Читать книгу Cities of the Dawn - J. Ewing Ritchie - Страница 7

Table of Contents

POMPEII AND VESUVIUS.

It is needless to write that no one can go to Naples without paying a visit to Pompeii, if he would get a true idea of a Roman city, with its streets, and shops, and baths, and forum, and temples; and it is as well to read over Bulwer’s ‘Last Days of Pompeii’—that master work of genius, compared with which our present popular novels are poor indeed—and then let the reader spend an entire day, if he can, among the Pompeiian remains, in the museum at Naples, which Garibaldi, when Dictator of Naples, handed over to the people. Pompeii is easy of access by the railway, which lands you at the very spot, after a short but pleasant trip. Much can be accomplished there and back for a little more than three francs. On Sundays Pompeii can be visited for nothing; on other days the charge is one franc, and when you have paid the guide the franc, I think you will agree with me that in no other part of the world can you see so much that is truly wonderful at so small an expense. Close to the gate are a hotel—the Hôtel du Diomede—and a restaurant, at either of which you can get all the refreshments you require; and if it is too hot to walk—and in the summer months Pompeii is a very hot place indeed—there are chairs in the grounds in which you can be carried all round and see all that is to be seen at very little personal fatigue.

Pompeii is spread out in an elliptical form on the brow of a hill, and extends over a space of nearly two miles. On one side of you is Vesuvius, and on the other the blue waters of the bay. One of the towns through which you pass in the train is Portici, the ancient Herculaneum; as it is, you are lost in wonder at the awful extent of the catastrophe which turned all this smiling land into a scene of desolation and death, and which, at any rate, led to the extinction of one philosophic career—that of the elder Pliny, a real victim to the pursuit of knowledge under difficulties. At the time of its visitation, Pompeii is reputed to have had a population of about 26,000.

Imagination fails to realize the agony of the hour as the swift, black, sulphurous death came down on all—the patrician in his marble halls, the tradesman in his shop, the miser at his desk, the devotees who cried to their gods for safety in vain, the slave, the freedman, the aged, to whom life had nothing to give, the tender, the beautiful, the young, to whom life seemed an exhaustless dream of joy. As in the days of the flood, there was marrying and giving in marriage. Here the baker had fled, and left his loaves in his oven; there was an eating-house, in which were found raisins, olives, and fish cooked in oil. There stands the tavern, indicated by the sign of the chequers, while the amphoræ of wines are still marked with the year of the vintage. An election was going on at the time of the catastrophe, and appeals to the free and independent are still preserved. In one place a schoolboy has scratched his Greek alphabet. In his sentry-box a sentinel was discovered, a grisly skeleton clasping his rusty sword. And the streets tell a piteous tale. In one a young man and woman had fallen together; in another part a lady was discovered attempting to flee with a bag of gold, and then there was seen the skeleton of a mother with her children, whom she was vainly seeking to save. In the house of Diomede, or, rather, in a vaulted cellar underneath, eighteen bodies were found of men and women who had evidently fled there for shelter. The probable proprietor of the house was found near the garden door, with the key in his hand, while beside him was a slave with valuables. It is evident that the city was a scene of vice and dissipation. Some of the inscriptions are too indecent to reproduce. I know not whether for this it becomes us to point the finger of scorn, we who read ‘Don Juan,’ who revel in Fielding, who reverence Dean Swift, who know what goes on in Paris and London by night, when respectability has gone to bed and Exeter Hall is shut up.

Let me turn to the streets—they are very narrow—and to the houses, which strike me as generally very small. In that grand climate the people must have mostly lived in the open air. One of the most elegant houses is that of the Tragic Poet. On the threshold was a dog in mosaic, with the inscription ‘Cave canem’—now in the museum at Naples. I was much interested in the public baths, or thermæ, which indicate with how much care the ancient Romans attended to cleanliness and health. They must have been on a somewhat extensive scale. A passage leads to the chamber for undressing. Beyond this is the cold bath. Thence we make our way to the warm bath, or tepidarium. The baths also possessed an extensive colonnade, now converted into a garden, besides several other chambers and baths for women, none of which are now open to the public. But we see wonders everywhere, in spite of the fact that all that is best in Pompeii has been moved to the museum at Naples, where remains one of the finest of the Pompeiian mosaics—that representing a battle between Darius and Alexander, which no one who wishes to have a competent idea of ancient art should avoid going to see. Let me add that no visitor should go to Pompeii without having first got a clear idea of what he is going to see. The guides are but poor helps, as mostly they speak nothing but Italian. Further, let me say that if you have at Naples only the day allowed by the Orient Company, while waiting for the overland mails, which generally reach Naples in a little over two days and nights after leaving London, your best plan is to get hold of Cook’s agent, who reaches the ship in a boat with a flag bearing the well-known name. He will take you off, drive you straight to Pompeii, give you time to ‘do’ the place and to get a good lunch there, and bring you back in time to the ship to pursue the even tenor of your way to Egypt, or Ceylon, or Australia, as the case may be. If you have time, pursue your studies by a day in the museum, or more if you can. It is there you can realize best, as you study the grand statues of great men and women and gods and goddesses, the Diana of Ephesus being one of them—statues in which the

‘Majesty of human passion

Is to the life expressed’—

what men the world’s masters were. Nero has a shocking head; Caligula looks an empty-headed fop; but I gazed admiringly on the grand features of my guide, philosopher, and friend—Marcus Aurelius. And I thought of Voltaire, as I stood opposite the noble statue of Julius Cæsar, on your left just as you enter the museum. Voltaire tells us men may be divided into two classes—hammers and anvils. Julius Cæsar evidently belonged to the former class. It was there, too, I saw a Venus, radiant in innocence and beauty and sweetness and grace, as if new ‘bathed in Paphian foam’—the only Venus I ever could have loved. But I had no guide-book, and the day was hot, and all the attendants were fast asleep.

