 | The works of Washington Irving |  |
THE ADVENTURE
OF
THE LITTLE ANTIQUARY.
My friend, the doctor, was a thorough
antiquary; a little rusty, musty old
fellow, always groping among ruins.
He relished a building as you Englishmen
relish a cheese,—the more
mouldy and crumbling it was, the more
it suited his taste. A shell of an old
nameless temple, or the cracked walls of
a broken-down amphitheatre, would throw
him into raptures; and he took more delight
in these crusts and cheese-parings
of antiquity, than in the best-conditioned
modern palaces.
He was a curious collector of coins
also, and had just gained an accession of
wealth that almost turned his brain.
He had picked up, for instance, several
Roman Consulars, half a Roman As,
two punics, which had doubtless belonged
to the soldiers of Hannibal,
having been found on the very spot
where they had encamped among the
Apennines. He had, moreover, one
Samnite, struck after the Social War,
and a Philistis, a queen that never
existed; but above all, he valued himself
upon a coin, indescribable to any but the
initiated in these matters, bearing a cross
on one side, and a Pegasus on the other,
and which, by some antiquarian logic,
the little man adduced as an historical
document, illustrating the progress of
Christianity.
All these precious coins he carried
about him in a leathern purse, buried
deep in a pocket of his little black
breeches.
The last maggot he had taken into his
brain, was to hunt after the ancient cities
of the Pelasgi, which are said to exist to
this day among the mountains of the
Abruzzi; but about which a singular degree
of obscurity prevails.[1]
He had made
had recorded a great many valuable
notes and memorandums on the subject,
in a voluminous book, which he always
carried about with him; either for the
purpose of frequent reference, or through
fear lest the precious document should
fall into the hands of brother antiquaries.
He had, therefore, a large pocket in the
skirt of his coat, where he bore about
this inestimable tome, banging against
his rear as he walked.
Thus heavily laden with the spoils of
antiquity, the good little man, during a
sojourn at Terracina, mounted one day
the rocky cliffs which overhang the town,
to visit the castle of Theodoric. He was
groping about the ruins towards the hour
of sunset, buried in his reflections, his
wits no doubt wool-gathering among the
Goths and Romans, when he heard footsteps
behind him.
He turned, and beheld five or six young
fellows, of rough, saucy demeanour, clad
in a singular manner, half peasant, half
huntsman, with carbines in their hands.
Their whole appearance and carriage
left him no doubt into what company he
had fallen.
The doctor was a feeble little man,
poor in look, and poorer in purse, he had
but little gold or silver to be robbed of;
but then he had his curious ancient coin
in his breeches-pocket. He had, moreover,
certain other valuables, such as an
old silver watch, thick as a turnip, with
figures on it large enough for a clock;
and a set of seals at the end of a steel
chain, that dangled half way down to his
knees. All these were of precious esteem,
being family relies. He had also a seal-ring,
a veritable antique intaglio, that
covered half his knuckles. It was a
Venus, which the old man almost worshipped
with the zeal of a voluptuary.
But what he most valued was his inestimable
collection of hints relative to the
Pelasgian cities, which he would gladly
have given all the money in his pocket
to have had safe at the bottom of his
trunk in Terracina.
However, he plucked up a stout heart,
at least as stout a heart as he could, seeing
that he was but a puny little man at
the best of times. So he wished the
hunters a "buon giorno." They returned
his salutation, giving the old gentleman
a sociable slap on the back that
made his heart leap into his throat.
They fell into conversation, and walked
for some time together among the heights,
the doctor wishing them all the while at
the bottom of the crater of Vesuvius.
At length they came to a small osteria
on the mountain, where they proposed to
enter and have a cup of wine together:
the doctor consented, though he would
as soon have been invited to drink hemlock.
One of the gang remained sentinel at
the door; the others swaggered into the
house, stood their guns in the corner of
the room, and each drawing a pistol or
stiletto out of his belt, laid it upon the
table. They now drew benches round
the board, called lustily for wine, and,
hailing the doctor as though he had
been a boon companion of long standing,
insisted upon his sitting down and making
merry.
