Leading the Blind (15 page)

Murray also tells us that foreigners, especially the English, ‘cannot be too strongly cautioned against a set of disreputable characters who are constantly hanging about the Piazza di Spagna and the neighbouring streets, offering lodgings for hire. Such fellows ought to be avoided by respectable persons; those who place any confidence in them, as regards procuring apartments, will probably have to repent having listened to them.'

For the purpose of changing money there were three English bankers in Mr Murray's list, one of whom was also in the wine business. ‘It is impossible not to feel, after any competent trial, how vastly different is the treatment an average Englishman receives from an English banker above an Italian one. No silly vanity should induce any traveller to afford certain grandiose Roman establishments the opportunity of fleecing him, for they will not even do it with civility, except to a duke or other great lord.'

There was an English Club in Rome, of which it was said: ‘The rules are somewhat illiberal, as regards artists residing in Rome, who are excluded.' One could find the usual English doctors and dentists, as well as grocers and chemists, who grew more numerous as the century advanced. Hotels are also noted at which the ‘Anglo-American element is predominant'.

For those who liked to hunt: ‘A subscription pack of hounds is now kept, numbering several of the Roman princes among the subscribers, and affords very good sport to strangers residing at Rome during the winter; as foxes are abundant, and the country well suited for hunting', but travellers were expected to send a donation to the secretary of the hunt ‘towards the maintenance of the hounds and huntsmen, at the end of the season'.

You might, of course, during your stay in the Holy City, wish to be presented to the Pope, in which case, you would receive a letter a few days before informing you of the time, generally about midday, when you were expected to wear either uniform or evening dress. ‘It is the etiquette that Protestants should show the same mark of respect to his Holiness as they do to their own sovereign, by kissing his hand. Roman Catholics will consider it their duty towards the head of their Church to kiss the Pope's foot or knee. The presentation of ladies, except in the case of royal princesses or crowned heads, only takes place on Sundays, after the Pope's dinner-hour.'

In the early Murray we may read – though this is condensed in later editions – that: ‘The Foundling Hospital contains upwards of 3000 children; the number annually received is 1150. In 1865, the last date for which we have returns, embracing a period of 10 years, out of 11,425 received in the hospital, 9260 died.' This, in spite of the fact that: ‘Few cities in Europe are so distinguished for their institutions of public charity as Rome, and in none are the hospitals more magnificently lodged, or endowed with more princely liberality', proving that if a bastard can't live well, he or she can at least die in splendour.

One charitable institution is a hospital for Poor Protestants, which ‘deserves particular mention. It can accommodate 8 or 10 patients, and is well deserving of the support of our countrymen who visit Rome, as the only one where poor British Protestants can be received without being subjected to the persecution of the friars and attendants in the other hospitals to bring about their conversion to Romanism; upon no charity in Rome can the contribution of the English Protestants be more worthily bestowed.'

In a long section on climate and health we find the curious remarks that ‘the progress of malaria at Rome is dependent on the extension of the population. Whenever the population has diminished, the district in which the decrease has taken place has become unhealthy; and whenever a large number of persons has been crowded in a confined space, as in the Ghetto, the salubrity of the situation has become apparent in spite of the uncleanly habits of the inhabitants.'

It was thought in those days that the dreaded malaria was more likely to strike while you were asleep, ‘hence the couriers who carry the mails at all seasons between Rome and Naples make it a rule not to sleep whilst crossing the Pontine marshes, and generally smoke as an additional security'.

Murray goes to great lengths to put the perils of disease at Rome in their place, almost as if to talk them out of existence, while Baedeker's 1897 guidebook is as usual more pragmatic – and brief, but the most sensible hints seem to be those from
Rambles in Rome
, by S. Russell Forbes: ‘Perhaps the health of no city in the world is so much talked about by people who know nothing whatever of the subject, as Rome. People get ill in Rome, of course, just as in any other place; but more than half the sickness is caused through their own imprudence.' Under ‘Useful Hints' the author gives us: ‘Avoid bad odours. Do not ride in an open carriage at night. Take lunch in the middle of the day. This is essential. It is better to take a light breakfast and lunch, than a heavy breakfast and no lunch. If out about sunset, throw an extra wrap or coat on, to avoid the sudden change in the atmosphere. There is no danger beyond being apt to take a cold. Colds are the root of all evil at Rome. Do not sit about the ruins at night. It may be very romantic, but it is very unwise. There is no harm in walking. Close your windows at night within a few inches. If you get into a heat, do not go into the shade or into a building till you have cooled down. Do not over-fatigue yourself. Follow these hints, and you will avoid that great bugbear, Roman fever.'

