Therese did not reply.Her head and her vast cap remained buried in the fireplace; and nothing in her person, which I closely watched, betrayed the least emotion.She poked some paper under the wood, and blew up the fire.That was all!
Finally I saw her face again;--it was calm--so calm that it made me vexed."Surely," I thought to myself, "this old maid has no heart.
She lets me go away without saying so much as AH! Can the absence of her old master really affect her so little?""Well, then go, Monsieur," she answered at last, "only be back here by six o'clock! There is a dish for dinner to-day which will not wait for anybody."Naples, November 10, 1859.
"Co tra calle vive, magna, e lave a faccia."I understand, my friend--for three centimes I can eat, drink, and wash my face, all by means of one of those slices of watermelon you display there on a little table.But Occidental prejudices would prevent me from enjoying that simple pleasure freely and frankly.And how could I suck a watermelon? I have enough to do mereley to keep on my feet in this crowd.What a luminous, noisy night in the Strada di Porto! Mountains of fruit tower up in the shops, illuminated by multicoloured lanterns.Upon charcoal furnaces lighted in the open air water boils and steams, and ragouts are singing in frying-pans.The smell of fried fish and hot meats tickles my nose and makes me sneeze.At this moment I find that my handkerchief has left the pocket of my frock-coat.I am pushed, lifted up, and turned about in every direction by the gayest, the most talkative, the most animated and the most adroit populace possible to imagine; and suddenly a young woman of the people, while I am admiring her magnificent hair, with a single shock of her powerful elastic shoulder, pushes me staggering three paces back at least, without injury, into the arms of a maccaroni-eater, who receives me with a smile.
I am in Naples.How I ever managed to arrive here, with a few mutilated and shapeless remains of baggage, I cannot tell, because I am no longer myself.I have been travelling in a condition of perpetual fright; and I think that I must have looked awhile ago in this bright city like an owl bewildered by sunshine.To-night it is much worse! Wishing to obtain a glimpse of popular manners, I went to the Strada di Porto, where I now am.All about me animated throngs of people crowd and press before the eating-places; and Ifloat like a waif among these living surges, which, even while they submerge you, still caress.For this Neopolitan people has, in its very vivacity, something indescribably gentle and polite.I am not roughly jostled, I am merely swayed about; and I think that by dint of thus rocking me to and fro, these good folks want to lull me asleep on my feet.I admire, as I tread the lava pavements of the strada, those porters and fishermen who move by me chatting, singing, smoking, gesticulating, quarrelling, and embracing each other the next moment with astonishing versatility of mood.They live through all their sense at the same time; and, being philosophers without knowing it, keep the measure of their desires in accordance with the brevity of life.I approach a much-patronised tavern, and see inscribed above the entrance this quatrain in Neopolitan patois:
"Amice, alliegre magnammo e bevimmo N fin che n'ce stace noglio a la lucerna:
Chi sa s'a l'autro munno n'ce verdimmo?
Chi sa s'a l'autro munno n'ce taverna?"
["Friends, let us merrily eat and drink as long as oil remains in the lamp:
Who knows if we shall meet again in another world?
Who knows if in the other world there will be a tavern?"]
Even such counsels was Horace wont to give to his friends.You received them, Posthumus; you heard them also, Leuconoe, perverse beauty who wished to know the secrets of the future.That future is now the past, and we know it well.Of a truth you were foolish to worry yourselves about so small a matter; and your friend showed his good sense when he told you to take life wisely and to filter your Greek wines--"Sapias, vina liques." Even thus the sight of a fair land under a spotless sky urges to the pursuit of quiet pleasures.but there are souls for ever harassed by some sublime discontent; those are the noblest.You were of such, Leuconoe; and I, visiting for the first time, in my declining years, that city where your beauty was famed of old, I salute with deep respect your melancholy memory.Those souls of kin to your own who appeared in the age of Chrisitianity were souls of saints; and the "Golden Legend" is full of the miracles they wrought.Your friend Horace left a less noble posterity, and I see one of his descendants in the person of that tavern poet, who at this moment is serving out wine in cups under the epicurean motto of his sign.
And yet life decides in favour of friend Flaccus, and his philosophy is the only one which adapts itself to the course of events.There is a fellow leaning against that trellis-work covered with vine-leaves, and eating an ice, while watching the stars.He would not stoop even to pick up the old manuscript I am going to seek with so much trouble and fatigue.And in truth man is made rather to eat ices than to pore over old texts.
I continued to wander about among the drinkers and the singers.
There were lovers biting into beautiful fruit, each with an arm about the other's waist.Man must be naturally bad; for all this strange joy only evoked in me a feeling of uttermost despondency.
That thronging populace displayed such artless delight in the simple act of living, that all the shynesses begotten by my old habits as an author awoke and intensified into something like fright.
Furthermore, I found myself much discouraged by my inability to understand a word of all the storm of chatter about me.It was a humiliating experience for a philologist.Thus I had begun to feel quite sulky, when I was startled to hear someone behind me observe:
"Dimitri, that old man is certainly a Frenchman.He looks so bewildered that I really fell sorry for him.Shall I speak to him?
