Sand and Canvas: Narrative of adventures in Egypt with a sojourn among the artists in Rome

by Samuel Bevan

I now joined the rest of my party, and found that we were at the summit, or in other words, on a level with the internal surface of the crater, leaving only the edge of the basin to be surmounted. The glorious spectacle which now greeted us, was one which we must ever remember. From the cone, there poured forth a continuous stream of fire, with every now and then a terrific discharge of red-hot stones, bursting upwards with a fearful rushing sound. This treble, if I may so term it, was accompanied by a rumbling bass like thunder, from the very bowels of the mountain, forming a combination of sounds wonderfully grand and awful. The red-hot masses of lava fell for the most part upon the outer surface of the cone, from which we were distant about a furlong, and rolled downwards into the crater. We were of course upon the windward side of Vesuvius, a precaution always borne in mind by the guides. As it was, some of the stones fell very near us, whenever the wind shifted to an opposite quarter, which was often the case, and at such times, their clatter as they fell upon the surface of the crater, was sufficiently alarming.

As soon as daylight had fairly dawned, we ventured upon the sea of hot lava which lay before us, sufficiently encrusted and cooled at the surface, to admit of our doing so with safety, though the placing of one’s feet required care, as any slip on our parts might have been attended with unpleasant consequences. Every now and then we had to cross some narrow fissure in the molten lava, produced by the contraction of the surface. Into these we thrust our poles and sticks, which came out again in a blaze. Being disgusted with the heat and sulphurous odours which assailed us on all sides, we were meditating a return to the point from whence we had started, when a change in the wind sent a shower of combustibles so alarmingly near us, that we retreated as quickly as we could, scrambling and falling about among the uncouth masses of lava, in a manner that under other circumstances, would have been highly amusing. In the present case, however, sauve qui peut, seemed the order of the day, and no one looked back to help his less fortunate companion.

At the edge of the crater we sat down to rest ourselves, preparatory to once more descending to the level of our fellow-mortals. I had, in my ignorance, supposed that we should return by the same path which we had taken in making the ascent, and was therefore surprised when our guides conducted us to the top of an immense cinder-shoot, looking like the combined siftings of all the cinders we had ever seen. Having deliberately given us our instructions, guide No. 1 made a sort of plunge forward, and with one single gigantic stride, cleared a space of some twenty feet of ground, and repeating this novel species of step, was presently out of hearing. No. 2 followed in his wake, and we after him, and once fairly started, pulling up was a difficult matter. After near a quarter of a mile of this work, I became aware of something wrong in the region of my boots, which had long been filled with fine cinders, productive of much uneasiness. There was no help for it however. Downwards we all went, with a gradually accelerating motion, and I was beginning to calculate on the certainty of losing my equilibrium in the course of another dozen strides or so, when I was suddenly brought up hard and fast against the broad back of one of the guides, and congratulated by my companions upon my safe arrival. Now for the first time I was able to look upwards, and certainly was greatly astonished at the quantity of ground we had traversed in so short a space of time. Here we emptied our shoes of the cinders accumulated in our progress, but as for myself, I was spared half the trouble of this operation, by finding the ample calf of one of my Maltese boots, lodged at my knee-cap, having been separated from the corresponding portion, now transformed into a shoe, by the unfair ordeal to which it had been subjected. As we had descended by a more distant part of the mountain, our walk to the Hermitage was proportionably longer, and I believe we were all heartily wearied by our nocturnal expedition. The mule-ride back to Resina seemed interminably long, and it was only after a warm-bath and an interval of refreshing sleep, that I could overcome the effects of my unwonted exertions.

Having engaged a berth in the “Mongibello” steam-packet, for Civita Vecchia, I got my passport properly signed, and repaired on board, taking care to see that my portmanteau was carefully consigned to the hold. This done, I stole away to my berth to secure a nap, and avoid the bustle and confusion of starting, and was already busily dreaming of cinders and lava, when I was rudely awakened and summonsed before a party of police on deck, to answer to my name, which had been repeatedly called without eliciting any reply. This formality over, I turned in once more, and at ten o’clock the next morning found myself in the harbour of Civita Vecchia. At the Dogana here, my effects were plombés, and again had my passport to undergo a visè, whilst my pocket contributed its mite to the coffers of his Holiness the Pope.

I found a diligence about to start for Rome, and had just time to swallow a hot omelette, before squeezing myself in with the conductor in front. This was a highly amusing fellow, and although I could scarcely put together ten words of Italian, we managed to keep up a tolerably animated conversation. He was particularly pleased with my Egyptian sword, which he insisted on keeping constantly drawn, flourishing it now and then out of the open window, to intimidate certain imaginary banditti, at times skirmishing with the driver aloft, who showed fight with his whip-handle. About dusk, we reached the Holy City.

