The Gentleman from San Francisco
BY IVAN BUNIN
"Alas, alas, that great city Babylon, that mighty city!" —
— Revelation of St. John.
THE Gentleman from San Francisco — neither at Naples nor
on Capri could any one recall his name — with his wife and
daughter, was on his way to Europe, where he intended to stay
for two whole years, solely for the pleasure of it.
He was firmly convinced that he had a full right to a rest,
enjoyment, a long comfortable trip, and what not. This conviction
had a two-fold reason: first he was rich, and second,
despite his fifty-eight years, he was just about to enter the
stream of life's pleasures. Until now he had not really lived,
but simply existed, to be sure — fairly well, yet putting off his
fondest hopes for the future. He toiled unweariedly — the Chinese,
whom he imported by thousands for his works, knew full
well what it meant, — and finally he saw that he had made much,
and that he had nearly come up to the level of those whom he
had once taken as a model, and he decided to catch his breath.
The class of people to which he belonged was in the habit of
beginning its enjoyment of life with a trip to Europe, India,
Egypt. He made up his mind to do the same. Of course, it
was first of all himself that he desired to reward for the years of
toil, but he was also glad for his wife and daughter's sake. His
wife was never distinguished by any extraordinary impressionability,
but then, all elderly American women are ardent travelers.
As for his daughter, a girl of marriageable age, and somewhat
sickly, — travel was the very thing she needed. Not to speak of
the benefit to her health, do not happy meetings occur during
travels? Abroad, one may chance to sit at the same table
with a prince, or examine frescoes side by side with a multi-millionaire.
The itinerary the Gentleman from San Francisco planned
out was an extensive one. In December and January he expected
to relish the sun of southern Italy, monuments of antiquity,
the tarantella, serenades of wandering minstrels, and that
which at his age is felt most keenly — the love, not entirely disinterested
though, of young Neapolitan girls. The Carnival days
he planned to spend at Nice and Monte-Carlo, which at that
time of the year is the meeting-place of the choicest society,
the society upon which depend all the blessings of civilization:
the cut of dress suits, the stability of thrones, the declaration of
wars, the prosperity of hotels. Some of these people passionately
give themselves over to automobile and boat races, others to roulette,
others, again, busy themselves with what is called flirtation,
and others shoot pigeons, which soar so beautifully from the
dove-cote, hover a while over the emerald lawn, on the background
of the forget-me-not colored sea, and then suddenly hit
the ground, like little white lumps. Early March he wanted to
devote to Florence, and at Easter, to hear the Miserere in Paris.
His plans also included Venice, Paris, bull-baiting at Seville,
bathing on the British Islands, also Athens, Constantinople,
Palestine, Egypt, and even Japan, of course, on the way back. . .
And at first things went very well indeed.
It was the end of November, and all the way to Gibraltar
the ship sailed across seas which were either clad by icy darkness
or swept by storms carrying wet snow. But there were no
accidents, and the vessel did not even roll. The passengers, — all
people of consequence — were numerous, and the steamer the
famous "Atlantis," resembled the most expensive European
hotel with all improvements: a night refreshment-bar, Oriental
baths, even a newspaper of its own. The manner of living was
a most aristocratic one; passengers rose early, awakened by the
shrill voice of a bugle, filling the corridors at the gloomy hour
when the day broke slowly and sulkily over the grayish-green
watery desert, which rolled heavily in the fog. After putting
on their flannel pajamas, they took coffee, chocolate, cocoa; they
seated themselves in marble baths, went through their exercises,
whetting their appetites and increasing their sense of
well-being, dressed for the day, and had their breakfast. Till
eleven o'clock they were supposed to stroll on the deck, breathing
in the chill freshness of the ocean, or they played table-tennis,
or other games which arouse the appetite. At eleven
o'clock a collation was served consisting of sandwiches and
bouillon, after which people read their newspapers, quietly
waiting for luncheon, which was more nourishing and varied
than the breakfast. The next two hours were given to rest; all
the decks were crowded then with steamer chairs, on which the
passengers, wrapped in plaids, lay stretched, dozing lazily, or
watching the cloudy sky and the foamy-fringed water hillocks
flashing beyond the sides of the vessel. At five o'clock, refreshed
and gay, they drank strong, fragrant tea; at seven the sound of
the bugle announced a dinner of nine courses. . . Then the
Gentleman from San Francisco, rubbing his hands in an onrush
of vital energy, hastened to his luxurious state-room to dress.
In the evening, all the decks of the "Atlantis" yawned in
the darkness, shone with their innumerable fiery eyes, and a
multitude of servants worked with increased feverishness in
the kitchens, dish-washing compartments, and wine-cellars. The
ocean, which heaved about the sides of the ship, was dreadful,
but no one thought of it. All had faith in the controlling power,
of the captain, a red-headed giant, heavy and very sleepy, who,
clad in a uniform with broad golden stripes, looked like a huge
idol, and but rarely emerged, for the benefit of the public, from
his mysterious retreat. On the fore-castle, the siren gloomily
roared or screeched in a fit of mad rage, but few of the diners
heard the siren: its hellish voice was covered by the sounds of an
excellent string orchestra, which played ceaselessly and exquisitely
in a vast hall, decorated with marble and spread with velvety
carpets. The hall was flooded with torrents of light, radiated
by crystal lustres and gilt chandeliers; it was filled with a
throng of bejeweled ladies in low-necked dresses, of men in dinner-coats,
graceful waiters, and deferential maîtres-d 'hôtel.
One of these, — who accepted wine orders exclusively — wore a
chain on his neck like some lord-mayor. The evening dress,
and the ideal linen made the Gentleman from San Francisco
look very young. Dry-skinned, of average height, strongly,
though irregularly built, glossy with thorough washing and
cleaning, and moderately animated, he sat in the golden splendor
of this palace. Near him stood a bottle of amber-colored
Johannisberg, and goblets of most delicate glass and of varied
sizes, surmounted by a frizzled bunch of fresh hyacinths.
