University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.
SURPRISES.

I returned to the Hotel des Etrangers in a
very peculiar frame of mind, different from any
I had ever before experienced. The day was
hot, it was approaching the hour of noon, and I
resolved not to go out again till the mountain
shadows should be thrown far to the eastward.
I had a fine, airy room, commanding a view of
the beautiful bay and the hill of Posilipo. I repaired
thither, locked myself in, seated myself
by an open window, and gazed out upon an animated
scene. There was enough of the picturesque
to attract the eye, had it sought only
external things, in the moving boats, vessels
and steamers upon the glassy waters; but I soon
lost sight of everything in a reverie which reproduced
the persons of those from whom I had
so recently parted, and the sweet, innocent
Georgine Delamere was before me, as an angel
of light, beside the dark spirit of Count Saverlini.

Suddenly I was aroused and half startled by a
thundering knocking at my door, accompanled
by the words, in English:

“Open Sesame!”

“Whoever you are, your impudence far exceeds
your wisdom,” thought I, as, in no very
amiable mood. I arose and gave my visitor admittance.

The next moment I found myself in the embrace
of the last man in the world I expected to
see—a wild, hare-brained, rattle-headed fellow,
who had once been my class-mate at Yale, but
who had been expelled for severe practical
jokes and mischievous conduct generally.

“Bless your heart and soul, Al, it is you, isn't
it!” he cried, in a loud voice, first giving me a
squeeze that nearly took the breath out of me,
and then shaking me by both hands till I feared
he would disiocate my arms. “Glad to see you,
my boy—never more so—though I always liked
you, you know. Whe-e-w!” he whistled and
rattled on, without giving me time to speak;
“thunder and lightning! what a place
for noise, crowds, filth and beggars! l've
been nearly torn to pieces by the infernal crew
that have blocked up every inch of my way
since I landed from the steamer. I showered
some coin among the wretches, and such scrambling
and fighting you never saw, and I believe
it made the rascals worse instead of better.
How I got here alive is more than I can teil,
and there's a mob outside now big enough to
sack a city. `Any Americans here, in this Pandemonium
of yours?' I said to the governor of
the hotel; and he pointed out three or four
names on the register, yours among them, and
I broke for you, and here I am, right side up
with care, as they label glass. And now how
how are you, my dear boy, and what are you
doing with yourself here, eh?”

I replied to his questions, and then asked
what brought him to Napies.

“Well, to see the sights, I suppose—I don't
know what else to say. A man must live, go
somewhere, do something, you know, Al, and
I've been roving round this six months. After
the old gentleman died—”

“Is your father dead, then?”

“Yes,” he's been gone over a year. His old
friend the gout stepped in one day, and stayed
so long that he stepped out to get rid of him.
Well, as I was saying, after he died, and left
me the snug little sum of a hundred thousand,
I thought I'd steady myself down and be somebody.
I tried it for six months, and then concluded
it wasn't my style, you know. I'd sowed
a good many wild oats, but I found I'd quite a
stock still on hand, and concluded I might as
well get rid of them; and as I had scattered
pretty freely in America, I thought it wasn't
fair to Europe not to give her a sprinkling too.
So I first went to London; but the eternal rain
and fog soon soaked me out of there, and I shot
over to Paris, where I spent the winter and saw
some fun. Abot six weeks ago I pulled up
stakes and planted myself in Madrid, but that
place didn't suit me at all. I saw two or three
bull-fights, made love to a few pretty women,
fought a couple of duels, and left the country
for the country's good—and mine too. Come,
man, I'm dry as a baked clam; and so let us have
in some of the governor's best and drink each
other's health.

'Pon my soul, I'm glad to meet you!”

I could have echoed the words heartily, had
the man before me been any other acquaintance
than Wild Nat, as we used to call him; and even
as it was, my soul yearned to him as one I had
known in my native land and now beheld on a
foreign shore.

Ah! how strong is the tie of country when we
are thousands of miles from the scenes of our
youth, among those of a different nation and
race! and how near and dear to us seems any
one from our worshiped land. The man whom,
as a neighbor at home, we might never have
known, we now greet as something akin to us;
and to find an acquaintance there, is to find a
brother indeed.

