In answer to his cry there came from the depths of the chapel a sound like the chirping of birds. We heard a feeble fluttering of wings, a stirring as of birds in a nest. Jack drew back in terror. "Don't be afraid, Jack," I said to him, pressing his arm. "They are the birds of the Madonna." During those terrible years, as soon as the airraid sirens announced the approach of enemy bombers all the poor little birds of Naples took refuge in the chapels: sparrows, swallows, their feathers rumpled, their round eyes shining under their white lids. They used to hide in remote corners of the chapels, where, huddling together and trembling, they would nest among the wax and papier-mache statuettes of the souls in Purgatory. "Do you think I've scared them?" Jack asked me in a low voice. And we moved away on tip-toe, so as not to scare the little birds of the Madonna.
Along the streets walked nearly-naked old men with whitish, bony shins, leaning against the walls for support. Their snowy locks, ruffled by the wind of fear, hung in disarray over their foreheads, and they kept shouting at the top of their voices. Their words were clipped, and sounded to me like Latin; they were, perhaps, ritual magic formulas of malediction, or of exhortation to the people to repent, to confess their sins aloud, and to prepare for death like Christians. Bands of harassed-looking working-class women hurried along at frantic speed, almost at a run, keeping close together as if they were warriors assailing a fortress; and as they ran they hurled obscene insults and threats at the weeping, gesticulating groups of people in the windows, exhorting them to repent of the infamies for which all were responsible, since the day of judgment had come at last, and neither women, nor old men, nor children would escape the chastisement of God. To their insults and threats the people at the windows responded with loud wails, frightful abuse and vile curses, which the crowd in the street echoed with groans and cries, shaking their fists in the air and uttering dreadful sobs.
From the Piazza Reale we had climbed the hill to Santa Teresella degli Spagnoli; and as we walked down in the direction of Toledo the tumult increased, the demonstrations of fear, rage and pity became more frequent, and the demeanour of the people grew fiercer and more threatening. Near the Piazza delle Carrette, outside a brothel famous for its negro clientèle, a crowd of infuriated women yelled and stormed, trying to break down the door, which the prostitutes had barricaded in furious haste. At last the crowd burst into the house, and came out dragging by the hair a bleeding, terrified mob of naked harlots and negro soldiers, who at the sight of the flaming sky, the clouds of lava suspended above the sea, and Vesuvius, wrapped in its dreadful fiery shroud, became as meek as frightened children. While some were attacking the brothels others were invading the butchers' and bakers' shops. The people, as always, tempered their blind fury with manifestations of their traditional hunger. Yet the underlying cause of their fanatical rage was not hunger, but fear—a fear that was turning to class bitterness, vindictiveness, and a hatred of self and of others. As always, the populace ascribed to that awful scourge the character of a punishment from heaven; they saw in the wrath of Vesuvius the anger of the Virgin, of the Saints, of the Gods of the Christian Olympus, who had become incensed at the sins, the corruption and the viciousness of men. And side by side with repentance, with a melancholy desire to expiate their misdeeds, with the eager hope of seeing the wicked punished, with an ingenuous confidence in the justice of a Nature that was so cruel and unjust—side by side with shame at their own wretchedness, of which the people are sadly conscious, there was growing up, as always, in the minds of the populace a base feeling of impunity, the origin of so many deeds of wickedness, and a miserable conviction that in the midst of such great destruction, such widespread chaos, anything is lawful and just. And so men were seen in those days to perform deeds both base and sublime, inspired by blind fury or by cold reason, almost by a wonderful desperation. Such is the power exercised by fear, and by shame at their sins, over the souls of simple men.
Such, too, were the sentiments which determined my attitude of mind, and Jack's, in the face of this inhuman scourge. No longer were we united only in our friendship, our affection, and our pity for the conquered and the conquerors, but also in virtue of the fact that we too felt afraid and ashamed. Jack was humbled and appalled by that frightful upheaval of nature. And so too were all those American soldiers who but a moment before had been so sure of themselves, so disdainful, so proud of their status as free men, and who now were darting about in all directions among the crowd, forcing their way along with their fists and elbows, and expressing their mental confusion in the disarray of their uniforms and the craziness of their behaviour. They rushed along, some in silence, their faces distorted by fear, others covering their eyes with their hands and groaning, some in brawling gangs, others alone, and all peering about them like hunted dogs.