There was something Mongolian in his yellowish face with its
trimmed silvery moustache; his large teeth glimmered with
gold fillings, and his strong, bald head had a dull glow, like old
ivory. His wife, a big, broad and placid woman, was dressed
richly, but in keeping with her age. Complicated, but light,
transparent, and innocently immodest was the dress of his
daughter, tall and slender, with magnificent hair gracefully
combed; her breath was sweet with violet-scented tablets, and
she had a number of tiny and most delicate pink dimples near
her lips and between her slightly-powdered shoulder blades. . .
The dinner lasted two whole hours, and was followed by
dances in the dancing hall, while the men — the Gentleman from
San Francisco among them — made their way to the refreshment
bar, where negros in red jackets and with eye-balls like shelled
hard-boiled eggs, waited on them. There, with their feet on
tables, smoking Havana cigars, and drinking themselves purple
in the face, they settled the destinies of nations on the basis of
the latest political and stock-exchange news. Outside, the ocean
tossed up black mountains with a thud; and the snowstorm hissed
furiously in the rigging grown heavy with slush; the ship trembled
in every limb, struggling with the storm and ploughing with
difficulty the shifting and seething mountainous masses that threw
far and high their foaming tails; the siren groaned in agony,
choked by storm and fog; the watchmen in their towers froze and
almost went out of their minds under the superhuman stress of attention.
Like the gloomy and sultry mass of the inferno, like its
last, ninth circle, was the submersed womb of the steamer, where
monstrous furnaces yawned with red-hot open jaws, and emitted
deep, hooting sounds, and where the stokers, stripped to the
waist, and purple with the reflected flames, bathed in their own
dirty, acid sweat. And here, in the refreshment-bar, carefree
men, with their feet, encased in dancing shoes, on the table,
sipped cognac and liqueurs, swam in waves of spiced smoke, and
exchanged subtle remarks, while in the dancing-hall everything
sparkled and radiated light, warmth and joy. The couples now
turned around in a waltz, now swayed in the tango; and the
music, sweetly shameless and sad, persisted in its ceaseless
entreaties . . . There were many persons of note in this magnificent
crowd; an ambassador, a dry, modest old man; a great millionaire,
shaved, tall, of an indefinite age, who, in his old-fashioned
dress-coat, looked like a prelate; also a famous Spanish writer,
and an international belle, already slightly faded and of dubious
morals. There was also among them a loving pair, exquisite and
refined, whom everybody watched with curiosity and who did not
conceal their bliss; he danced only with her, sang — with great
skill — only to her accompaniment, and they were so charming, so
graceful. The captain alone knew that they had been hired by
the company at a good salary to play at love, and that they had
been sailing now on one, now on another steamer, for quite a
long time.
In Gibraltar everybody was gladdened by the sun, and by
the weather which was like early Spring. A new passenger
appeared aboard the "Atlantis" and aroused everybody's interest.
It was the crown-prince of an Asiatic state, who traveled
incognito, a small man, very nimble, though looking as if made
of wood, broad-faced, narrow-eyed, in gold-rimmed glasses,
somewhat disagreeable because of his long black moustache,
which was sparse like that of a corpse, but otherwise — charming,
plain, modest. In the Mediterranean the breath of winter was
again felt. The seas were heavy and motley like a peacock's tail
and the waves stirred up by the gay gusts of the tramontane,
tossed their white crests under a sparkling and perfectly clear
sky. Next morning, the sky grew paler and the skyline misty.
Land was near. Then Ischia and Capri came in sight, and one
could descry, through an opera-glass, Naples, looking like pieces
of sugar strewn at the foot of an indistinct dove-colored mass,
and above them, a snow-covered chain of distant mountains.
The decks were crowded, many ladies and gentlemen put on
light fur-coats; Chinese servants, bandy-legged youths — with
pitch black braids down to the heels and with girlish, thick
eyelashes, — always quiet and speaking in a whisper, were carrying
to the foot of the staircases, plaid wraps, canes, and crocodile-leather
valises and hand-bags. The daughter of the Gentleman
from San Francisco stood near the prince, who, by a happy
chance, had been introduced to her the evening before, and
feigned to be looking steadily at something far-off, which he was
pointing out to her, while he was, at the same time, explaining
something, saying something rapidly and quietly. He was so
small that he looked like a boy among other men, and he was
not handsome at all. And then there was something strange
about him; his glasses, derby and coat were most commonplace,
but there was something horse-like in the hair of his sparse
moustache, and the thin, tanned skin of his flat face looked as
though it were somewhat stretched and varnished. But the girl
listened to him, and so great was her excitement that she could
hardly grasp the meaning of his words, her heart palpitated
with incomprehensible rapture and with pride that he was standing
and speaking with her and nobody else. Everything about
him was different: his dry hands, his clean skin, under which
flowed ancient kingly blood, even his light shoes and his European
dress, plain, but singularly tidy — everything hid an inexplicable
fascination and engendered thoughts of love. And the
Gentleman from San Francisco, himself, in a silk-hat, gray
leggings, patent leather shoes, kept eyeing the famous beauty
who was standing near him, a tall, stately blonde, with eyes
painted according to the latest Parisian fashion, and a tiny,
bent peeled-off pet-dog, to whom she addressed herself. And the
daughter, in a kind of vague perplexity, tried not to notice him.