The worthy man complied with forced
grimace, but with fear and trembling;
sitting uneasily on the edge of his chair;
eyeing ruefully the black-muzzled pistols,
and cold, naked stilettos; and supping
down heartburn with every drop of liquor.
His new comrades, however, pushed the
bottle bravely, and plied him vigorously.
They sang, they laughed; told excellent
stories of their robberies and combats,
mingled with many ruffian jokes; and the
little doctor was fain to laugh at their
cut-throat pleasantries, though his heart
was dying away at the very bottom of
his bosom.
By their own account, they were young
men from the villages, who had recently
taken up this line of life out of the wild
caprice of youth. They talked of their
murderous exploits as a sportsman talks
of his amusements: to shoot down a traveller
seemed of little more consequence
spoke with rapture of the glorious roving
life they led, free as birds; here to-day,
gone to-morrow; ranging the forests,
climbing the rocks, scouring the valleys;
the world their own wherever they could
lay hold of it; full purses—merry companious—pretty
women. The little antiquary
got fuddled with their talk and
their wine, for they did not spare bumpers.
He half forgot his fears, his seal-ring,
and his family-watch; even the treatise
on the Pelasgian cities, which was warming
under him, for a time faded from his
memory in the glowing picture that they
drew. He declares that he no longer
wonders at the prevalence of this robber
mania among the mountains; for he felt
at the time, that, had he been a young
man, and a strong man, and had there
been no danger of the galleys in the background,
he should have been half tempted
himself to turn bandit.
At length the hour of separating arrived.
The doctor was suddenly called
to himself and his fears by seeing the
robbers resume their weapons. He now
quaked for his valuables, and, above all,
for his antiquarian treatise. He endeavoured,
however, to look cool and unconcerned;
and drew from out his deep
pocket a long, lank, leathern purse, far
gone in consumption, at the bottom of
which a few coin chinked with the trembling
of his hand.
The chief of the party observed his
movement, and laying his hand upon the
antiquary's shoulder, "Harkee! Signor
Dottore!" said he, "we have drunk together
as friends and comrades; let us
part as such. We understand you. We
know who and what you are, for we
know who every body is that sleeps at
Terracina, or that puts foot upon the
road. You are a rich man, but you
carry all your wealth in your head: we
cannot get at it, and we should not know
what to do with it if we could. I see you
are uneasy about your ring; but don't
worry yourself, it is not worth taking;
you think it an antique, but it's a counterfeit—a
mere sham."
Here the ire of the antiquary arose:
the doctor forgot himself in his zeal for
the character of his ring. Heaven and
earth! his Venus a sham! Had they
pronounced the wife of his bosom "no
better than she should be," he could not
have been more indignant. He fired up
in vindication of his intaglio.
"Nay, nay," continued the robber,
"we have no time to dispute about it;
value it as you please. Come, you're a
brave little old signor—one more cup of
wine and we'll pay the reckoning. No
compliments—You shall not pay a grain
—You are our guest—I insist upon it.
So—now make the best of your way
back to Terracina; it's growing late.
Buon viaggio! And harkee! take care
how you wander among these mountains,
—you may not always fall into such good
company."
They shouldered their guns; sprang
gaily up the rocks; and the little doctor
hobbled back to Terracina, rejoicing
that the robbers had left his watch, his
coins, and his treatise, unmolested; but
still indignant that they should have pronounced
his Venus an impostor.
The improvisatore had shown many
symptoms of impatience during this recital.
He saw his theme in danger of
being taken out of his hands, which, to
an able talker, is always a grievance, but
to an improvisatore is an absolute calamity:
and then for it to be taken away
by a Neapolitan, was still more vexatious;
the inhabitants of the different Italian
states having an implacable jealousy of
each other in all things, great and small.
