Pictures From Italy

by Dickens, Chales

  skimming over the white ice, like a cannon-ball. Almost at the

  same moment, there is a cry from behind; and a man who has carried

  a light basket of spare cloaks on his head, comes rolling past, at

  the same frightful speed, closely followed by a boy. At this

  climax of the chapter of accidents, the remaining eight-and-twenty

  vociferate to that degree, that a pack of wolves would be music to

  them!

  Giddy, and bloody, and a mere bundle of rags, is Pickle of Portici

  when we reach the place where we dismounted, and where the horses

  are waiting; but, thank God, sound in limb! And never are we

  likely to be more glad to see a man alive and on his feet, than to

  see him now - making light of it too, though sorely bruised and in

  great pain. The boy is brought into the Hermitage on the Mountain,

  while we are at supper, with his head tied up; and the man is heard

  of, some hours afterwards. He too is bruised and stunned, but has

  broken no bones; the snow having, fortunately, covered all the

  larger blocks of rock and stone, and rendered them harmless.

  After a cheerful meal, and a good rest before a blazing fire, we

  again take horse, and continue our descent to Salvatore's house -

  very slowly, by reason of our bruised friend being hardly able to

  keep the saddle, or endure the pain of motion. Though it is so

  late at night, or early in the morning, all the people of the

  village are waiting about the little stable-yard when we arrive,

  and looking up the road by which we are expected. Our appearance

  is hailed with a great clamour of tongues, and a general sensation

  for which in our modesty we are somewhat at a loss to account,

  until, turning into the yard, we find that one of a party of French

  gentlemen who were on the mountain at the same time is lying on

  some straw in the stable, with a broken limb: looking like Death,

  and suffering great torture; and that we were confidently supposed

  to have encountered some worse accident.

  So 'well returned, and Heaven be praised!' as the cheerful

  Vetturino, who has borne us company all the way from Pisa, says,

  with all his heart! And away with his ready horses, into sleeping

  Naples!

  It wakes again to Policinelli and pickpockets, buffo singers and

  beggars, rags, puppets, flowers, brightness, dirt, and universal

  degradation; airing its Harlequin suit in the sunshine, next day

  and every day; singing, starving, dancing, gaming, on the seashore;

  and leaving all labour to the burning mountain, which is

  ever at its work.

  Our English dilettanti would be very pathetic on the subject of the

  national taste, if they could hear an Italian opera half as badly

  sung in England as we may hear the Foscari performed, to-night, in

  the splendid theatre of San Carlo. But, for astonishing truth and

  spirit in seizing and embodying the real life about it, the shabby

  little San Carlino Theatre - the rickety house one story high, with

  a staring picture outside: down among the drums and trumpets, and

  the tumblers, and the lady conjurer - is without a rival anywhere.

  There is one extraordinary feature in the real life of Naples, at

  Page 110

  Dickens, Charles - Pictures From Italy

  which we may take a glance before we go - the Lotteries.

  They prevail in most parts of Italy, but are particularly obvious,

  in their effects and influences, here. They are drawn every

  Saturday. They bring an immense revenue to the Government; and

  diffuse a taste for gambling among the poorest of the poor, which

  is very comfortable to the coffers of the State, and very ruinous

  to themselves. The lowest stake is one grain; less than a

  farthing. One hundred numbers - from one to a hundred, inclusive -

  are put into a box. Five are drawn. Those are the prizes. I buy

  three numbers. If one of them come up, I win a small prize. If

  two, some hundreds of times my stake. If three, three thousand

  five hundred times my stake. I stake (or play as they call it)

  what I can upon my numbers, and buy what numbers I please. The

  amount I play, I pay at the lottery office, where I purchase the

  ticket; and it is stated on the ticket itself.

  Every lottery office keeps a printed book, an Universal Lottery

  Diviner, where every possible accident and circumstance is provided

  for, and has a number against it. For instance, let us take two

  carlini - about sevenpence. On our way to the lottery office, we

  run against a black man. When we get there, we say gravely, 'The

  Diviner.' It is handed over the counter, as a serious matter of

  business. We look at black man. Such a number. 'Give us that.'

  We look at running against a person in the street. 'Give us that.

  ' We look at the name of the street itself. 'Give us that.' Now,

  we have our three numbers.

  If the roof of the theatre of San Carlo were to fall in, so many

  people would play upon the numbers attached to such an accident in

  the Diviner, that the Government would soon close those numbers,

  and decline to run the risk of losing any more upon them. This

  often happens. Not long ago, when there was a fire in the King's

  Palace, there was such a desperate run on fire, and king, and

  palace, that further stakes on the numbers attached to those words

  in the Golden Book were forbidden. Every accident or event, is

  supposed, by the ignorant populace, to be a revelation to the

  beholder, or party concerned, in connection with the lottery.