Like all wealthy Americans he was very liberal when traveling,
and believed in the complete sincerity and good-will of
those who so painstakingly fed him, served him day and night,
anticipating his slightest desire, protected him from dirt and
disturbance, hauled things for him, hailed carriers, and delivered
his luggage to hotels; So it was everywhere, and it had to
be so at Naples. Meanwhile, Naples grew and came nearer. The
musicians, with their shining brass instruments had already
formed a group on the deck, and all of a sudden deafened
everybody with the triumphant sounds of a ragtime march. The
giant captain, in his full uniform appeared on the bridge and
like a gracious Pagan idol, waved his hands to the passengers, — and
it seemed to the Gentleman from San Francisco, — as it did
to all the rest, — that for him alone thundered the march, so
greatly loved by proud America, and that him alone did the
captain congratulate on the safe arrival. And when the
"Atlantis" had finally entered the port and all its many-decked
mass leaned against the quay, and the gang-plank began to rattle
heavily, — what a crowd of porters, with their assistants, in
caps with golden galloons, what a crowd of various boys and
husky ragamuffins with pads of colored postal cards attacked
the Gentleman from San Francisco, offering their services! With
kindly contempt he grinned at these beggars, and, walking
towards the automobile of the hotel where the prince might
stop, muttered between his teeth, now in English, now in
Italian — "Go away! Via . . ."
Immediately, life at Naples began to follow a set routine.
Early in the morning breakfast was served in the gloomy dining-room,
swept by a wet draught from the open windows looking
upon a stony garden, while outside the sky was cloudy and
cheerless, and a crowd of guides swarmed at the door of the
vestibule. Then came the first smiles of the warm roseate sun,
and from the high suspended balcony, a broad vista unfolded
itself: Vesuvius, wrapped to its base in radiant morning vapors;
the pearly ripple, touched to silver, of the bay, the delicate
outline of Capri on the skyline; tiny asses dragging twowheeled
buggies along the soft, sticky embankment, and detachments
of little soldiers marching somewhere to the tune of
cheerful and defiant music.
Next on the day's program was a slow automobile ride along
crowded, narrow, and damp corridors of streets, between high,
many-windowed buildings. It was followed by visits to museums,
lifelessly clean and lighted evenly and pleasantly, but as
though with the dull light cast by snow; — then to churches,
cold, smelling of wax, always alike: a majestic entrance, closed
by a ponderous, leather curtain, and inside — a vast void, silence,
quiet flames of seven-branched candlesticks, sending forth a red
glow from where they stood at the farther end, on the bedecked
altar, — a lonely, old woman lost among the dark wooden benches,
slippery gravestones under the feet, and somebody's "Descent
from the Cross," infallibly famous. At one o'clock — luncheon,
on the mountain of San-Martius, where at noon the choicest
people gathered, and where the daughter of the Gentleman from
San Francisco once almost fainted with joy, because it seemed to
her that she saw the Prince in the hall, although she had learned
from the newspapers that he had temporarily left for Rome. At
five o'clock it was customary to take tea at the hotel, in a smart
salon, where it was far too warm because of the carpets and the
blazing fireplaces; and then came dinner-time — and again did the
mighty, commanding voice of the gong resound throughout the
building, again did silk rustle and the mirrors reflect files of
ladies in low-necked dresses ascending the staircases, and again
the splendid palatial dining hall opened with broad hospitality,
and again the musicians' jackets formed red patches on the
estrade, and the black figures of the waiters swarmed around the
maître-d'hôtel, who, with extraordinary skill, poured a thick
pink soup into plates . . . As everywhere, the dinner was the
crown of the day. People dressed for it as for a wedding, and
so abundant was it in food, wines, mineral waters, sweets and
fruits, that about eleven o'clock in the evening chamber-maids
would carry to all the rooms hot-water bags.
That year, however, December did not happen to be a very
propitious one. The doormen were abashed when people spoke to
them about the weather, and shrugged their shoulders guiltily,
mumbling that they could not recollect such a year, although, to
tell the truth, it was not the first year they mumbled those
words, usually adding that "things are terrible everywhere":
that unprecedented showers and storms had broken out on the
Riviera, that it was snowing in Athens, that Aetna, too, was all
blocked up with snow, and glowed brightly at night, and that
tourists were fleeing from Palermo to save themselves from the
cold spell . . .
That winter, the morning sun daily deceived Naples: toward
noon the sky would invariably grow gray, and a light rain would
begin to fall, growing thicker and duller. Then the palms at
the hotel-porch glistened disagreeably like wet tin, the town
appeared exceptionally dirty and congested, the museums too
monotonous, the cigars of the drivers in their rubber raincoats,
which flattened in the wind like wings, intolerably stinking, and
the energetic flapping of their whips over their thin-necked nags
— obviously false. The shoes of the signors, who cleaned the
street-car tracks, were in a frightful state, the women who
splashed in the mud, with black hair unprotected from the rain,
were ugly and short-legged, and the humidity mingled with the
foul smell of rotting fish, that came from the foaming sea, was
simply disheartening. And so, early-morning quarrels began to
break out between the Gentleman from San Francisco and his
wife; and their daughter now grew pale and suffered from headaches,
and now became animated, enthusiastic over everything,
and at such times was lovely and beautiful. Beautiful were the
tender, complex feelings which her meeting with the ungainly
man aroused in her, — the man in whose veins flowed unusual
blood, for, after all, it does not matter what in particular stirs
up a maiden's soul: money, or fame, or nobility of birth . . .
Everybody assured the tourists that it was quite different at
Sorrento and on Capri, that lemon-trees were blossoming there,
that it was warmer and sunnier there, the morals purer, and the
wine less adulterated. And the family from San Francisco decided
to set out with all their luggage for Capri. They planned
to settle down at Sorrento, but first to visit the island, tread the
stones where stood Tiberius's palaces, examine the fabulous
wonders of the Blue Grotto, and listen to the bagpipes [sic] of
Abruzzi, who roam about the island during the whole month
preceding Christmas and sing the praises of the Madona [sic].