He took advantage of the first pause of
the Neapolitan to catch hold again of the
thread of the conversation.
"As I observed before," said he, "the
prowlings of the banditti are so extensive,
they are so much in league with one
another, and so interwoven with various
ranks of society—"
"For that matter," said the Neapolitan,
"I have heard that your government has
had some understanding with those gentry;
or, at least, has winked at their misdeeds."
"My government!" said the Roman,
impatiently.
"Ay, they say that Cardinal Gonsalvi—"
"Hush!" said the Roman, holding up
his finger, and rolling his large eyes
about the room.
"Nay I only repeat what I heard
commonly rumoured in Rome," replied
the Neapolitan, sturdily. "It was openly
said, that the cardinal had been up to the
mountains, and had an interview with
some of the chiefs. And I have been
told, moreover, that while honest people
have been kicking their heels in the
cardinal's antechamber, waiting by the
hour for admittance, one of these stilettolooking
fellows has elbowed his way
through the crowd, and entered without
ceremony into the cardinal's presence."
"I know," observed the improvisatore,
"that there have been such reports, and
it is not impossible that government may
have made use of these men at particular
periods; such as at the time of your late
abortive revolution, when your carbonari
were so busy with their machinations all
over the country. The information which
such men could collect who were familiar,
not merely with the recesses and
secret places of the mountains, but also
with the dark and dangerous recesses
of society; who knew every suspicious
character, and all his movements and all
his lurkings; in a word, who knew all
that was plotting in the world of mischief;
—the utility of such men as instruments
in the hands of government was too obvious
to be overlooked; and Cardinal
Gonsalvi, as a politic statesman, may,
perhaps, have made use of them. Besides,
he knew that, with all their atrocities,
the robbers were always respectful
towards the church, and devout in their
religion."
"Religion! religion!" echoed the Englishman.
"Yes, religion," repeated the Roman.
"They have each their patron saint.
They will cross themselves and say their
prayers, whenever, in their mountain
haunts, they hear the matin or the ave-maria
bells sounding from the valleys:
and will often descend from their retreats,
and run imminent risks to visit some favourite
shrine. I recollect an instance
in point.
"I was one evening in the village of
Frascati, which stands on the beautiful
brow of a hill rising from the Campagna,
just below the Abruzzi mountains. The
people, as is usual in fine evenings in our
Italian towns and villages, were recreating
themselves in the open air, and chatting
in groups in the public square. While I
was conversing with a knot of friends, I
noticed a tall fellow, wrapped in a great
mantle, passing across the square, but
skulking along in the dusk, as if anxious
to avoid observation. The people drew
back as he passed. It was whispered to
me that he was a notorious bandit."
"But why was he not immediately
seized?" said the Englishman.
"Because it was nobody's business;
because nobody wished to incur the vengeance
of his comrades; because there
were not sufficient gendarmes near to insure
security against the number of desperadoes
he might have at hand; because
the gendarmes might not have received
particular instructions with respect to
him, and might not feel disposed to engage
in a hazardous conflict without
compulsion. In short, I might give you
a thousand reasons rising out of the state
of our government and manners, not one
of which after all might appear satisfactory."
The Englishman shrugged his shoulders
with an air of contempt.
"I have been told," added the Roman,
rather quickly, "that even in your metropolis
of London, notorious thieves,
well known to the police as such, walk
the streets at noonday in search of their
prey, and are not molested, unless caught
in the very act of robbery."
The Englishman gave another shrug,
but with a different expression.
"Well, sir, I fixed my eye on this
daring wolf, thus prowling through the
fold, and saw him enter a church. I
was curious to witness his devotion. You
know our spacious magnificent churches.
The one in which he entered was vast,
and shrouded in the dusk of evening.