In the maze of alleys that leads down to Toledo and Chiaia the mob grew thicker and more frenzied at every step; for popular disorders develop in the same way as disorders of the blood in the human body: in such cases the blood tends to collect in one place and to cause disturbances now in the heart, now in the brain, now in one or other of the intestines. People were coming down from the remotest quarters of the city and collecting in what from time immemorial have been regarded as the holy places of Naples—in the Piazza Reale, around the Tribunali, the Maschio Angioino and the Cathedral, where the miraculous blood of St. Januarius is preserved. There the uproar was terrific, sometimes assuming the proportions of a riot. Lost in that fearsome crowd, which swept them now this way, now that, as it surged to and fro, turning them round and buffeting them like the gale in Dante's Hell, the American soldiers looked as if they too were possessed by a primaeval terror and fury. Their faces were begrimed with sweat and ashes, their uniforms were in rags. Now they too were humbled. No longer were they free men, no longer were they proud conquerors. They were conquered wretches, victims of the blind fury of nature. They too were seared to the depths of their souls by the fire that was consuming the sky and the earth.
From time to time a hollow, muffled rumbling, which spread through the secret recesses of the earth, shook the pavement beneath our feet and made the houses rock. A hoarse, deep, gurgling voice rose from the wells and from the mouths of the sewers. The fountains exhaled sulphurous vapours or threw up jets of boiling mud. That subterranean rumbling, that deep voice, that boiling mud caused a sudden efflux of people from their lairs in the bowels of the earth. For during those melancholy years the wretched populace, in order to escape the merciless air-raids, had made their homes in the winding tunnels of the ancient Angevin aqueduct which runs beneath the streets of Naples. This aqueduct, say the archaeologists, was excavated by the first inhabitants of the city, who were Greeks or Phoenicians, or by the Pelasgians, those mysterious men who came from the sea. There is an allusion to the Angevin aqueduct and its strange population in Boccaccio's tale of Andreuccio de Perugia. These unhappy creatures were emerging from their filthy hell-holes, from the dark caves, the underground passages, the wells and the mouths of the sewers. Each one carried on his shoulders his wretched chattels, or, like a modern Aeneas, his aged father, or his young children, or the pecuriello, the paschal lamb, which at Eastertide (it was actually Holy Week) brings joy to even the meanest Neapolitan home, and is sacred, because it is the image of Christ.
This "resurrection," to which the coincidence of Easter gave a dread significance, the resurgence from the tomb of these ragged hordes, was a sure sign of the existence of a danger both grave and imminent. For what hunger, and cholera, and earthquakes—which, according to an ancient belief, destroy palaces and hovels but respect the caverns and the underground passages beneath the city's foundations—cannot accomplish was possible to the rivers of boiling mud with which Vesuvius in its spite was gleefully driving those poor wretches like rats from the sewers.
Those crowds of mud-stained, spectral beings who were everywhere emerging from beneath the ground, that seething mob which was rushing like a river in flood towards the low-lying parts of th
e city, and the brawls, the yells, the tears, the oaths, the songs the panic, the sudden stampedes, and the ferocious struggles that would break out in the vicinity of a chapel, a fountain, a cross, or a baker's shop, created a frightful, stupendous chaos of sound, which filled the city and was overflowing on to the sea-front, into Via Partenope, Via Caracciolo, the Riviera di Chiaia, and the streets and squares that front the sea between the Granili and Mergellina. It was as if the people in their despair looked to the sea alone for salvation, as if they expected that the waves would quench the flames which were devouring the land, or that the marvellous compassion of the Virgin or St. Januarius would enable them to walk on the waters and escape.