  Certain people who have a talent for dreaming fortunately, are much

  sought after; and there are some priests who are constantly

  favoured with visions of the lucky numbers.

  I heard of a horse running away with a man, and dashing him down,

  dead, at the corner of a street. Pursuing the horse with

  incredible speed, was another man, who ran so fast, that he came

  up, immediately after the accident. He threw himself upon his

  knees beside the unfortunate rider, and clasped his hand with an

  expression of the wildest grief. 'If you have life,' he said,

  'speak one word to me! If you have one gasp of breath left,

  mention your age for Heaven's sake, that I may play that number in

  the lottery.'

  It is four o'clock in the afternoon, and we may go to see our

  lottery drawn. The ceremony takes place every Saturday, in the

  Tribunale, or Court of Justice - this singular, earthy-smelling

  room, or gallery, as mouldy as an old cellar, and as damp as a

  dungeon. At the upper end is a platform, with a large horse-shoe

  table upon it; and a President and Council sitting round - all

  judges of the Law. The man on the little stool behind the

  President, is the Capo Lazzarone, a kind of tribune of the people,

  appointed on their behalf to see that all is fairly conducted:

  attended by a few personal friends. A ragged, swarthy fellow he

  is: with long matted hair hanging down all over his face: and

  covered, from head to foot, with most unquestionably genuine dirt.

  Page 111

  Dickens, Charles - Pictures From Italy

  All the body of the room i
s filled with the commonest of the

  Neapolitan people: and between them and the platform, guarding the

  steps leading to the latter, is a small body of soldiers.

  There is some delay in the arrival of the necessary number of

  judges; during which, the box, in which the numbers are being

  placed, is a source of the deepest interest. When the box is full,

  the boy who is to draw the numbers out of it becomes the prominent

  feature of the proceedings. He is already dressed for his part, in

  a tight brown Holland coat, with only one (the left) sleeve to it,

  which leaves his right arm bared to the shoulder, ready for

  plunging down into the mysterious chest.

  During the hush and whisper that pervade the room, all eyes are

  turned on this young minister of fortune. People begin to inquire

  his age, with a view to the next lottery; and the number of his

  brothers and sisters; and the age of his father and mother; and

  whether he has any moles or pimples upon him; and where, and how

  many; when the arrival of the last judge but one (a little old man,

  universally dreaded as possessing the Evil Eye) makes a slight

  diversion, and would occasion a greater one, but that he is

  immediately deposed, as a source of interest, by the officiating

  priest, who advances gravely to his place, followed by a very dirty

  little boy, carrying his sacred vestments, and a pot of Holy Water.

  Here is the last judge come at last, and now he takes his place at

  the horse-shoe table.

  There is a murmur of irrepressible agitation. In the midst of it,

  the priest puts his head into the sacred vestments, and pulls the

  same over his shoulders. Then he says a silent prayer; and dipping

  a brush into the pot of Holy Water, sprinkles it over the box - and

  over the boy, and gives them a double-barrelled blessing, which the

  box and the boy are both hoisted on the table to receive. The boy

  remaining on the table, the box is now carried round the front of

  the platform, by an attendant, who holds it up and shakes it

  lustily all the time; seeming to say, like the conjurer, 'There is

  no deception, ladies and gentlemen; keep your eyes upon me, if you

  please!'

  At last, the box is set before the boy; and the boy, first holding

  up his naked arm and open hand, dives down into the hole (it is

  made like a ballot-box) and pulls out a number, which is rolled up,

  round something hard, like a bonbon. This he hands to the judge

  next him, who unrolls a little bit, and hands it to the President,

  next to whom he sits. The President unrolls it, very slowly. The

  Capo Lazzarone leans over his shoulder. The President holds it up,

  unrolled, to the Capo Lazzarone. The Capo Lazzarone, looking at it

  eagerly, cries out, in a shrill, loud voice, 'Sessantadue!' (sixtytwo),

  expressing the two upon his fingers, as he calls it out.

  Alas! the Capo Lazzarone himself has not staked on sixty-two. His

  face is very long, and his eyes roll wildly.

  As it happens to be a favourite number, however, it is pretty well

  received, which is not always the case. They are all drawn with

  the same ceremony, omitting the blessing. One blessing is enough

  for the whole multiplication-table. The only new incident in the

  proceedings, is the gradually deepening intensity of the change in

  the Cape Lazzarone, who has, evidently, speculated to the very

  utmost extent of his means; and who, when he sees the last number,

  and finds that it is not one of his, clasps his hands, and raises

  his eyes to the ceiling before proclaiming it, as though

  remonstrating, in a secret agony, with his patron saint, for having

  committed so gross a breach of confidence. I hope the Capo

  Page 112

  Dickens, Charles - Pictures From Italy

  Lazzarone may not desert him for some other member of the Calendar,

  but he seems to threaten it.