CHAPTER XVII.

THE ROMAN DOUANE—THE HOTEL CESARJ—MEDITATIONS—THE CAFFE GRECO—ITS OCCUPANTS—MORNING WALK—WINE CARTS—THE RUSPOLI—BELLAMY’S TOILET—PREPARATIONS FOR THE CERVARO—THE ROBING-ROOM—CHOICE OF A DRESS—THE LIVERY STABLE—PORTA MAGGIORE—THE TORRE DEI SCHIAVE—A GRAND REVIEW—THE QUARRIES—INCANTATION TO THE SYBIL—THE DINNER—RETURN TO ROME.

I could scarcely venture to believe, as I stepped out of the diligence in the court-yard of the dogana at Rome, that I had at length reached the spot, which of all others I had most wished to visit, the golden land of my earliest imaginations. My first impulse was to rush in the dark to St. Peter’s, and I should possibly have acted upon it, had not a civil functionary belonging to the customs, suddenly dissipated my romance, by a request that I would hand out my keys and open my baullo. After a loose inspection of my worldly effects, my new friend shouldered the portmanteau, and begged to know the place of my destination, a question somewhat difficult to answer, inasmuch as I was unacquainted with the name of any hotel, and for all I knew, with any individual of my own species in the city. Seeing that I hesitated, my douanier hinted that the “Cesarj” was at hand, where I might at least stay until I found one more suited to my taste. To the “Cesarj” therefore, we went. Arrived in my little bed-room, au quatriéme, and fatigued with the dusty journey in the diligence, I rang the bell and ordered some coffee. “We furnish nothing,” said my landlord, who had himself obeyed the summons, “but a bed and breakfast, and the house does not boast of a kitchen, but at the corner of the square hard by, the Signor will find a good trattoria.” The old adage of “when at Rome,” &c., occurred forcibly to my remembrance, and although somewhat disposed to grumble at a mode of treatment so unusual in a hotel, I groped my way out to the eating-house, resolving to seek a more hospitable roof on the morrow.

In the digestive interval which followed my meal, it occurred to me, that I might as well organize some plan for the best employment of the time I intended to devote to Rome and its neighbourhood, for at this time I had no idea that my stay would be so long protracted, as afterwards proved to be the case. That I ought, in fact, to look round at the various hotels, in the hope of falling in with the name of some quarantine acquaintance, or quondam fellow-traveller, who would bear me company, and give me the benefit of his experience. I have a peculiar aversion to the valets de place, who infest large inns, and an antipathy also to being seen gaping about in a foreign town, with a rosy “Murray” in my hand, which, albeit the ne plus ultra of hand-books, entails upon every unfortunate possessor who may appeal to it in the crowded highway, a host of petty annoyances, and in Italy more especially, stamps him at once Inglese, fair game for all kinds of imposition. Much of this might be avoided by the adoption of some less conspicuous binding: one of my friends, who had taken the precaution to ink his covers all over, attributed thereto the saving of some considerable quantity of petty cash, during a two months’ sojourn in Rome.

But to return. As I sat musing in the trattoria, I recollected with much satisfaction, that an artistical friend, whose acquaintance I had made in Egypt, had mentioned a certain Caffé Greco, as a likely place to find him in, on my arrival in Rome, and as it was not much past seven, I resolved immediately to begin my inquiries. One of the waiters showed me the way to this retreat, which is in the Via Condotti, and appears a favourite place of resort of artists of every nation. Making my way through a thick smoke to the bar or counter, I inquired if one Bellamy, an Englishman, were within, and was answered by an affirmative nod of the head, from a tall man engaged in filling, with black coffee, some two dozen or so of small cups. This operation, though simple enough, was performed with much dexterity by a rotatory motion of the arm, without breaking the continuous stream of liquid Mocha, which flowed from the enormous tin biggin. In accordance with the motion of the man’s head, which pointed to an inner room, I found myself in an atmosphere still denser than that I had just quitted, whilst my ears were assailed with a furious cross-fire of high Dutch. From this I emerged into a third room, where, though a smoker myself, I almost gasped for breath. Here I could see nothing whatever, save the light of a lamp suspended from the ceiling, which looked dim and red, like the sun on a foggy morning in London, but a rapid conversation in the mother-tongue, betokened the presence of sundry and divers of my countrymen, whose forms gradually developed themselves, in proportion as my eyes became accustomed to the atmosphere.