On the day of departure — a very memorable day for the
family from San Francisco — the sun did not appear even in
the morning. A heavy winter fog covered Vesuvius down to
its very base and hung like a gray curtain low over the leaden
surge of the sea, hiding it completely at a distance of half a
mile. Capri was completely out of sight, as though it had
never existed on this earth. And the little steamboat which
was making for the island tossed and pitched so fiercely that
the family lay prostrated on the sofas in the miserable cabin
of the little steamer, with their feet wrapped in plaids and
their eyes shut because of their nausea. The older lady suffered,
as she thought, most; several times she was overcome
with sea-sickness, and it seemed to her then she was dying, but
the chambermaid, who repeatedly brought her the basin, and
who for many years, in heat and in cold, had been tossing on
these waves, ever on the alert, ever kindly to all, — the chambermaid
only laughed. The lady's daughter was frightfully
pale and kept a slice of lemon between her teeth. Not even
the hope of an unexpected meeting with the prince at Sorrento,
where he planned to arrive on Christmas, served to cheer
her. The Gentleman from San Francisco, who was lying on
his back, dressed in a large overcoat and a big cap, did not
loosen his jaws throughout the voyage. His face grew dark,
his moustache white, and his head ached heavily; for the last
few days, because of the bad weather, he had drunk far too
much in the evenings.
And the rain kept on beating against the rattling window
panes, and water dripped down from them on the sofas; the
howling wind attacked the masts, and sometimes, aided by a
heavy sea, it laid the little steamer on its side, and then something
below rolled about with a rattle.
While the steamer was anchored at Castellamare and Sorrento,
the situation was more cheerful; but even here the ship
rolled terribly, and the coast with all its precipices, gardens
and pines, with its pink and white hotels and hazy mountains
clad in curling verdure, flew up and down as if it were on
swings. The rowboats hit against the sides of the steamer, the
sailors and the deck passengers shouted at the top of their
voices, and somewhere a baby screamed as if it were being
crushed to pieces. A wet wind blew through the door, and from
a wavering barge flying the flag of the Hotel Royal, an urchin
kept on unwearyingly shouting "Kgoyal-al! Hotel Kgoyal-al!
. . ." inviting tourists. And the Gentleman from San Francisco
felt like the old man that he was, — and it was with
weariness and animosity that he thought of all these
"Royals," "Splendids," "Excelsiors," and of all those greedy
bugs, reeking with garlic, who are called Italians. Once, during
a stop, having opened his eyes and half-risen from the
sofa, he noticed in the shadow of the rock beach a heap of
stone huts, miserable, mildewed through and through, huddled
close by the water, near boats, rags, tin-boxes, and brown fishing
nets, — and as he remembered that this was the very Italy
he had come to enjoy, he felt a great despair . . . Finally, in
twilight, the black mass of the island began to grow nearer, as
though burrowed through at the base by red fires, the wind
grew softer, warmer, more fragrant; from the dock-lanterns
huge golden serpents flowed down the tame waves which undulated
like black oil . . . Then, suddenly, the anchor rumbled
and fell with a splash into the water, the fierce yells of the
boatman filled the air, — and at once everyone's heart grew easy.
The electric lights in the cabin grew more brilliant, and there
came a desire to eat, drink, smoke, move . . . Ten minutes later
the family from San Francisco found themselves in a large
ferry-boat; fifteen minutes later they trod the stones of the
quay, and then seated themselves in a small lighted car, which,
with a buzz, started to ascend the slope, while vineyard stakes,
half-ruined stone fences, and wet, crooked lemon-trees, in spots
shielded by straw sheds, with their glimmering orange-colored
fruit and thick glossy foliage, were sliding down past the open
car windows. . . After rain, the earth smells sweetly in Italy,
and each of her islands has a fragrance of its own.
The Island of Capri was dark and damp on that evening.
But for a while it grew animated and let up, in spots, as always
in the hour of the steamer's arrival. On the top of the hill, at
the station of the funiculaire, there stood already the crowd of
those whose duty it was to receive properly the Gentleman
from San Francisco. The rest of the tourists hardly deserved
any attention. There were a few Russians, who had settled on
Capri, untidy, absent-minded people, absorbed in their bookish
thoughts, spectacled, bearded, with the collars of their cloth
overcoats raised. There was also a company of long-legged,
long-necked, round-headed German youths in Tyrolean costume,
and with linen bags on their backs, who need no one's
services, are everywhere at home, and are by no means liberal
in their expenses. The Gentleman from San Francisco, who
quietly kept aloof from both the Russians and the Germans,
was noticed at once. He and his ladies were hurriedly helped
from the car, a man ran before them to show them the way, and
they were again surrounded by boys and those thickset Caprean
peasant women, who carry on their heads the trunks and
valises of wealthy travelers. Their tiny, wooden, foot-stools
rapped against the pavement of the small square, which looked
almost like an opera square, and over which an electric lantern
swung in the damp wind; the gang of urchins whistled
like birds and turned somersaults, and as the Gentleman from
San Francisco passed among them, it all looked like a stage
scene; he went first under some kind of mediaeval archway,
beneath houses huddled close together, and then along a steep
echoing lane which led to the hotel entrance, flooded with
light. At the left, a palm tree raised its tuft above the flat
roofs, and higher up, blue stars burned in the black sky. And
again things looked as though it was in honor of the guests
from San Francisco that the stony damp little town had awakened
on its rocky island in the Mediterranean, that it was they
who had made the owner of the hotel so happy and beaming,
and that the Chinese gong, which had sounded the call to dinner
through all the floors as soon as they entered the lobby,
had been waiting only for them.
