All she could do was weep, and weep she did, till she nearly wept herself to death, failing of her long-treasured scheme of revenge. Of her servant she had lost all trace. To find her was out of the question; her only hope was in Miss Howard.
But they never met. The Countess and the priest could do nothing; and Rose and her husband soon tired of the fruitless search and returned, to remember in after years the delights of the Bay of Naples—‘the most beautiful spot in the world,’ writes George Eliot. Everything takes us back to the past. It was in the bay that pious Æneas landed. Caligula, and Nero, and Tiberius, all loved the spot. The grotto of the Sybil was near, too; the tomb of Virgil is yet shown in that neighbourhood. Capua, famed for its luxury and ease, was not far off. No wonder the world flocks to the Bay of Naples. I stay at the Hotel de Vesuve, kept by Mr. Mella, well-known to English members of the Coaching Club, and where I find excellent accommodation. And he tells me 80,000 visitors pass through his hotel in the course of a year. It is a classical education to stop in Naples for a while. I love it best in the summer, when you can revel on green figs, and apricots, and peaches, and oranges for a song. In the winter there are fogs and snow at times. But there is this drawback in the summer, and that is its intense heat, which drives everyone away. From the deck of the steamer the view is charming, as Naples with its terraces, and castles, and hills rises before you; and at night, when all is still, and the gas-lamps glitter all round the bay for miles, it looks like fairyland.
In Naples itself there is little to see, with the exception of the museum, which, when Garibaldi was Dictator, was thrown open to the public, and in which some, or rather all, the most precious works of art discovered in Pompeii are preserved. It is not enough to go to Pompeii—you must visit the museum in Naples as well. But the brasses and the marbles in the museum are especially fine, such as the Farnese Bull, and the Farnese Hercules, and the Roman Emperors. In the churches there is little to see, and nothing to admire. There are showy shops in the Toledo, and at the end, as you enter, an arcade as handsome as is to be found anywhere in Europe. There are good public gardens where you may hear excellent music on a summer night, and no city has better tramcars, and more civil drivers and conductors. I have no fault to find with the cabs, except that their drivers never leave you alone, and lie in wait for you at your going out and coming in. It is in its crowded and bustling streets that the charm of Naples consists. Surely there never was a people who lived so much in the open air, and drank so much water flavoured with lemon. The Neapolitans are a sober people, and industrious as well. They are fearfully taxed, and, with their scanty wages, how they manage to make both ends meet is a mystery. They are much given to sleep in the summertime anywhere, on the broad street or the sea-wall; and of a Sunday afternoon they are much given to crowd into some rickety old cart, and tear along as fast and far as the horse can go.
There is very little beauty among the common people, and you have plenty of scope for observation, as women dress their back hair in the broad streets, and the babies are washed in the same public manner. Nor can you wonder that this is so, as you contemplate the dingy streets and high houses, divided by narrow lanes, just like Yarmouth Rows, where no fresh air can enter, no ray of sunlight can shine. What strikes a stranger especially is the awful noise. There is an everlasting clatter of wheels and cracking of whips, and braying of donkeys—and in Naples they bray louder than anywhere else; and how the hawkers shout! and they are numerous, and seem to supply everyone. It is amusing to see them transacting business. The customer is high up in the balcony, suspended in mid air. She needs a bit of fish, and she lets down a basket to the hawker below. That gives rise to a good deal of talk, as the Neapolitans are a much-gesticulating people. If a bargain is struck, the basket is hauled up with the fish inside.
An old French writer complained of the English people that they were very ignorant, as they never spoke French. In a similar spirit the ignorance of the Neapolitans struck me. None of them could speak a word of English.
There are others who call it the City of Flowers. This is nothing but a mistake. But the cactus grows everywhere, and thus, wherever you go—on the rail, or by the villa, or the flat-roomed cabin where the poor peasant lives—you have a good display of green; and in the public gardens the palm-tree grows luxuriantly, and you are reminded of the tropics at every step; and thus the hot hours glide peacefully on, while the retailers of lemon and water do a roaring trade, and the ragged who have no money curl themselves in the dark arches, met with at every corner, and sleep the sleep of the just. All Naples is asleep in the middle of the day, and even the policeman nods. Happily he has little to do, as, ignorant and priest-ridden as the people may be, they never get drunk. At night the city is gay, as families, old and young, rush off to the music-hall, or to hear the bands play, or to navigate the peaceful waters by the light of Chinese lanterns. I suppose they fancy they cool themselves. The fact is, Naples is always hot in summer. All day long the burning sun bakes up the streets and the shops, and the old bits of rocks, all built over; and the heat seems to me to radiate from them all night long. If it were not for the tramcars, which are numerous and cheap, and the conductors of which are uncommonly civil and well-behaved, locomotion would be impossible. There are no flags more trying than those of Naples, and as the cabs drive all over the road you are never safe. People who are deaf, who are old and infirm, are in constant danger, in spite of the thundering crack of the cabman’s whip, or the ear-splitting note of the conductor’s horn. Motion seems to begin about five, and still the tumult rages as I retire to rest.
After all, the chief fault I find with the people is the way they work their horses and donkeys. The latter, at any rate, have a hard time of it, as they drag the heavy load on a cart of two long poles with beams laid across of the most primitive order. I fancy the old country cart remains as it was in the time of the Romans. Sometimes a horse or mule or bullock is harnessed on one side; but the patient ass, who does the chief of the work, no one seems to pity.
On a hot day it also stirs my indignation to see a horse dragging a cart with fourteen or fifteen strapping men inside, and on a Sunday everyone seems to drive, and as fast as he can. The swell and the costermonger all tear along at a frightful pace, and thus secure—what in England some good people are trying to insure—a pleasant Sunday afternoon.
CHAPTER XXVII.
IN BRUSSELS.
‘Of course, this is a plant, my dear.’