But when they reached the sea-front, where they were greeted by the fearsome spectacle of Vesuvius, red-hot, with streams of lava winding their way down its slopes, and the blazing villages (the blast from the prodigious conflagration spread as far as the island of Capri, which could be seen drifting on the horizon, and the snow-covered mountains of Cilento), the crowd dropped to their knees; and at the sight of the sea, which was covered with a horrible green and yellow film like the mottled hide of some loathsome reptile, they called upon heaven to help them, uttering loud wails, bestial yells and savage oaths. Many, spurred on by the curses and the frightful abuse of the infuriated, envious populace, plunged into the waves, hoping that they would provide a foothold, and were ignominiously drowned.
After wandering round for a long time we finally emerged into the vast square, dominated by the Maschio Angioino, that opens on to the harbour. And there before us, swathed from head to foot in its purple mantle, we saw Vesuvius. That ghostly Caesar with his dog-like head, sitting on his throne of lava and ashes, cleft the sky with his flame-crowned brow, and barked horribly. The pillar of fire that rose from his throat penetrated deep into the celestial vault and vanished into the abyss of heaven. Rivers of blood streamed from his gaping red jaws, and earth, sky and sea trembled.
The faces of the crowd that filled the square were shiny and flat-looking; they were seamed with shadowy black and white lines, as in a flash-light photograph. There was something of the harshness and frozen immobility of a photograph in those wide, staring eyes and intent faces, in the façades of the houses and the other impersonal features of the scene, and almost, one felt, in the people's gestures. The fierce light of the flames beat down upon the walls and illuminated the gutters and cornices of the balconies; and the contrast between the bloodshot sky, which had a sombre purplish tint, and the red-rimmed roofs was illusory in its effect. Crowds of people were hurrying down to the sea, pouring into the square from the hundred alleys that converge upon it from all sides. As they walked they gazed up at the black clouds, swollen with glowing lava, that rolled across the sky immediately above the sea, and at the red-hot stones that ploughed their way noisily through the murky air like comets. A terrible clamour arose from the square; and every so often a deep silence would fall upon the crowd, broken at intervals by a groan, a wail, or a sudden cry—a solitary cry that died away instantly without leaving behind it a trace of an echo, like a cry that goes up from a bare mountain-top.
Over on the far side of the square hordes of American soldiers were making a violent assault on the railings that block the entrance to the harbour, trying to break the great iron bars. Hoarse, plaintive cries for help came from the ships' sirens. Pickets of armed sailors were rushing to take up their positions on the decks and along the sides of their vessels. Fierce scuffles were breaking out on the moles and gangways between the sailors and the hordes of fear-crazed soldiers who were rushing the ships that they might escape the wrath of Vesuvius. Here and there, lost in the crowd, were American, British, Polish, French and negro soldiers, wandering about in bewilderment and terror. Some tried to force their way through the press, clutching the arms of weeping women, whom they appeared to have kidnapped; others allowed themselves to be swept along on the tide, dazed by the ferocity and novelty of the awful scourge. Scores of negroes, their broad nostrils red and dilated, their round white eyes starting out of their black heads, milled around in the confusion, almost naked, as if they had rediscovered their ancient forests in the crowd. They were surrounded by swarms of prostitutes, also half-naked, or wrapped in the ceremonial cloaks of yellow, green and scarlet silk worn by the women in the brothels. And some chanted their own private litanies; others uttered mysterious phrases in loud, piercing voices; others in rhythmic tones invoked the name of God—"Oh, God! Oh, my God!"—frantically waving their arms above the sea of heads and distorted faces, and keeping their eyes fixed on the sky as if, through the rain of ashes and fire, they were watching the slow flight of an Angel armed with a flaming sword.
By now the night was waning, and a delicate pallor was suffusing the sky over towards Capri and above the wooded slopes of the mountains of Sorrento. Even the fires of Vesuvius were losing something of their terrible brilliance and were beginning to appear green and transparent; the flames were turning pink, and looked like huge rose-petals scattered by the wind. As the nocturnal mists gave way to the uncertain light of dawn the rivers of lava ceased to glow; they grew dim, and were transformed into black snakes, just as red-hot iron, when it is left on the anvil, gradually becomes covered with black scales, which emit dying blue and green sparks.