The owner, an elegant young man, who met the guests
with a polite and exquisite bow, for a moment startled the
Gentleman from San Francisco. Having caught sight of him,
the Gentleman from San Francisco suddenly recollected that
on the previous night, among other confused images which
disturbed his sleep, he had seen this very man. His vision resembled
the hotel keeper to a dot, had the same head, the same
hair, shining and scrupulously combed, and wore the same
frock-coat with rounded skirts. Amazed, he almost stopped
for a while. But as there was not a mustard-seed of what is
called mysticism in his heart, his surprise subsided at once; in
passing the corridor of the hotel he jestingly told his wife and
daughter about this strange coincidence of dream and reality.
His daughter alone glanced at him with alarm, longing suddenly
compressed her heart, and such a strong feeling of solitude
on this strange, dark island seized her that she almost
began to cry. But, as usual, she said nothing about her feelings
to her father.
A person of high dignity, Rex XVII, who had spent three
entire weeks on Capri, had just left the island, and the guests
from San Francisco were given the apartments he had occupied. At
their disposal was put the most handsome and skillful
chambermaid, a Belgian, with a figure rendered slim and
firm by her corset, and with a starched cap, shaped like a
small, indented crown; and they had the privilege of being
served by the most well-appearing and portly footman, a
black, fiery-eyed Sicilian, and by the quickest waiter, the small,
stout Luigi, who was a fiend at cracking jokes and had changed
many places in his life. Then the maître-d'hôtel, a Frenchman,
gently rapped at the door of the American gentleman's
room. He came to ask whether the gentleman and the ladies
would dine, and in case they would, which he did not doubt,
to report that there was to be had that day lobsters, roast
beef, asparagus, pheasants, etc., etc.
The floor was still rocking under the Gentleman from San
Francisco — so sea-sick had the wretched Italian steamer made
him — yet, he slowly, though awkwardly, shut the window which
had banged when the maître-d'hôtel entered, and which let in
the smell of the distant kitchen and wet flowers in the garden,
and answered with slow distinctness, that they would dine, that
their table must be placed farther away from the door, in the
depth of the hall, that they would have local wine and champagne,
moderately dry and but slightly cooled. The maître-d'hôtel
approved the words of the guest in various intonations,
which all meant, however, only one thing; there is and can be
no doubt that the desires of the Gentleman from San Francisco
are right, and that everything would be carried out, in exact
conformity with his words. At last he inclined his head and
asked delicately:
"Is that all, sir?"
And having received in reply a slow "Yes," he added that
to-day they were going to have the tarantella danced in the
vestibule by Carmella and Giuseppe, known to all Italy and to
"the entire world of tourists."
"I saw her on post-card pictures," said the Gentleman
from San Francisco in a tone of voice which expressed nothing.
"And this Giuseppe, is he her husband?"
"Her cousin, sir," answered the maître-d'hôtel.
The Gentleman from San Francisco tarried a little, evidently
musing on something, but said nothing, then dismissed
him with a nod of his head.
Then he started making preparations, as though for a wedding: he
turned on all the electric lamps, and filled the mirrors
with reflections of light and the sheen of furniture, and opened
trunks; he began to shave and to wash himself, and the sound
of his bell was heard every minute in the corridor, crossing
with other impatient calls which came from the rooms of his
wife and daughter. Luigi, in his red apron, with the ease characteristic
of stout people, made funny faces at the chambermaids,
who were dashing by with tile buckets in their hands, making
them laugh until the tears came. He rolled head over heels
to the door, and, tapping with his knuckles, asked with feigned
timidity and with an obsequiousness which he knew how to render idiotic:
"Ha sonata, Signore?" (Did you ring, sir?)
And from behind the door a slow, grating, insultingly polite
voice, answered:
"Yes, come in."
What did the Gentleman from San Francisco think and
feel on that evening forever memorable to him? It must be
said frankly: absolutely nothing exceptional. The trouble is
that everything on this earth appears too simple. Even had he
felt anything deep in his heart, a premonition that something
was going to happen, he would have imagined that it was not
going to happen so soon, at least not at once. Besides, as is
usually the case just after sea-sickness is over, he was very
hungry, and he anticipated with real delight the first spoonful
of soup, and the first gulp of wine; therefore, he was performing
the habitual process of dressing, in a state of excitement
which left no time for reflection.
Having shaved and washed himself, and dexterously put in
place a few false teeth, he then, standing before the mirror,
moistened and vigorously plastered what was left of his thick
pearly-colored hair, close to his tawny-yellow skull. Then he put
on, with some effort, a tight-fitting undershirt of cream-colored
silk, fitted tight to his strong, aged body with its waist swelling
out because of an abundant diet; and he pulled black silk socks
and patent-leather dancing shoes on his dry feet with their fallen
arches. Squatting down, he set right his black trousers,
drawn high by means of silk suspenders, adjusted his snow-white
shirt with its bulging front, put the buttons into the shining
cuffs, and began the painful process of hunting up the front
button under the hard collar. The floor was still swaying under
him, the tips of his fingers hurt terribly, the button at times
painfully pinched the flabby skin in the depression under his
Adam's apple, but he persevered, and finally, with his eyes
shining from the effort, his face blue because of the narrow collar
which squeezed his neck, he triumphed over the difficulties
— and all exhausted, he sat down before the glass-pier, his reflected
image repeating itself in all the mirrors.
"It's terrible!" he muttered, lowering his strong, bald
head and making no effort to understand what was terrible;
then, with a careful and habitual gesture, he examined his short
fingers with gouty callosities in the joints, and their large, convex,
almond-colored nails, and repeated with conviction, "It's
terrible!"
But here the stentorian voice of the second gong sounded
throughout the house, as in a heathen temple. And having
risen hurriedly, the Gentleman from San Francisco drew his tie
more taut and firm around his collar, and pulled together his
abdomen by means of a tight waistcoat, put on a dinner-coat, set
to rights the cuffs, and for the last time he examined himself in
the mirror. . . This Carnella [sic], tawny as a mulatto, with fiery
eyes, in a dazzling dress in which orange-color predominated,
must be an extraordinary dancer, — it occurred to him. And
cheerfully leaving his room, he walked on the carpet, to his
wife's chamber, and asked in a loud tone of voice if they would
be long.
