With this sally, for so I took it to be, although I could not be sure until I had consulted the Maritime Dictionary, he took his leave, pleading the deficiency of his toilette after the hard day’s toil.
“Well,” said Mrs Bennet, who had been showing signs of increasing distress at being cooped up below, “at least we may take the air now. But do you not find the deck heaves rather, now that we have turned round? I hope we shall not have a storm, but I do not like the look of the sky. See how the billows do roll! I fear we are in for a wild night, and I shall be ill. I am almost sure of it.”
Chapter Nine :Not Wanted on the Voyage
My dear wife’s prediction proved only too lamentably true. We retired to our cots that night to a louder than usual chorus of creaks and groans from the ship’s timbers, and with the deck under our feet showing a regrettable tendency to leap about.
This was nothing, however, to the crashes and bumps and lurches that developed as the night wore on. The howling of the wind was a constant backdrop to the cries of the mariners above us and the moans of the passengers below, while the ship itself danced about as if bitten by one of the famous spiders of Taranto.
I doubt if any of us got much sleep that night. Mrs Bennet certainly had none, which meant that I could expect none, too. My time was occupied with sponging her brow and holding the bucket which she passed her time by filling with the contents of her stomach, although with less and less success as the night wore on. She has always delighted in making the most of her distress, and took the motion of the ship, with her consequent indisposition, as a malicious plot on my part to annoy her.
“Oh, Mr Bennet,” she would cry, between deposits, “how can you subject me to such things? I am sure I never asked for such trials. Why will you not make it stop?”
When I confessed my inability to still the waves, she replied,
“My one consolation is that I shall die soon and all this will be over. I should so like to have seen Lydia and my grandchildren first, however.”
The night wore on, and her cries and accusations grew increasingly extravagant, until I felt myself obliged to remind her that, by her own confession, she was to die very soon and might look for rest in death.
“Oh, Mr Bennet,” she replied, “How can you say such things? I am now in far worse a state than when I feared I would die, For now I fear that I may not die, but that I shall live, and suffer these torments endlessly. Why did I ever let you persuade me to go a-voyaging? I shall never set foot on a ship again. You must tell the captain that we are getting off at his next port of call, and we shall go straight home from there, by land, however long it may take.”
I spent the rest of the night failing to persuade her that to return home from our present situation could not be accomplished without at least a short sea voyage, but when Mrs Bennet has decided, sense, logic and mere facts are of no consequence, and I began to wonder where might be the best place on the continent to settle for the rest of our days, and how such a thing might be arranged.
This, at least, proved a diversion from the constant mopping and emptying and replacing of buckets, and kept my mind occupied until day broke, and the storm subsided.
I left Mrs Bennet improved to the point where she once more dreaded mere death and went on deck to find a scene not much different from the previous morning, save that the whole ship was in chaos, with lines hanging all ahoo, as the mariners say, and carpenters clattering and banging everywhere.
“Good morning to you, Mr Bennet,” cried Captain Bigelow. “We have had a bit of a blow, have we not?”
“So it would seem to me,” I replied, “but do I collect from your manner that we might not be in such a parlous state as my layman’s eye would tell me?”
“Well, yes and no,” he replied. “There is nothing here we cannot put right in a few hours, but our jury rudder would not answer to hold us on course, and we have been blown far to the northeast of where I should like us to be.”
“And where are we, then?” I enquired.
“To tell the truth, I am not exactly sure. With all this cloud I cannot get a fix on the sun, but we may hope that it will clear by noonday. By dead reckoning we are certainly well north of Sicily, which I had hoped to clear on the south side. I should not care to venture the straits of Messina with our jury rig, so the choice is either to put in at an Italian port for repairs, or retrace our course around the island. Either way will add days, perhaps weeks to our voyage, and hit our profits hard. But I am not to talk about such vulgar matters to you, Mr Bennet. Should you, perhaps, object to see Naples on your way? I promise you there is no obligation to die immediately afterwards. I have survived the experience several times myself.”