Slowly the dawn was lifting that infernal panorama,- still dripping with red darkness, out of the deep bowl of the flaming night as a fisherman raises a clump of coral from the bed of the sea. The virgin light of the day was washing the pale green of the vineyards, the antique silver of the olive-trees, the deep blue of the cypresses and pines, the voluptuous gold of the brooms. In such a setting the black rivers of lava shone with a funereal radiance, glowing darkly as some crustaceans do when they lie on the sea-shore in the sun, or like certain kinds of dark stones when the rain has restored their lustre. In the distance, beyond Sorrento, a patch of red was gradually climbing above the horizon. Slowly it dissolved into the air, and the sky, which was full of yellow, sulphurous clouds, was suffused with a transparent blood-red glow, until unexpectedly the sun, white as the eyelid of a dying bird, broke through the turbulent mists.
A tremendous clamour arose from the square. The crowd stretched out their arms towards the rising sun, shouting "The sun! The sun!" as if this were the first time the sun had ever risen over Naples. And perhaps the sun was indeed rising now for the first time on Naples from the abyss of chaos, amid the turmoil of creation, climbing from the bed of a sea whose creation was not yet complete. And as always happens in Naples after a time of terror, grief and tears, the return of the sun, following a night of such endless agony, changed horror and weeping into joy and jubilation. Here and there arose the sound of the first applause, the first glad voices, the first songs, and those sharp guttural cries, attuned to the age-old melodic themes of elemental fear, pleasure and love, with which the people of Naples, in the manner of animals, that is to say in a wonderfully naive and innocent way, express joy, amazement, and that happy fear which men and animals always feel when they have rediscovered the meaning of joy and are astonished to be alive.
Gangs of boys were running among the crowd, chasing from end to end of the square and crying "E fornuta! è fornuta!" Those words —"It's over! It's over!"—announced the ending not only of the scourge of the war. "E fornuta! è fornuta!" answered the crowd, for always the sun's appearance deludes the people of Naples, inspiring them with the false hope that their misfortunes and sufferings are about to end. A cart drawn by a horse entered the square from Via Medina, and the sight of that horse filled the crowd with joyous amazement, as though it was the first horse ever created. One and all shouted: "See that? See that? A horse! A horse!" And as if by magic there arose on all sides the voices of the itinerant vendors, offering for sale sacred images, rosaries, amulets, dead men's bones, postcards representing scenes from former eruptions of Vesuvius, and statuettes of St. Januarius, who with a gesture had halted the stream of lava at the gates of Naples.
&
nbsp; Suddenly the hum of engines was heard high up in the sky, and everyone looked up.
A squadron of American fighters had taken off from the air-field at Capodichino and was attacking the enormous black cloud or "cuttle-fish," which, swollen with fragments of glowing lava, was gradually drifting in the direction of Castellammare. After a few moments the rat-tat of machine-guns was heard, and the horrible cloud seemed to stop and confront its assailants. The American fighters were trying to break up the cloud with the salvoes from their machine-guns so that it would be forced to jettison its load of red-hot stones over the stretch of sea that lies between Vesuvius and Castellammare. In this way they hoped to save the town from certain destruction. It was a desperate enterprise, and the crowd held their breath. A profound silence descended on the square.
Through the gaps which the salvoes of machine-gun bullets tore in the sides of the black cloud torrents of glowing lava hurtled down into the sea, throwing up lofty jets of red water, Columns of vivid green vapour, comet-like trails of red-hot cinders, and marvellous rosettes of flame, which slowly dissolved in the air. "See that? See that?" cried the throng, clapping their hands. But meanwhile the horrible cloud, propelled by the wind, which was blowing from the north, drew nearer Castellammare every moment.
Suddenly one of the American fighters, looking like a silver hawk, darted with the speed of lightening straight at the "cuttle-fish," tore a gap in it with its nose, passed through the gap, and with a fearful explosion blew up inside the cloud, which opened like a huge black rose and hurtled down into the sea.
The Skin Page 26