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Page 33
When we returned to the hotel, our friend the Professor, who had made a
study of the subject, informed us that it was all a mistake. The stories
of the wicked doings of Tiberius in Capri were malicious slanders. The
Emperor was an elderly invalid living in dignified retirement. As for
the slaves, we might set our minds at rest in regard to them. If any of
them fell over the cliff it was pure accident. We must give up the idea
that the invalid Emperor pushed them off.
All this was reassuring to my better nature, and yet I cherished a
grudge against the Professor. For it was a stiff climb to the Villa of
Tiberius, and I wanted something to show for it. It was difficult to
adjust one's mind to the fact that nothing had happened there which
might not have happened in any well-conducted country house.
I like to contrast this with our experience in Algiers. We knew
beforehand what Algiers was like in the days of its prime. It had been
the nest of as desperate pirates as ever infested the seas. For
generations innocent Christians had been carried hither to pine in
doleful captivity. But the French, we understood, had built a miniature
Paris in the vicinity and were practicing liberty, fraternity, and
equality on the spot dedicated to gloomily romantic memories. We feared
the effect of this civilization. We had our misgivings. Perhaps Algiers
might be no longer worth visiting.
Luckily our steamer was delayed till sunset. We were carefully
shepherded, so that we hardly noticed the French city. We were hurried
through the darkness into old Algiers. Everything was full of sinister
suggestion. The streets were as narrow and perilous as any which Haroun
Al Raschid explored on his more perilous nights. Here one could believe
the worst of his fellow men. Suspicion and revenge were in the air. We
were not taking a stroll, we were escaping from something. Mysterious
muffled figures glided by and disappeared through slits in the walls.
There were dark corners so suggestive of homicide that one could hardly
think that any one with an Oriental disposition could resist the
temptation. In crypt-like recesses we could see assassins sharpening
their daggers or, perhaps, executioners putting the finishing touches on
their scimitars. There were cavernous rooms where conspirators were
crouched round a tiny charcoal fire. Groups of truculent young Arabs
followed us shouting objurgations, and accepting small coins as ransom.
We had glimpses of a mosque, the outside of a prison, and the inside of
what once was a harem. On returning to the steamer one gentleman fell
overboard and, swimming to the shore, was rescued by a swarthy ruffian
who robbed him of his watch and disappeared in the darkness. When the
victim of Algerian piracy stood on the deck, dripping and indignant, and
told his tale of woe, we were delighted. Algiers would always be
something to remember. It was one of the places that had not been
spoiled.
I am afraid that the sunlight might have brought disillusion. Some of
the stealthy figures which gave rise to such thrilling suspicions may
have turned out to be excellent fathers and husbands returning from
business. As it is, thanks to the darkness, Algiers remains a city of
vague atrocities. It does not belong to the commonplace world; it is of
such stuff as dreams, including nightmares, are made of.
It is not without some compunction of conscience that I recall two
historical pilgrimages, one to Assisi, the other to Geneva. Assisi I
found altogether rewarding, while in Geneva I was disappointed. In each
case my object was purely selfish, and had nothing in common with the
welfare of the present inhabitants. I wanted to see the city of St.
Francis and the city of John Calvin.
In Assisi one may read again the Franciscan legends in their proper
settings. I should like to think that my pleasure in Assisi arose from
the fact that I saw some one there who reminded me of St. Francis. But
I was not so fortunate. If one is anxious to come in contact with the
spirit of St. Francis, freed from its medi�val limitations, a visit to
Hull House, Chicago, would be more rewarding.
But it was not the spirit of St. Francis, but his limitations, that we
were after. Assisi has preserved them all. We see the gray old town on
the hillside, the narrow streets, the old walls. We are beset by swarms
of beggars. They are not like the half-starved creatures one may see in
the slums of northern cities. They are very likable. They are natural
worshipers of my Lady Poverty. They have not been spoiled by commonplace
industrialism or scientific philanthropy. One is taken back into the
days when there was a natural affinity between saints and beggars. The
saints would joyously give away all that they had, and the beggars would
as joyously accept it. After the beggars had used up all the saints had
given them, the saints would go out and beg for more. The community, you
say, would be none the better. Perhaps not. But the moment you begin to
talk about the community you introduce ideas that are modern and
disturbing. One thing is certain, and that is that if Assisi were more
thrifty, it would be less illuminating historically.
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