Читать книгу Letters from a Mourning City - Axel Munthe - Страница 5

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ARTENZA per Napoli!" So rang the cry through the railway station in Rome.

We were a crowd of travellers gathered together in the refreshment room, all busy eating; I was tired and hungry after my long journey, and had just retired into a corner where I was utilising the few remaining moments in hastily swallowing my Roman luncheon. The man who had announced the train looked in at the door, but no one stirred from their seat; he then came up to the table at which I was sitting, and all the occupants of the dining-room dropped their knives and forks in utter astonishment, eyeing me with considerable curiosity as he said to me: "Lei va a Napoli, è vero?"

Yes, I certainly was going to Naples, and hurried off immediately to secure a good place; an unnecessary precaution, for when the train started I was alone in the coupé, at Marino I discovered that I was alone in the carriage, and at Albano it became quite evident that I was the only passenger in the train.

An appalling stench of carbolic acid filled the carriages.

Never before had I travelled at such a pace in Italy. The train rushed madly over Velletri, Segni, Anagni, Ferentino—all old acquaintances of former travelling days—and before I knew where I was, we had reached Ceprano, where there was a delay of five minutes, as I found out from the guard, who was bestowing all his attention on me, seeing that there was no other hope of a pourboire in the train. Ceprano is the usual resting-place between Rome and Naples; I just happened to remember that a particularly good old wine was obtainable in this part of the world, and ran hastily into the refreshment room; but it was empty, and an old woman who sat outside spinning, informed me that nothing was to be had there: "Non vengono più nessuni," said she sadly.

On we sped over Liris, the beautiful river with the beautiful name, and to the left, high up on the mountain, lay the gray old convent of Monte Casino, greeting me with peaceful recollections of bygone times, of quiet working-days spent amongst the convent archives, where I had turned over many a monk-written chronicle and dreamed thoughts, how different to the actual thoughts of the present day. . . .

And the train rushed noisily on over Teano, Sparanisi, Pignataro, over the valley of Volturno, gradually approaching the land of summer. Before us lay the Terra di Lavoro in all the splendour of its gorgeous colouring, the green elm-trees and fragrant roses had quite forgotten that summer was over, but the vines were glowing in all their rich autumnal beauty, and heavy clusters of ripe grapes were waiting to yield their young wine.

It was just beginning to grow dusky, and I suppose I must have fallen asleep for a minute or so; I recollect being under the impression that the smell of carbolic acid was increasing every moment, and was gradually spreading through the open windows all down the road along which we were travelling. An icy draught, as though some one had opened the door, blew over me, extinguishing the lamp that hung from the ceiling; I shivered suddenly, an irresistible inexplicable feeling that I was no longer alone, shot through me, and I felt the cold perspiration on my forehead. And at the same time it seemed to me that the carriage had turned into a coffin, flying rapidly over the dusky plains, and that Death and I were alone together, and beneath my closed eyelids I felt my gloomy fellow-traveller gazing fixedly at me from the corner opposite. . . .

Slight carbolic acid poisoning + sleepless night + considerable nervous excitement, eh, doctor? But anyhow the lamp was out.

At Capua a man really did turn up who was going on by the same train; he came to the door of my carriage, and, contrary to my usual habits, I felt quite sociably inclined. He had a head like Augustus, and the proud mouth relaxed into a derisive smile at the strong smell of carbolic acid that met him as he opened the door. I felt ashamed of my funereal meditations, and thought to myself: here at any rate is a fellow who does not know what fear is. Such at least was the impression he gave me; he glanced at me that very moment, as though he had been able to read my thoughts—for an instant only, but very contemptuously, it seemed to me.

We made no attempt at conversation, both of us were on our dignity, he reserved as a Cæsar, I morose as a plebeian. The train had now reached Caserta; desolate and deserted as all the other wayside stations. Suddenly the door of the carriage next to ours was thrown open, and two guards ran hastily towards the station-house, carrying between them the conductor of the train who had been in to look at our tickets only an hour ago; the light of the lantern fell upon the waxen face, which I hardly recognised, so great was the terror that shone out of his wide open eyes. The supercilious stranger and myself glanced involuntarily at each other, and the same words fell simultaneously from our lips—il cholera! And I took back all I had thought to myself when he had first come up to the carriage sneering at the strong smell of carbolic acid, for the brave fellow grew paler and paler, retiring into the furthermost corner of the carriage, and binding his pocket-handkerchief tightly round his nose and mouth. Presently the other conductor returned, and I noticed, as he wiped the perspiration off his brow, that, half surreptitiously, he made the sign of the cross with his hand; I beckoned to him to come up to our carriage, and he then told me that the poor man was the second conductor who had sickened in the train during the last fortnight; he thought his companion would be better here in Caserta than in Naples, where the hospitals were already overcrowded.