"In five minutes, papa!" answered cheerfully and gaily a
girlish voice. "I am combing my hair."
"Very well," said the Gentleman from San Francisco.
And thinking of her wonderful hair, streaming on her shoulders,
he slowly walked down along corridors and staircases,
spread with red velvet carpets, — looking for the library. The
servants he met hugged the walls, and he walked by as if not
noticing them. An old lady, late for dinner, already bowed
with years, with milk-white hair, yet bare-necked, in a light-gray
silk dress, hurried at top speed, but she walked in a mincing,
funny, hen-like manner, and he easily overtook her. At the
glass door of the dining hall where the guests had already
gathered and started eating, he stopped before the table
crowded with boxes of matches and Egyptian cigarettes, took a
great Manilla cigar, and threw three liras on the table. On the
winter veranda he glanced into the open window; a stream of
soft air came to him from the darkness, the top of the old palm
loomed up before him afar-off, with its boughs spread among
the stars and looking gigantic, and the distant even noise of the
sea reached his ear. In the library-room, snug, quiet, a German
in round silver-bowed glasses and with crazy, wondering eyes — stood
turning the rustling pages of a newspaper. Having coldly
eyed him, the Gentleman from San Francisco seated himself in
a deep leather arm-chair near a lamp under a green hood, put on
his pince-nez and twitching his head because of the collar which
choked him, hid himself from view behind a newspaper. He
glanced at a few headlines, read a few lines about the interminable
Balkan war, and turned over the page with an habitual
gesture. Suddenly, the lines blazed up with a glassy sheen, the
veins of his neck swelled, his eyes bulged out, the pince-nez fell
from his nose . . . He dashed forward, wanted to swallow
air — and made a wild, rattling noise; his lower jaw dropped,
dropped on his shoulder and began to shake, the shirt-front
bulged out, — and the whole body, writhing, the heels catching in
the carpet, slowly fell to the floor in a desperate struggle with
an invisible foe . . .
Had not the German been in the library, this frightful accident
would have been quickly and adroitly hushed up. The
body of the Gentleman from San Francisco would have been
rushed away to some far corner — and none of the guests would
have known of the occurence. But the German dashed out of the
library with outcries and spread the alarm all over the house.
And many rose from their meal, upsetting chairs, others growing
pale, ran along the corridors to the library, and the question,
asked in many languages, was heard: "What is it? What has
happened?" And no one was able to answer it clearly, no one
understood anything, for until this very day men still wonder
most at death and most absolutely refuse to believe in it. The
owner rushed from one guest to another, trying to keep back
those who were running and soothe them with hasty assurances,
that this was nothing, a mere trifle, a little fainting-spell by
which a Gentleman from San Francisco had been overcome.
But no one listened to him, many saw how the footmen and
waiters tore from the gentleman his tie, collar, waistcoat, the
rumpled evening coat, and even — for no visible reason — the
dancing shoes from his black silk-covered feet. And he kept
on writhing. He obstinately struggled with death, he did not
want to yield to the foe that attacked him so unexpectedly and
grossly. He shook his head, emitted rattling sounds like one
throttled, and turned up his eye-balls like one drunk with wine.
When he was hastily brought into Number Forty-three, — the
smallest, worst, dampest, and coldest room at the end of the
lower corridor, — and stretched on the bed, — his daughter came
running, her hair falling over her shoulders, the skirts of her
dressing-gown thrown open, with bare breasts raised by the
corset. Then came his wife, big, heavy, almost completely
dressed for dinner, her mouth round with terror.
In a quarter of an hour all was again in good trim at the
hotel. But the evening was irreparably spoiled. Some tourists
returned to the dining-hall and finished their dinner, but
they kept silent, and it was obvious that they took the accident
as a personal insult, while the owner went from one guest to another,
shrugging his shoulders in impotent and appropriate irritation,
feeling like one innocently victimized, assuring everyone
that he understood perfectly well "how disagreeable this
is," and giving his word that he would take all "the measures
that are within his power" to do away with the trouble. Yet
it was found necessary to cancel the tarantella. The unnecessary
electric lamps were put out, most of the guests left for
the beer-hall, and it grew so quiet in the hotel that one could
distinctly hear the tick-tock of the clock in the lobby, where a
lonely parrot babbled something in its expressionless manner,
stirring in its cage, and trying to fall asleep with its paw
clutching the upper perch in a most absurd manner. The Gentleman
from San Francisco lay stretched in a cheap iron bed,
under coarse woolen blankets, dimly lighted by a single gasburner
fastened in the ceiling. An ice-bag slid down on his
wet, cold forehead. His blue, already lifeless face grew gradually
cold; the hoarse, rattling noise which came from his
mouth, lighted by the glimmer of the golden fillings, gradually
weakened. It was not the Gentleman from San Francisco
that was emitting those weird sounds; he was no more, — someone
else did it. His wife and daughter, the doctor, the servants
were standing and watching him apathetically. Suddenly,
that which they expected and feared happened. The rattling
sound ceased. And slowly, slowly, in everybody's sight a pallor
stole over the face of the dead man, and his features began
to grow thinner and more luminous, beautiful with the beauty
that he had long shunned and that became him well . . .
The proprietor entered. "Gia e morto," whispered the
doctor to him. The proprietor shrugged his shoulders indifferently.
The older lady, with tears slowly running down her
cheeks, approached him and said timidly that now the deceased
must be taken to his room.