Let me add a caution: Never change money if you can help it. You are sure to get a bad franc if you do. At Pompeii the guide tried it on with me. Again, while waiting for the train at Pompeii, I was tempted to have a deal with a pedlar, who asked me ten francs for souvenirs, which I subsequently bought, after a good deal of haggling, for five. Unfortunately, I had only a ten-franc note, and he had to give me change—not in coppers, as they generally do in Naples, where silver is scarce, but in francs; and one of them was bad, as I found out when I went to the museum next day. To my disgust, the civil gentleman who takes the money kindly cut it in two.

‘I will call for you at a quarter-past seven,’ said Cook’s agent to me, as he left the Ormuz.

‘Come at that hour,’ I replied; ‘I will be ready.’

Alas! man proposes—often in vain. I went to bed early. I had made arrangements for an early meal. I had agreed to see that a fellow-passenger who was to come should be ready; but I could not sleep—the heat in the bay was too great, the odour of the tide-less waters seemed to possess my soul, and as I lay awake all the chronic diseases by which I am borne down reasserted themselves, and I didn’t get a wink of sleep till just as it was time to get up. I have an early breakfast, and yet there is no sign of Cook’s agent. In due time I see him, and my friend and I and Cook’s agent are rowed on shore, and we drive to Cook’s headquarters. There we are put into a carriage drawn by three horses, and away we go along the crowded streets. What a display we have on every side of the unwashed, as they sit at the shop doors, or at the corners of the long narrow alleys in which most of them live! There are naked children, hideous old women, and very unlovely young ones. A fat priest passes with his beaver hat and black robes, and a young woman rushes at him and kisses his hand. The priest and the militaire are to be seen everywhere. No wonder the country is poor.

As we proceed the ground begins to rise, and we see pleasant villas with decent gardens. As we rise so does the dust; for mostly we are shut in between two walls, over which we see the vine hang heavily, or apricots glitter among the green branches on either side. Here and there is a break in the wall, and, seated at rustic tables, peasants and their families are enjoying a holiday, looking under their vine arbours across the blue bay or pleasant Capri, or glancing upward at the smoking mountain above. At one of these wayside publics our driver stops to water horses, which are useful animals, and, in spite of the heat, never turn a hair. We enter the principal room, at one end of which is a big bed, while nearer the door is a table with wine and glasses, and fruit, and specimens of lava and other matters. My friend, with the recklessness of youth, spends his money. I refuse to do anything of the kind; and again our coachman urges on his wild career. He pulls up again as a woman rushes out of her cabin to offer us drink. Again we are tempted, and in vain. Then we reach a level of reeds and rushes, where resides a venerable and unwashed hermit, who sighs as he turns in and thinks of the hardness of our hearts. We are now nearly out of the cultivated land, as we see the gigantic fields of lava on every side; where it can all have come from is a mystery. You can scarcely realize how all this lava—stretched on every hand, far and wide—can ever have come out of that crater. There seems more lava than you could get into the mountain itself; and how terrible must have been the scene when the red-hot lava rushed down the mountain-side, overwhelming green vines, and square-roofed huts, and living animals, and smiling babes, and weak and helpless old age! As it cooled, it seems to have wreathed itself into a thousand fantastic shapes—and yet the scene is fair and tranquil. A small wreath of smoke at the top only suggests a feeble fire within, and down far below the blue Mediterranean sleeps, and gay Naples sparkles, and the great Campagna opens up its vast green solitudes, save where, here and there, a white-stoned villa varies its monotony. Around me animal life exists not. The yellow birch blooms in her golden beauty, that is all, and the common white butterfly of England has the upper airs all to herself.

As we reach the observatory—an oasis in the desert—we meet a couple of sportsmen; they have a gun between them, though why I cannot understand, as I see nothing to shoot at but lizards, and so we are drawn slowly on the dusty road, which zigzags in the most wonderful manner every few yards. We enter through a gateway which, I presume, marks the bounds of the Cook territory, as one of his agents takes a look at our tickets. With joy our brown-faced coachman points us to a white, flat-roofed building, which he declares truly is the hotel, where he intimates we can have lunch, and where he intimates he can do the same if we will supply the cash—which we do, though he had no right to ask it—and weaned and parched we enter the grateful portals of the hotel to feast, and to enjoy a refreshing breeze, which we should have sought for in Naples in vain. As I rested there, I felt no wish to depart either upwards or downwards.

Of course the summer is the bad time for the crater. In the season Cook has his pilgrims, sometimes to the number of 200 a day. The cars are airy and light. As one goes up, another descends, and thus the work goes on under the care of an able German, who caught a fever in Egypt, and has been ordered here for the benefit of his health. The whole country should be called Cooksland. It is there John Cook reigns supreme. Just as I was leaving London a Leicester gentleman said to me: ‘I wonder Mr. Gladstone did not make John Cook a baronet.’ ‘The man who does what Mr. Cook does, for all travellers, whatever their nationality, surely deserves public recognition,’ says a commercial Dutchman to me as I write; ‘I am off to Palermo and Catana and Messina. I have taken Cook’s tickets for all the way.’

I found in my subsequent travels every one of us had more or less to enjoy the assistance of Cook’s agents. In many cases travellers derive great pecuniary benefit from doing so. I remember a friend of mine got some money changed for him by Cook’s agent on very much cheaper terms than he could anywhere else.

Italy is a poor country; yet it displays a sense of humour highly creditable under the circumstances. The site of the Custom House in Naples is locally known as the Immaculate.