Naturally, since my companion had wrapped his mouth up in his pocket-handkerchief, there was less likelihood than ever of our engaging in conversation, and he looked angrily and suspiciously at me into the bargain, especially after my little chat through the window with the guard. He got out at Cancello, and the new conductor—who was now looking after me with an amount of attention which was in inverse proportion to the distance from Naples, where the pourboire was to make its appearance—informed me that he believed it was il sindaco, the mayor of Cancello himself, whom we had had with us. It is in Cancello that the upward mails from Naples are delayed for a whole day to be disinfected—saturated with sulphur, sprinkled with carbolic acid, etc. I remember wondering how far il sindaco superintended this ceremony himself, and what he would look like during the process. But it isn't fair to be hard upon him, especially if he be no exception to the rule that fear paves the way for cholera, for in that case he may be lying ill at this very moment—he often came into my mind when reading over the provincial bulletins.

And as I sat alone in the half-dark railway carriage, bright memories of former days began to light up the road along which we were travelling. It was again over Campagna Felice, over "the happy fields" that the September moon was just rising; it was "Italy's paradise," and all the joys of my youth that were again stretching out their arms to me, and "Napoli la bella" that was, as of old, bidding me welcome to the sound of song and guitar! Across the bay flew soft breezes with greetings from Sorrento, and far away, like the most beautiful fata morgana on earth, lay the blue island of Capri floating in the distance. And the repulsive smell of carbolic acid inside the carriage oppressed me no longer, the withered roses of past summers filled the air again with all their fragrance, and kindly thoughts of heartfelt gratitude to the lovely country that lay before me, awoke from out their winter's sleep, wherein they had lain through many a busy working-day, far off from sun and summer.

Never before had I known the strength of the link which bound me to this country—it is not in the bright moments of life that we realise how deeply we cherish a friend, it is when we know him to be unhappy and in distress, that the hidden voices of our inmost hearts break forth into their own language, which knows not how to lie, and give utterance to the soul's most silent thoughts. Naples lies mourning now, shall we not all hasten thither, even as unto a fellow-creature in distress, we who have spent such happy days in her midst, we who have learnt to love her simple, warm-hearted, poverty-stricken children; we who have heard the mandoline sound across the bay to the strains of "O dolce Napoli!" we who from Camaldoli's convent heights have beheld the loveliest vision that ever greeted the eye of man, when the sun goes down behind the Ischian hills, and when the roseate light, which no brush can paint, floods the mountains of Sorrento, when Capri spreads her veil of ever-increasing blue across her own fair island, and over the green-coloured velvet slopes of Vesuvius, fall the tints of that deep violet that can never be forgotten! Dost thou remember the nightingale's song in the groves about Sorrento, when the orange-trees were in full bloom, when thou satest listening all through the soft, still summer's night to the dreamy songs from some poor fisherman's boat far out on the bay, and fellest asleep to the last sounds of "Felicissima notte! addio, addio!" still ringing in thine ears, like unto a lingering farewell to the happiest days of thy life?

And now is the time to give back to Italy a tithe of all she has given us! Here is room for every one, poor and rich can be of equal use, here where the distress is so great and declares itself in so many ways; here strong arms are needed to bear the sick, here strong heads are needed to think over and carry out the plans for allaying the misery that is stalking through the land. You need bring nothing with you but pity for a suffering so great that it has no name, and if the love you bore to Italy still lives within you, so much the greater will your patience be, so much the softer the hands that shall nurse the poor sufferers! And if it should cost you your life, well, what of that! Is it then so sweet to live, and is it so hard to die, when one can die in the land of one's dreams, knowing that one has helped others to live, or if their fate is sealed, that one has at least helped them to die! Ye who are rich, give, give of your abundance, here are a thousand mouths crying for bread; and ye who are poor, light ye in kindly thought a votive candle on the altar of your silent intercessions.

Pure nervousness + innate sentimentality + blind love towards Italy + suspicious tendency to mysticism—is the fellow a Catholic? eh, doctor?

The train glided into the Naples station. The platform was empty, not a single gesticulating facchino ready to tear the things out of your hands, not a single one of the drivers outside, standing up on the box of their own cabs, cracking their whips and crying, "Ecco Signorì, buona carozzella, buonissimo cavallo!" no deafening welcome from the street life of Naples, in the shape of the hundred urchins who swarm round every newcomer, swinging their arms one moment, standing on their heads the next, with outstretched hands, crying, "Date u soldo, eccellenza, u bajocco, Signorì!" And my friend Pasqualino, who was all-in-all to me last time I was here, why has he not come down to carry my luggage home for me? yet I had certainly written to his mother, my old padrona, asking her to prepare my former room for me. What has become of every one? A dark and ominous silence has fallen over all the streets, and it begins to dawn upon me why my poor Pasqualino has not come down to meet the train.

Here we are at my old lodgings, over the doorway I read the following words, "Closed on account of cholera-infection"—Pasqualino was dead, my dear old landlady was dead, her black-eyed little Teresina was dead!