"O no, madam," answered the proprietor politely, but
without any amiability and not in English, but in French. He
was no longer interested in the trifle which the guests from
San Francisco could now leave at his cash-office. "This is absolutely
impossible," he said, and added in the form of an
explanation that he valued this apartment highly, and if he
satisfied her desire, this would become known over Capri and
the tourists would begin to avoid it.
The girl, who had looked at him strangely, sat down, and
with her handkerchief to her mouth, began to cry. Her
mother's tears dried up at once, and her face flared up. She
raised her tone, began to demand, using her own language and
still unable to realize that the respect for her was absolutely
gone. The proprietor, with polite dignity, cut her short: "If
madam does not like the ways of this hotel, he dare not detain
her." And he firmly announced that the corpse must leave
the hotel that very day, at dawn, that the police had been informed,
that an agent would call immediately and attend to all
the necessary formalities. . . "Is it possible to get on Capri at
least a plain coffin?" madam asks. . . Unfortunately not; by no
means, and as for making one, there will be no time. It will be
necessary to arrange things some other way. . . For instance,
he gets English soda-water in big, oblong boxes. . . The partitions
could be taken out from such a box. . .
By night, the whole hotel was asleep. A waiter opened the
window in Number 43 — it faced a corner of the garden where
a consumptive banana-tree grew in the shadow of a high stone
wall set with broken glass on the top — turned out the electric
light, locked the door, and went away. The deceased remained
alone in the darkness. Blue stars looked down at
him from the black sky, the cricket in the wall started his
melancholy, care-free song. In the dimly lighted corridor
two chambermaids were sitting on the window-sill, mending
something. Then Luigi came in, in slippered feet, with a heap
of clothes on his arm.
"Pronto?" — he asked in a stage whisper, as if greatly concerned,
directing his eyes toward the terrible door, at the end
of the corridor. And waving his free hand in that direction,
"Partenza!" he cried out in a whisper, as if seeing off a train, — and
the chambermaids, choking with noiseless laughter, put
their heads on each other's shoulders.
Then, stepping softly, he ran to the door, slightly rapped
at it, and inclining his ear, asked most obsequiously in a subdued tone of voice:
"Ha sonata, signore?"
And, squeezing his throat and thrusting his lower jaw forward,
he answered himself in a drawling, grating, sad voice, as
if from behind the door:
"Yes, come in . . ."
At dawn, when the window panes in Number Forty-three
grew white, and a damp wind rustled in the leaves of the
banana-tree, when the pale-blue morning sky rose and stretched
over Capri, and the sun, rising from behind the distant mountains
of Italy, touched into gold the pure, clearly outlined summit
of Monte Solaro [sic] , when the masons, who mended the paths
for the tourists on the island, went out to their work, — an
oblong box was brought to room number forty-three. Soon
it grew very heavy and painfully pressed against the knees
of the assistant doorman who was conveying it in a one-horse
carriage along the white highroad which winded on the slopes,
among stone fences and vineyards, all the way down to the
sea-coast. The driver, a sickly man, with red eyes, in an old
short-sleeved coat and in worn-out shoes, had a drunken headache;
all night long he had played dice at the eatinghouse — and
he kept on flogging his vigorous little horse. According to Sicilian
custom, the animal was heavily burdened with decorations:
all sorts of bells tinkled on the bridle, which was ornamented
with colored woolen fringes; there were bells also on the edges
of the high saddle; and a bird's feather, two feet long, stuck in
the trimmed crest of the horse, nodded up and down. The
driver kept silence: he was depressed by his wrongheadedness
and vices, by the fact that last night he had lost in gambling all
the copper coins with which his pockets had been full, — neither
more nor less than four liras and forty centesimi. But on such
a morning, when the air is so fresh, and the sea stretches nearby,
and the sky is serene with a morning serenity, — a headache
passes rapidly and one becomes carefree again. Besides, the
driver was also somewhat cheered by the unexpected earnings
which the Gentleman from San Francisco, who bumped his dead
head against the walls of the box behind his back, had brought
him. The little steamer, shaped like a great bug, which lay far
down, on the tender and brilliant blue filling to the brim the
Neapolitan bay, was blowing the signal of departure, — and the
sounds swiftly resounded all over Capri. Every bend of the
island, every ridge and stone was seen as distinctly as if there
were no air between heaven and earth. Near the quay the driver
was overtaken by the head doorman who conducted in an auto
the wife and daughter of the Gentleman from San Francisco.
Their faces were pale and their eyes sunken with tears and a
sleepless night. And in ten minutes the little steamer was again
stirring up the water and picking its way toward Sorrento
and Castellamare, carrying the American family away from
Capri forever. . . . Meanwhile, peace and rest were restored
on the island.
Two thousand years ago there had lived on that island a
man who became utterly entangled in his own brutal and filthy
actions. For some unknown reason he usurped the rule over millions
of men and found himself bewildered by the absurdity of
this power, while the fear that someone might kill him unawares,
made him commit deeds inhuman beyond all measure.
And mankind has forever retained his memory, and those who,
taken together, now rule the world, as incomprehensibly and,
essentially, as cruelly as he did, — come from all the corners of
the earth to look at the remnants of the stone house he inhabited,
which stands on one of the steepest cliffs of the island. On that
wonderful morning the tourists, who had come to Capri for
precisely that purpose, were still asleep in the various hotels,
but tiny long-eared asses under red saddles were already being
led to the hotel entrances. Americans and Germans, men and
women, old and young, after having arisen and breakfasted
heartily, were to scramble on them, and the old beggar-women
of Capri, with sticks in their sinewy hands, were again to
run after them along stony, mountainous paths, all the way
up to the summit of Monte Tiberia. The dead old man from
San Francisco, who had planned to keep the tourists company
but who had, instead, only scared them by reminding them
of death, was already shipped to Naples, and soothed by this,
the travelers slept soundly, and silence reigned over the island.