In 1872 Murray tells us that travellers should be on their guard against ‘an unworthy practice of innkeepers, and other interested parties at Nice, Florence, and even in Paris, and to which the newspapers have unfortunately lent themselves, in discrediting the sanitary state of Rome, thereby preventing strangers resorting to it, by representing epidemics of every kind as raging in it; indeed, the same thing has been practised in Rome itself, as regards Naples. Let the traveller shut his ears to such reports, or in case of doubt apply to some of the respectable medical men at Rome or Naples for precise information on the subject.'

For travellers who were sick, or so ailing that they died, the following difficulties were likely to arise: ‘Although somewhat indirectly connected with the sanitary matters at Rome, it may not be out of place here to allude to what is frequently a subject of complaint amongst foreign visitors. – The exorbitant demands made by a few hotel keepers, and the letters of lodgings generally, in the shape of indemnities in cases of death occurring in their houses. That they are fully entitled to such in case of deaths from infectious diseases, such as typhus fever, scarlatina, or small-pox, there can be no doubt, – as for re-papering the rooms and destruction of the carpets and bedding, or making them over to some charitable establishment, as is generally the case in hotels, after purification; but the case is different in the ordinary run of fatal maladies. In Rome, as elsewhere in Southern Europe, pulmonary consumption, in its later and final stages, is considered – and with some appearance of reason – to leave behind it infectious consequences: hence it has been a general custom to believe it to be dangerous to inhabit an apartment where a person labouring under phthisis has died, without a thorough disinfecting, – the removal of papering, carpets, bedding etc.; families must, therefore, be prepared for a demand under such circumstances, whereon it will be better to come to an understanding through their banker, or physician.'

From that topic we might move on to Murray's description of the Protestant burial ground which ‘all foreign travellers will regard with melancholy interest. The silence and seclusion of the spot, and the inscriptions which tell the British traveller in his native tongue of those who have found their last resting-place beneath the bright skies of the Eternal City, appeal irresistibly to the heart. The cemetery has an air of romantic beauty which forms a striking contrast with the tomb of the ancient Roman and with the massive city walls and towers which overlook it. Among those who are buried here are the poets Shelley and Keats.'

Before leaving Rome for regions further south it may not be out of place to see how guidebooks deal with the subject of begging. Charlotte Eaton, at the village of Radifalconi, on the way to the city, was disappointed at not finding gems and casts from ancient medals on sale at the inn. ‘The Italians seem to neglect the most obvious means of making money honestly, but spare no trouble to get at it by begging of cheating. We were assailed by a crowd of stout, sturdy clamorous beggars, any one of whom, if they had provided themselves with these casts to sell, might have made a considerable sum by us, and probably by most travellers.'

Begging is not mentioned in the early Murray guidebooks, but in the 1908 edition to Rome we read: ‘It is safe to assume that all beggars are professional idlers, and of the criminal class. The honest poor do not beg. Even the physically afflicted could, in nearly every case, earn their living by work if they chose to do so. In order to meet the fierce competition in this overcrowded profession many children are intentionally maimed for life by their parents, who are then able to live in idleness on the alms obtained by the sacrifice.'

In 1897 Baedeker advises: ‘Begging, which is most prevalent at the church-doors, has recently increased in frequency in the streets of Rome … The foolish practice of “scattering” copper coins to be struggled for by the street-arabs is highly reprehensible, and, like most idle gratuities to children, has a demoralising effect upon the recipients.'