I liked Matthew Larkins—I had always liked
him—I could not help it—there was for me in
him a magnetic attraction that I could not resist—a
great soul worthy of a brighter name.
But then, withal, he was such a fellow in the
way of mischief, that I was afraid of him—
afraid of being drawn into some difficulty when
least expecting it. I could never tell when I
was safe. He had talents of a high order, and
would have made a remarkable actor. I never
saw a man who could so completely change himself
from one character to another—losing his
own identity for the time and becoming an entirely
different being. It was with such tricks
he used to amuse himself at college.

One day, when a certain member of the Faculty
was hearing a class, Mat Larkins, disguised
as an old woman, came in boldly, claimed to be
the Professor's aunt, and conducted himself in
such an unsophistocated way, that the man of
lore, who was naturally supercilious, was mortified
beyond measure, and all the students were
convulsed with laughter. And yet, though personally
known to everyone present, the fellow
actually departed, made his escape, and no one
suspected him. It was not till long after, when
he showed the disguise and told the story himself,
that the truth was known.

From all this the reader will perceive that my
friend was indeed a character, and will, I trust,
be prepared for some of the remarkable things
to be presented in the course of my narrative.

Matthew Larkins was of medium hight, slender,
graceful, and so exceedingly well formed,
so firmly and compactly knit together that his
physical strength far exceeded any estimate
that could be based upon his personal appearance.
His features were almost regular, animated,
and quite handsome, with a high forehead,
dark hair, large, brown, expressive eyes,
a nose slightly inclined to the Roman, a fine
mouth, and a beautifully rounded chin. Though
a year my senior in age he looked much younger
—in fact almost boyish—for he had scarcely
any beard, and always kept his face cleanly
shaved. Wild and boisterous though he might
be at times, he was often sober and demure,
and soft-spoken as a girl in her teens,
for he had varying moods, and often made sudden
and unexpected changes. In short, you
might be with him daily and yet never know
how you would find him from one minute to another
and perhaps never be able to fully understand
his eccentric nature. He was a native of
southern Virginia, an only son of a once rich,
indulgent father, and had been quite spoiled in
his youth. He had many noble,generous traits,
and was as brave as a lion, and at times bold
and daring to a reckless degree.

Over our wine we talked of the past, and
brought up many pleasing reminiscences, and
some that were rather painful. I did not mention
my late adventure, being undecided whether
I ought to tell it to my friend or not. I
would wait and be governed by circumstances.
He declared he must room with me, and rather
reluctantly I gave my consent; whereupon he
ordered up his baggage, and proceeded to doff
the careless dress he first appeared in, and don
one of black, with a white neck-tie, which, with
the demure, sanctified look he then chose to put
on, gave him the appearance of a clerical student.
Late in the afternoon we sallied out for a
walk; and though a crowd of beggars was
about the hotel and importnned us for charity,
they did not recognize in Mat the man who in
the morning had drawn them thither by his
liberality, and for whom they were really lying
in wait, it being the custom of the wretches to
lay siege to whoever is so imprudent as to display
a sympathizing or generous disposition.

An hour before sunset is just the time to see
Naples in all its human glory, for then the after-dinner
siesta is over, and everybody is
abroad, high and low, rich and poor, the noble
and the beggar.

All who can afford it, ride—all who cannot,
walk—but all are in the streets at the same
time; and such another throng and jam, with
the noise of a thousand Bedlams let loose, is
presented no where else in the world. The
baker, the hatter, the carpenter, the shoemaker,
the tailor, with many other trades, are all
at work in the open air, in the narrow streets,
which are crowded with animals, people and
vehicles of every description—horses, donkeys,
priests, soldiers, lazzaroni, beggars, women
and children.

As there are no side-walks for pedestrians,
the wonder is that in the crush and jam of the
human swarm many are not killed daily. And
then everybody talks in his loudest key, as if
everybody else were deaf, and everybody gesticulates
as if he were fighting all the rest of
mankind. Venders shout and scream, drivers
curse and beat their half-starved beasts, cattle
low, horses neigh, donkeys bray, females sing,
and the bewlldered stranger, if afoot, is often
glad to enter the first carriage that wants a
fare and save his life and brain.