The stores in the little town were still closed, with the exception
of the fish and greens market on the tiny square. Among
the plain people who filled it, going about their business, stood
idly by, as usual, Lorenzo, a tall old boatman, a carefree reveller
and once a handsome man, famous all over Italy, who had
many times served as a model for painters. He had brought
and already sold — for a song — two big sea-crawfish, which he
had caught at night and which were rustling in the apron
of Don Cataldo, the cook of the hotel where the family from
San Francisco had been lodged, — and now Lorenzo could
stand calmly until nightfall, wearing princely airs, showing
off his rags, his clay pipe with its long reed mouth-piece,
and his red woolen cap, tilted on one ear. Meanwhile, among
the precipices of Monte Solare, down the ancient Phoenician
road, cut in the rocks in the form of a gigantic staircase, two
Abruzzi mountaineers were coming from Anacapri. One carried
under his leather mantle a bagpipe, a large goat's skin
with two pipes; the other, something in the nature of a wooden
flute. They walked, and the entire country, joyous, beautiful,
sunny, stretched below them; the rocky shoulders of the island,
which lay at their feet, the fabulous blue in which it
swam, the shining morning vapors over the sea westward, beneath
the dazzling sun, and the wavering masses of Italy's
mountains, both near and distant, whose beauty human word is
powerless to render. . . Midway they slowed up. Overshadowing
the road stood, in a grotto of the rock wall of Monte Solare,
the Holy Virgin, all radiant, bathed in the warmth and
the splendor of the sun. The rust of her snow-white plaster-of-Paris
vestures and queenly crown was touched into gold, and
there were meekness and mercy in her eyes raised toward the
heavens, toward the eternal and beatific abode of her thrice-blessed
Son. They bared their heads, applied the pipes to their
lips, — and praises flowed on, candid and humbly-joyous, praises
to the sun and the morning, to Her, the Immaculate Intercessor
for all who suffer in this evil and beautiful world, and to Him
who had been born of her womb in the cavern of Bethlehem, in
a hut of lowly shepherds in distant Judea.
As for the body of the dead Gentleman from San Francisco,
it was on its way home, to the shores of the New World,
where a grave awaited it. Having undergone many humiliations
and suffered much human neglect, having wandered about
a week from one port warehouse to another, it finally got
on that same famous ship which had brought the family, such
a short while ago and with such a pomp, to the Old World.
But now he was concealed from the living: in a tar-coated
coffin he was lowered deep into the black hold of the steamer.
And again did the ship set out on its far sea journey. At night
it sailed by the island of Capri, and, for those who watched
it from the island, its lights slowly disappearing in the dark
sea, it seemed infinitely sad. But there, on the vast steamer,
in its lighted halls shining with brilliance and marble, a noisy
dancing party was going on, as usual.
On the second and the third night there was again a ball — this
time in mid-ocean, during a furious storm sweeping over the
ocean, which roared like a funeral mass and rolled up mountainous
seas fringed with mourning silvery foam. The Devil, who
from the rocks of Gibraltar, the stony gateway of two worlds,
watched the ship vanish into night and storm, could hardly
distinguish from behind the snow the innumerable fiery eyes of
the ship. The Devil was as huge as a cliff, but the ship was
even bigger, a many-storied, many-stacked giant, created by the
arrogance of the New Man with the old heart. The blizzard
battered the ship's rigging and its broad-necked stacks, whitened
with snow, but it remained firm, majestic — and terrible.
On its uppermost deck, amidst a snowy whirlwind there loomed
up in loneliness the cozy, dimly lighted cabin, where, only half
awake, the vessel's ponderous pilot reigned over its entire mass,
bearing the semblance of a pagan idol. He heard the wailing
moans and the furious screeching of the siren, choked by the
storm, but the nearness of that which was behind the wall and
which in the last account was incomprehensible to him, removed
his fears. He was reassured by the thought of the large, armored
cabin, which now and then was filled with mysterious rumbling
sounds and with the dry creaking of blue fires, flaring up
and exploding around a man with a metallic headpiece, who
was eagerly catching the indistinct voices of the vessels that
hailed him, hundreds of miles away. At the very bottom, in
the under-water womb of the "Atlantis," the huge masses of
tanks and various other machines, their steel parts shining
dully, wheezed with steam and oozed hot water and oil; here was
the gigantic kitchen, heated by hellish furnaces, where the motion
of the vessel was being generated; here seethed those
forces terrible in their concentration which were transmitted to
the keel of the vessel, and into that endless round tunnel, which
was lighted by electricity, and looked like a gigantic cannon
barrel, where slowly, with a punctuality and certainty that
crushes the human soul, a colossal shaft was revolving in its oily
nest, like a living monster stretching in its lair. As for the
middle part of the "Atlantis," its warm, luxurious cabins,
dining-rooms, and halls, they radiated light and joy, were astir
with a chattering smartly-dressed crowd, were filled with the
fragrance of fresh flowers, and resounded with a string orchestra.
And again did the slender supple pair of hired lovers painfully
turn and twist and at times clash convulsively amid the splendor
of lights, silks, diamonds, and bare feminine shoulders: she — a sinfully
modest pretty girl, with lowered eyelashes and an
innocent hair-dressing, he — a tall, young man, with black hair,
looking as if they were pasted, pale with powder, in most exquisite
patent-leather shoes, in a narrow, long-skirted dresscoat, — a
beautiful man resembling a leech. And no one knew
that this couple has long since been weary of torturing themselves
with a feigned beatific torture under the sounds of
shamefully-melancholy music; nor did any one who know what
lay deep, deep, beneath them, on the very bottom of the hold, in
the neighborhood of the gloomy and sultry maw of the ship,
that heavily struggled with the ocean, the darkness, and the
storm. . .