“Indeed, Captain Bigelow,” I replied, “I confess that I should not myself be averse to setting foot on dry land again, and, at the moment I can think of nothing that would please Mrs Bennet more. Let us by all means flee one Sicily for the embrace of the other.”
Chapter Ten :Bella Napoli
Mrs Bennet kept to her cot for the remainder of the voyage, even the sight of Vesuvius from the deck proving incapable of rousing her.
She rallied, however, almost as soon we disembarked, with all our luggage, having assured the Captain that we should be making our own way onwards to our destination.
“Oh, Mr Bennet,” she cried, “It was so good of you to make the captain set us ashore at the nearest port. You are always so good to me. I feel so much better now that I am back on terra cotta.”
“Do you not mean to say firma?” I replied.
“You are right, as always, Mr Bennet, I feel both safer and firmer now that I am back on terra cotta.”
“I can only applaud your composure, my dear,” was all that I could reply.
Naples does not, I believe have a reputation as a particularly healthy city. Indeed, I believe it has quite the opposite, being even now the regular haunt of plagues and pestilences that have long since ceased to trouble us in our blessed island. Artistically it may be a treasure house, especially now that Bonaparte’s depredations have been largely made good, but neither the thought of viewing Caravaggio paintings nor listening to Pergolesi motets would have detained me there with my family. As for Vesuvius, and even the renowned Phlegraean Fields, I think I should have been inclined to agree with Doctor Johnson when asked by Boswell whether the Giant’s Causeway was worth seeing.
“Seeing?” he replied, “Yes. Going to see? No.”
But, having found myself so near, and being able to acquit myself of any interested motive in our journey’s diversion, there was one place I could not resist both seeing and going to see.
“It will no doubt take some little while to arrange further transport from here,” I said. “Meanwhile, what say you all to a visit to Pompeii? Would not the sight of a genuine Roman city, newly dug from the ashes in which it was buried by yon volcano two thousand years ago be worth the seeing?”
Both Doctor Morland and Rev. Golightly were far too young in the ways of marriage to have their say no matter what, while yet well versed enough to know when to hold their tongues. They held them, accordingly, until Kitty had endorsed the romance of such a scene and Mrs Morland expressed the desire to paint it.
“But, Mr Bennet,” remarked my darling wife, “Pray do not ask me to go on another boat, for I shall never set foot on one again. Nasty, treacherous things! I rejoice that we are safe ashore.”
“Very well, then, to Pompeii we shall go. I believe there is a road all the way, and, no doubt, there are carriages to be hired for good English guineas. There seems to be only one drawback to such a project.”
“And what is that, pray?” asked Mr Golightly.
“Merely that I have not the slightest notion of how to set about it, and no more than one or two words of Italian with which to undertake the task. Or are you fluent in that tongue, Mr Golightly?”
“Not I,” he replied. “I cannot say that it is much regarded in English schools.”
“But it i
s regarded by those who truly love music, especially the opera,” said Mrs Morland, “and I shall do my endeavours to make our needs understood, if no-one else will undertake to do so.”
“We are again in your debt, my dear Mrs Morland,” I acknowledged. “Doubly so, for, now that I remember, among the papers so kindly furnished to me by your brother in law there was a letter of introduction to a friend of his in Naples. I have it in my writing case, together with his direction, although I have taken little notice of it since our intended route did not bring us to these parts. I think we cannot do better than to make use of this generous introduction and procure the help of someone better qualified to assist us.”
By now our bags had all been slung down from the ship, and it was the work of but a few moments to unearth the valuable document.
“Here it is,” I said, presenting it to Mrs Morland. “I cannot make head or tail of the direction, but do you think you could persuade one of these hundred or so coachmen who have surrounded us, all infinitely eager, it would seem, for our custom, to convey us there?”