  Where the winners may be, nobody knows. They certainly are not

  present; the general disappointment filling one with pity for the

  poor people. They look: when we stand aside, observing them, in

  their passage through the court-yard down below: as miserable as

  the prisoners in the gaol (it forms a part of the building), who

  are peeping down upon them, from between their bars; or, as the

  fragments of human heads which are still dangling in chains

  outside, in memory of the good old times, when their owners were

  strung up there, for the popular edification.

  Away from Naples in a glorious sunrise, by the road to Capua, and

  then on a three days' journey along by-roads, that we may see, on

  the way, the monastery of Monte Cassino, which is perched on the

  steep and lofty hill above the little town of San Germano, and is

  lost on a misty morning in the clouds.

  So much the better, for the deep sounding of its bell, which, as we

  go winding up, on mules, towards the convent, is heard mysteriously

  in the still air, while nothing is seen but the grey mist, moving

  solemnly and slowly, like a funeral procession. Behold, at length

  the shadowy pile of building close before us: its grey walls and

  towers dimly seen, though so near and so vast: and the raw vapour

  rolling through its cloisters heavily.

  There are two black shadows walking to and fro in the quadrangle,

  near the statues of the Patron Saint and his sister; and hopping on

  behind them, in and out of the old arches, is a raven, croaking in

  answer to the bell, and uttering, at intervals, the purest Tuscan.

  How like a Jesuit he looks! There never was a sly and stealthy

  fellow so at home as is this raven, standing now at the refectory

  door, with his head on one side, and pretending to glance another

  way, while he is scrutinizing the visitors keenly, and listening

  with fixed attention. What a dull-headed monk the porter becomes

  in comparison!

  'He speaks like us!' says the porter: 'quite as plainly.' Quite

  as plainly, Porter. Nothing could be more expressive than his

  reception of the peasants who are entering the gate with baskets

  and burdens. There is a roll in his eye, and a chuckle in his

  throat, which should qualify him to be chosen Superior of an Order

  of Ravens. He knows all about it. 'It's all right,' he says. 'We

  know what we know. Come along, good people. Glad to see you!'

  How was this extraordinary structure ever built in such a

  situation, where the labour of conveying the stone, and iron, and

  marble, so great a height, must have been prodigious? 'Caw!' says

  the raven, welcoming the peasants. How, being despoiled by

  plunder, fire and earthquake, has it risen from its ruins, and been

  again made what we now see it, with its church so sumptuous and

  magnificent? 'Caw!' says the raven, welcoming the peasants. These

  people have a miserable appearance, and (as usual) are densely

  ignorant, and all beg, while the monks are chaunting in the chapel.

  'Caw!' says the raven, 'Cuckoo!'

  So we leave him, chuckling and rolling his eye at the convent gate,

  and wind slowly down again through the cloud. At last emerging

  from it, we come in sight o
f the village far below, and the flat

  green country intersected by rivulets; which is pleasant and fresh

  to see after the obscurity and haze of the convent - no disrespect

  to the raven, or the holy friars.

  Away we go again, by muddy roads, and through the most shattered

  Page 113

  Dickens, Charles - Pictures From Italy

  and tattered of villages, where there is not a whole window among

  all the houses, or a whole garment among all the peasants, or the

  least appearance of anything to eat, in any of the wretched

  hucksters' shops. The women wear a bright red bodice laced before

  and behind, a white skirt, and the Neapolitan head-dress of square

  folds of linen, primitively meant to carry loads on. The men and

  children wear anything they can get. The soldiers are as dirty and

  rapacious as the dogs. The inns are such hobgoblin places, that

  they are infinitely more attractive and amusing than the best

  hotels in Paris. Here is one near Valmontone (that is Valmontone

  the round, walled town on the mount opposite), which is approached

  by a quagmire almost knee-deep. There is a wild colonnade below,

  and a dark yard full of empty stables and lofts, and a great long

  kitchen with a great long bench and a great long form, where a

  party of travellers, with two priests among them, are crowding

  round the fire while their supper is cooking. Above stairs, is a

  rough brick gallery to sit in, with very little windows with very

  small patches of knotty glass in them, and all the doors that open

  from it (a dozen or two) off their hinges, and a bare board on

  tressels for a table, at which thirty people might dine easily, and

  a fireplace large enough in itself for a breakfast-parlour, where,

  as the faggots blaze and crackle, they illuminate the ugliest and

  grimmest of faces, drawn in charcoal on the whitewashed chimneysides

  by previous travellers. There is a flaring country lamp on

  the table; and, hovering about it, scratching her thick black hair

  continually, a yellow dwarf of a woman, who stands on tiptoe to

  arrange the hatchet knives, and takes a flying leap to look into

  the water-jug. The beds in the adjoining rooms are of the

  liveliest kind. There is not a solitary scrap of looking-glass in

  the house, and the washing apparatus is identical with the cooking

  utensils. But the yellow dwarf sets on the table a good flask of