Mat and I had set out for a walk, and therefore
we declined every public conveyance that
offered. As I had been a whole week in Naples,
and he had only just arrived, I assumed
the superiority of a cicerone, pointed out various
curiosities, and answered his questions
with the air of a man who knows what he is
talking about.

After passing through several minor streets,
we entered the grand thoroughfare of Naples,
the Strada di Toledo, where we beheld more
moving life and seemingly greater confusion,
and heard the thousands of human voices as
the roar of a mighty cataract. At a booth of
the acquajolo, we stopped and quenched our
thirst with lemon juice and water, the latter
cooled by snow instead of ice; then looked at a
party of macaroni eaters, as with great dexterity
and evident gusto they threw into their
mouths and devoured the long, white, quill-shaped
paste, prepared from flour, which may
be called the national dish of the lower orders;
listened a while to the comic drolleries and witicisms
of punchinello, which I translated for
my friend, who only imperfectly understood
Italian, and at length halted near the table of a
public scribe.

“What is the business of this old, gray-headed
man?” inquired Larkins.

“He writes letters, messages and the like, for
the ignorant and illiterate,” replied I. “Most
of the lower classes neither know how to read
or write, and therefore he finds plenty of employment
in his vocation.”

“I see! and he evidently has one customer
now, in that hang-dog fellow sitting near him.
What a cut-throat countenance that rascal has,
Al! and as he is pretty decently dressed for a
Neapolitan, I suppose villainy thrives in this
country as well as in ours.”

“No doubt of it,” laughed I.

“I wonder now if he is dictating a love-letter,
or appointing some meeting with a brother
thief.”

“It is not likely we shall ever know, Mat.”

“I tell you what, my boy, if I only understood
Italian well, I should like to follow the profession
of a public scribe for a few days.”

“For what purpose?”

“Oh, curiosity—to get at some of the secrets
that would have to be poured into my ear, you
know.”

“And what good would they do you?”

“I don't know, perhaps none, except to
amuse me for the time, which is about all the
good I get out of anything. Ah, that old man
must know a good deal of Italian life, love and
intrigue, and doubtless could some tales unfold
worth listening to.”

“For my part,” returned I, “I do not care for
what does not concern me.”

“But when you care for it, my boy, it does
concern you, don't you see? There, he has finished
the epistle, and is folding it up, and I'm
going to try and see the superscription.”

“Pshaw, Mat, what is it to you? Let us move
on!”

“Wait a minute, Al.”

As he spoke, Mat Larkins sauntered up to the
table, in a careless way. The old scribe, who
was busy folding up and sealing the letter he
had just written, took no notice of him; but the
fellow who was waiting for it, and who had
now risen from his seat, stared at him in a
bold, impudent, and rather suspicious manner.

He was a short and rather stout-built person,
of perhaps five-and-thirty, with a black, bushy
beard, covering most of his sinister face, and
with small, black, piercing eyes, looking fiercely
out from under shaggy brows. He wore a blue
striped shirt, with falling collar; a dark neckerchief,
tied sailor-fashion; a sort of roundabout,
fancifully trimmed; gray pantaloons, belted
around his waist, shoes on his feet—a luxury
seldom indulged in by the lower orders—and a
blue cloth cap, set rather jantily on one side of
his head, below which his long, jet-black hair
descended in great profusion.

The look which this fellow bestowed upon my
friend, induced me to draw near, fearing some
insult might be offered him, and a dangerous
quarrel result before I could interfere. My
coming up drew the attention of the man from
Mat to myself, and he seemed about to make
some unpleasant remark, when the old scribe
asked him for the address to the letter. Instantly
he produced a small strip of paper and
handed it to the latter, who unfolded and held
it before him. Scarcely had he done so, when
Larkins, who was now looking over his shoulder,
exclaimed, in English:

“Good gracious, Thornton, it is your name!”

“Mine?” cried I, springing forward.

“The Bandit Queen” will be continued in
Street & Smith's New York Weekly, No. 45,
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