“S.A.S. Massimo Caduto Philippo Aurelio di Catapani-Buonalbergho, Principe di Qualcheparte, Conte di Nulla, Cavaliere di Gran Croce dell'ordine del Santo Sepolcro, etc. etc.” she read, “Palazzo Oltrecredito, Napoli.”,
read Mrs Morland.
“Do you truly not understand a word of this?” she enquired. “Do you not at least collect what the initials S.A.S. signify?”
We could all but stand dumb and shake our heads.
“They stand for Sua Altezza Serenissima – His Most Serene Highness. The person we are about to barge in upon without warning is, among many other titles, a prince.”
“Then he should have plenty of room to put us all up,” remarked Mrs Bennet, “and after that awful sea voyage I, for one, should not say no to a few nights of luxury. Now, hurry up and do as Mr Bennet asks you, Margaret, dear, for if I have to stand here being ogled by all these ruffians for much longer I shall faint.”
The crowd had indeed closed in upon us, offering, as far as I could make out, not only transport and accommodation but genuine Caravaggios, authentic Roman coins, pottery and sculpture and a variety of services of an indiscreet nature, mostly involving their sisters, and Mrs Bennet was not the only one of us to be eager to depart the scene.
Mrs Morland, I must say, entered into her part with great gusto, shouting, laughing, feigning horror, incredulity and delight and waving her arms every bit as much as her Neapolitan counterparts, who appeared not a whit abashed by the grand address upon our letter, but stood back in seeming awe when she referred to me as Milord Bennetto, and we soon found ourselves squashed aboard an open carriage, somewhat like a barouche, with our luggage piled behind us, making our way through a spider’s web of narrow streets and broad squares.
“I hope you do not mind,” said Mrs Morland to me, as we negotiated one of the many piles of indeterminate filth that decorated the thoroughfares, “but I had to give you a promotion in my negotiations. It seems that the name of an English Milord carries more weight hereabouts than that of a Neapolitan Prince.”
“I dare say the College of Heralds will not pursue me this far,” I replied, “and all English gentlemen are Milords on the continent, are they not?”
Had I known what my assent to this title would bring, I might have been less confident, however.
Eventually we turned into a street that, while no less filthy and smelly, consisted of large buildings of heavy ashlar, mostly rusticated and often vermiculated too. We lurched through an open arch and into a courtyard, where we stopped in front of a colossal oak door, heavily studded with large, black nails.
“Palazzo Catapani” cried our driver, hammering on the door with the handle of his whip.”
“Ho chiesto Palazzo Oltrecredito,” replied Mrs Morland, with admirable facility.
“E la stessa cosa, madama,” was the reply, with an eloquent shrug.
No doubt more would have followed, had the door not at this stage been opened by a large individual in heavily powdered wig and footman’s livery. The effect was spoiled slightly by the distinct whiff of garlic when he opened his mouth.
“Cosa vuolete?” he demanded. “A sua altezza non piace essere svegliato durante la sua siesta. Andate via, subito.”
There followed a jumble of jabber from the coachman, of which the only words I could make out were “Milord Benetto.”
The invaluable Mrs Morland now chipped in with –
“Ecco la nuostra littera di presentazione del gran Milord Inglese Visconte Hapworth.”
“Del Conte Eppurt? Perche non ha detto? E come sta la bella Contessa?”
“Stava bene, quando ho lasciatola. E mia sorella, non sai?”
“Ah! Mi scusi, signora, mi scusi. Signore, signori, entrate per cortesia, entrate e sedetevi. Informero la sua Altezza.”
At this stage all but one of us had not the faintest idea of what was going on, and now we found ourselves ushered into a chilly room off the hallway, where the rich decorations of both walls, ceiling, floor and furniture tried in vain to dispel the pervading air of gloom. Noises off bore witness that our baggage was being unloaded.
“Please to accommodate selves,” our cicerone now pronounced in a halting tone. “I spik de Eengleesh good, see. I tell ‘is ighness.”
We took our seats and stared at each other for a while, a while which endured long enough for each of us to be left in no doubt that the furniture was exceeded in its hideousness only by its discomfort.