Perhaps begging was a further corruption of tourism, because Augustus J. C. Hare, in
Cities of Southern Italy
, relates: ‘Without having suffered from it, no one can imagine the pest of beggars which make a long stay in the once enchanting Amalfi almost unendurable. Three-fifths of the able-bodied men, and every other woman and child, beg. The greater part of the population now loiter idle all day long in the streets or on the beach, ready to pounce upon strangers, till the traveller, half-maddened, is driven back to his hotel, or into the higher mountains. The only hope of future comfort is
never
, under any circumstances, to be tempted to give to a beggar; once give, and you are lost.'

The South was said to begin at Naples, and judging from the remarks in most guidebooks, people ought rather to die than see it. In 1853 Murray says: ‘Travellers are liable to four custom-house visitations from the frontier to Naples, which may generally be compromised for the sum of from 6 to 12 carlini. In fact the constant appeal of “buona grazia” will soon convince the traveller, however much he may disapprove of the system, that his convenience will be consulted by a compromise.'

Before entering the Kingdom of Naples we pass through the town of Aversa, which has ‘acquired considerable celebrity for its lunatic asylum, called the Maddalena, established by Murat, and capable of containing 500 persons … one of the earliest to throw aside restraints, and to rely on moral influences founded on the basis of occupation and amusement for the cure. It was more interesting a few years ago, before the barbarous practices of the dark ages were abolished in other countries, than it is now, when the more recent system of England has left it somewhat in the background in regard to modern improvements.'

Murray expatiates tediously at times on the hotels at Naples, but his main points are that travellers should bargain with landlords on arrival and ‘refuse to pay any charge which they know, from experience elsewhere, to be exorbitant. There need be no delicacy on the subject; for it is the common custom of the country. All foreigners make it a rule to adopt this precaution, and for this reason they not only pay about a third less than English travellers, but escape the annoyances and delays of disputed bills.'

There seems to have been some justification for this advice because ‘the principal hotels rank among the best and dearest in Italy' but the expense of staying in them is ‘greater than any which they have experienced elsewhere from the time of leaving England. No one can deny that the great hotels of Naples are distinguished by their excellent management, and by all which can reconcile the visitor to high charges; and while they continue to deserve this praise, there will always be travellers to support them without reference to expense.' He goes on to say that the landlords ‘will still further consult their own interests by adopting in every branch of their establishments, and especially in the charges for apartments, a scale of prices which will put an end to the reproach that they have the dearest inns in Italy … In these times of railroads and steam, the general public are the best patrons; and those landlords who become known for the moderation of their charges will be abundantly repaid not only by the increased number of visitors, but by the longer period during which they will be induced to stay.'

One hotel particularly noted is the newly built Hôtel des Etrangers, ‘well situated, and highly spoken of for reasonable charges and an obliging landlord, who has been a courier in English families. His wife, an Englishwoman, was formerly a lady's maid in the Duke of Newcastle's family, and has introduced many English comforts into the establishment.' The hotel, renamed the Royal des Etrangers, still existed in 1912, and had an asterisk of commendation in Baedeker.

The streets at Naples were not lit at night until 1840, when oil lamps were introduced. They were shortly afterwards superseded by gas, ‘which in so crowded and intricate a city has proved one of the greatest improvements which modern civilisation has effected. Within the last few years foot-pavements have been laid down in the principal thoroughfares, but such is the inveteracy of habit that even now the people can hardly be induced to relinquish their ancient custom of walking in the middle of the streets.'

The Corso of Naples, about a mile and a half in length, was paved with flagstones and ‘from morning to night, and we almost add from night to daybreak, the Corso is thronged with people and with carriages; the people shouting at the top of their voices, and the carriages threading their way between the pagodas of the lemonade-sellers, the stalls of the vendors of iced-water, the charcoal fires of the sausage dealers, and a hundred groups of busy people, whose sole occupation appears to be to pass as much of their lives as possible in the open air. It is at all times the noisiest street in Europe, and on extraordinary occasions it presents a perfect sea of human beings, swayed here and there by each successive current, and presenting to the eye of the traveller one of the most curious spectacles it is possible to imagine.'