of limestone, one of them with
the ruins of a convent on top, and no road apparent thither, and
Capri ahead of us in the sea, the only bit of land that catches any
light; for as we have journeyed the sky has thickened, the clouds of
the sirocco have come up from the south; there has been first a mist,
and then a fine rain; the ruins on the peak of Santa Costanza are now
hid in mist. We halt for consultation. Shall we go on and brave a
wetting, or ignominiously retreat? There are many opinions, but few
decided ones. The drivers declare that it will be a bad time. One
gentleman, with an air of decision, suggests that it is best to go
on, or go back, if we do not stand here and wait. The deaf lady,
from near Dublin, being appealed to, says that, perhaps, if it is
more prudent, we had better go back if it is going to rain. It does
rain. Waterproofs are put on, umbrellas spread, backs turned to the
wind; and we look like a group of explorers under adverse
circumstances, "silent on a peak in Darien," the donkeys especially
downcast and dejected. Finally, as is usual in life, a, compromise
prevails. We decide to continue for half an hour longer and see what
the weather is. No sooner have we set forward over the brow of a
hill than it grows lighter on the sea horizon in the southwest, the
ruins on the peak become visible, Capri is in full sunlight. The
clouds lift more and more, and still hanging overhead, but with no
more rain, are like curtains gradually drawn up, opening to us a
glorious vista of sunshine and promise, an illumined, sparkling,
illimitable sea, and a bright foreground of slopes and picturesque
rocks. Before the half hour is up, there is not one of the party who
does not claim to have been the person who insisted upon going
forward.

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