“Perhaps,” ventured Golightly at length, “we should have let the driver take us to a lodging of his own choosing, or asked him to convey us to the British Embassy?”
I was prevented from replying immediately by the entrance of a maidservant with coffee.
This was our first experience of the strong, bitter, coal-black liquid served in Italy and the lands eastward, not at all like the mild brew found in English coffee houses, and even less akin to coffee as it is known in Meryton. It provided a subject for conversation other than what we should do next if this call proved unsatisfactory.
The little, crunchy cakes called, if my memory serves me, stracciatelle, that accompanied it presently provided an even more pressing subject, but before that occasion arose we were treated to the entry of the master of the house.
His highness proved to be a gentleman sufficiently advanced in age but making use of as much powder, paint and ceruse as might be thought to lend a guise of youth. His elaborate dress and heavily powdered wig smacked of an age long gone in lands beyond the Alps.
“Ah,” he cried, waving his arms about in that affected, Italian manner, “Signor Benneto, benvenuto a Napoli. Un amico de mi caro amico Milor Eppurt e ancor mio amico.”
“I am sorry, sir,” was all that I could say, “but I do not understand you.”
“Ah, davvero?” he replied. “My servant, ‘e tell me you speak Italian good.”
“Not I, your highness, but my dear friend Mrs Morland here is adept at that beautiful tongue. It is she to whom we owe this introduction. Her sister is married to Lady Hapworth’s brother.”
“Una donna cosi erudita come bella,” said the prince, turning to Mrs Morland. “E come ha imparato nuostra lingua, bella signora?”
“Abbastanza male, Altezza” answered our interpreter. “Viene pricipalmente dei libretti che hanno fatto Metastasio e Da Ponte per le opera de Mozart. E anche delle poesie de Petrarca e Tasso.”
“So modest as you are learned and beautiful, my lady. But we must spik English for your friends who lack your advantages.”
“But why you like opera by compositore Tedesco? You must see good Italian opera while you are here, perhaps La Serva Padrona by our own Pergolesi. And you must permit me to show you the home of Tasso, at Sorrento. Bisogna tornar a Surriento, no?”
This blatant flirting could not be suffered further, and fortunately was brought to a stop at this point by Mrs Bennet’s opportunely choking upon the aforementioned stracciatella, which n
ecessitated immediate operations for her relief.
It was not until these had been accomplished that formal introductions could be made.
“I am very ‘appy to meet you all. Milord Eppurt tell me you go to visit your daughter, signor Bennet , on island of Corfu. ‘Ow may I assist you?”
“We are but newly come to Naples, your highness, and in fact have been blown out of our way by a misadventure to our ship. Any assistance you can give in finding accommodation and arranging transport on our way would be very gratefully received.”
“Accommodation? Ha! It is found! You must stay here. Never let it be said that a Catapani turned away guests from his door. We have plenty of room. Ha, Sigismondo!”
This cry was followed by the return of the footman who had greeted us at the door. He in turn was greeted by a storm of rapid-fire Italian, of which I made out not one word, and I doubt very much whether Mrs Morland gathered much more. In fact, I am sure she did not, for she told me later that the Italian of Naples is not at all like that of Tuscany. Whatever was actually said, it resulted in our bags being whisked upstairs, while the Prince urged us to rest after our journey.
“Dear Guests,” he ceremoniously declared, “you must be excessively fatigued after such a journey, all the way from England, by sea! I once travelled by boat, to Elba – I had a certain reason to go there, but we will not go into that- and vowed never to repeat the experience. Mariella will show you to your rooms, and we shall meet again at dinner tonight.”
We stayed far too long in Naples, of course. Our princely host seemed unable to appreciate that anyone might want to leave his city. We were, just about, all equally guilty of finding excuses to linger in that enchanting mixture of splendor and squalor, presided over by the great volcano whose prospect is proverbially fatal.
Our Neighbours' Sport Beyond the Seas Page 7