At the extremity of the long aisles a
couple of tapers feebly glimmered on the
grand altar. In one of the side chapels
was a votive candle placed before the
image of a saint. Before this image the
robber had prostrated himself. His mantle
partly falling off from his shoulders
as he knelt, revealed a form of Herculean
strength; a stiletto and pistol glittered
in his belt; and the light falling
on his countenance, showed features not
unhandsome, but strongly and fiercely
vehemently agitated; his lips quivered;
sighs and murmurs, almost groans, burst
from him; he beat his breast with violence;
then clasped his hands and wrung
them convulsively, as he extended them
towards the image. Never had I seen
such a terrific picture of remorse. I felt
fearful of being discovered watching him,
and withdrew. Shortly afterwards I saw
him issue from the church wrapped in
his mantle. He re-crossed the square,
and no doubt returned to the mountains
with a disburthened conscience, ready to
incur a fresh arrear of crime."
Here the Neapolitan was about to get
hold of the conversation, and had just
preluded with the ominous remark,
"That puts me in mind of a circumstance,"
when the improvisatore, too
adroit to suffer himself to be again superseded,
went on, pretending not to hear
the interruption.
"Among the many circumstances connected
with the banditti, which serve to
render the traveller uneasy and insecure,
is the understanding which they sometimes
have with innkeepers. Many an
isolated inn among the lonely parts of
the Roman territories, and especially
about the mountains, are of a dangerous
and perfidious character. They are places
where the banditti gather information,
and where the unwary traveller, remote
from hearing or assistance, is betrayed
to the midnight dagger. The robberies
committed at such inns are often accompanied
by the most atrocious murders;
for it is only by the complete
extermination of their victims that the
assassins can escape detection. I recollect
an adventure," added he, "which
occurred at one of these solitary mountain
inns, which, as you all seem in a
mood for robber anecdotes, may not be
uninteresting."
Having secured the attention and awakened
the curiosity of the bystanders,
he paused for a moment, rolled up his
large eyes as improvisatori are apt to do
when they would recollect an impromptu,
and then related with great dramatic
effect the following story, which had,
doubtless, been well prepared and digested
beforehand.
Among the many fond speculations of antiquaries
is that of the existence of traces of the ancient
Pelasgian cities in the Apennines; and many a
wistful eye is cast by the traveller, versed in antiquarian
lore, at the richly-wooded mountains of
the Abruzzi, as a forbidden fairy land of research.
These spots, so beautiful yet so inaccessible, from
the rudeness of their inhabitants and the hordes of
banditti which infest them, are a region of fable to
the learned. Sometimes a wealthy virtuoso, whose
purse and whose consequence could command a
military escort, has penetrated to some individual
point among the mountains: and sometimes a wandering
artist or student, under protection of poverty
or insignificance, has brought away some vague
account, only calculated to give a keener edge to
curiosity and conjecture.
By those who maintain the existence of the Pelasgian
cities, it is affirmed, that the formation of the
different kingdoms in the Peloponnesus gradually
caused the expulsion of the Pelasgi from thence:
but that their great migration may be dated from
the finishing the wall round Acropolis, and that at
this period they came into Italy. To these, in the
spirit of theory, they would ascribe the introduction
of the elegant arts into the country. It is evident,
however, that, as barbarians flying before the
first dawn of civilization, they could bring little
with them superior to the inventions of the aborigines,
and nothing that would have survived to
the antiquarian through such a lapse of ages. It
would appear more probable, that these cities, improperly
termed Pelasgian, were coeval with many
that have been discovered,—the romantic Aricia,
built by Hippolytus before the siege of Troy, and
the poetic Tibur, Æsculate and Procnes, built by
Telegonus after the dispersion of the Greeks.
These, lying contiguous to inhabited and cultivated
spots, have been discovered. There are others,
too, on the ruins of which the later and more
civilized Grecian colonists have engrafted themselves,
and which have become known by their
merits or their medals. But that there are many
still undiscovered, imbedded in the Abruzzi, it is
the delight of the antiquarians to fancy. Strange
that such a virgin soil for research, such an unknown
realm of knowledge, should at this day
remain in the very centre of hackneyed Italy!
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