Il Conde

by Joseph Conrad

A pathetic tale"Vedi Napoli e poi mori."THE first time we got into conversation was in theNational Museum in Naples, in the rooms on theground floor containing the famous collection of bronzesfrom Herculaneum and Pompeii: that marvellous legacyof antique art whose delicate perfection has been pre-served for us by the catastrophic fury of a volcano.He addressed me first, over the celebrated RestingHermes which we had been looking at side by side. Hesaid the right things about that wholly admirable piece.Nothing profound. His taste was natural rather thancultivated. He had obviously seen many fine things inhis life and appreciated them: but he had no jargon of adilettante or the connoisseur. A hateful tribe. Hespoke like a fairly intelligent man of the world, a per-fectly unaffected gentleman.We had known each other by sight for some fewdays past. Staying in the same hotel -- good, but notextravagantly up to date -- I had noticed him in thevestibule going in and out. I judged he was an oldand valued client. The bow of the hotel-keeper wascordial in its deference, and he acknowledged it withfamiliar courtesy. For the servants he was Il Conde.There was some squabble over a man's parasol -- yellowsilk with white lining sort of thing -- the waiters had dis-covered abandoned outside the dining-room door. Ourgold-laced door-keeper recognized it and I heard himdirecting one of the lift boys to run after Il Conde withit. Perhaps he was the only Count staying in the hotel,or perhaps he had the distinction of being the Count parexcellence, conferred upon him because of his triedfidelity to the house.Having conversed at the Museo -- (and by the by hehad expressed his dislike of the busts and statues ofRoman emperors in the gallery of marbles: their faceswere too vigorous, too pronounced for him) -- havingconversed already in the morning I did not think I wasintruding when in the evening, finding the dining-roomvery full, I proposed to share his little table. Judgingby the quiet urbanity of his consent he did not think soeither. His smile was very attractive.He dined in an evening waistcoat and a "smoking"(he called it so) with a black tie. All this of very goodcut, not new -- just as these things should be. He was,morning or evening, very correct in his dress. I haveno doubt that his whole existence had been correct,well ordered and conventional, undisturbed by startlingevents. His white hair brushed upwards off a loftyforehead gave him the air of an idealist, of animaginative man. His white moustache, heavy butcarefully trimmed and arranged, was not unpleasantlytinted a golden yellow in the middle. The faint scentof some very good perfume, and of good cigars (thatlast an odour quite remarkable to come upon in Italy)reached me across the table. It was in his eyes thathis age showed most. They were a little weary withcreased eyelids. He must have been sixty or a coupleof years more. And he was communicative. I wouldnot go so far as to call it garrulous -- but distinctlycommunicative.He had tried various climates, of Abbazia, of theRiviera, of other places, too, he told me, but the onlyone which suited him was the climate of the Gulf ofNaples. The ancient Romans, who, he pointed out tome, were men expert in the art of living, knew very wellwhat they were doing when they built their villas onthese shores, in Baiae, in Vico, in Capri. They camedown to this seaside in search of health, bringing withthem their trains of mimes and flute-players to amusetheir leisure. He thought it extremely probable that theRomans of the higher classes were specially predisposedto painful rheumatic affections.This was the only personal opinion I heard himexpress. It was based on no special erudition. Heknew no more of the Romans than an average informedman of the world is expected to know. He argued frompersonal experience. He had suffered himself from apainful and dangerous rheumatic affection till he foundrelief in this particular spot of Southern Europe.This was three years ago, and ever since he hadtaken up his quarters on the shores of the gulf, either inone of the hotels in Sorrento or hiring a small villa inCapri. He had a piano, a few books: picked up transientacquaintances of a day, week, or month in the stream oftravellers from all Europe. One can imagine him goingout for his walks in the streets and lanes, becomingknown to beggars, shopkeepers, children, countrypeople; talking amiably over the walls to the contadini-- and coming back to his rooms or his villa to sit beforethe piano, with his white hair brushed up and his thickorderly moustache, "to make a little music for myself."And, of course, for a change there was Naples near by-- life, movement, animation, opera. A little amuse-ment, as he said, is necessary for health. Mimes andflute-players, in fact. Only unlike the magnates of an-cient Rome, he had no affairs of the city to call himaway from these moderate delights. He had no affairsat all. Probably he had never had any grave affairs toattend to in his life. It was a kindly existence, with itsjoys and sorrows regulated by the course of Nature --marriages, births, deaths -- ruled by the prescribedusages of good society and protected by the State.He was a widower; but in the months of July andAugust he ventured to cross the Alps for six weeks on avisit to his married daughter. He told me her name.It was that of a very aristocratic family. She had acastle -- in Bohemia, I think. This is as near as I evercame to ascertaining his nationality. His own name,strangely enough, he never mentioned. Perhaps hethought I had seen it on the published list. Truth tosay, I never looked. At any rate, he was a good Eu-ropean -- he spoke four languages to my certain knowl-edge -- and a man of fortune. Not of great fortuneevidently and appropriately. I imagine that to be ex-tremely rich would have appeared to him improper,outre -- too blatant altogether. And obviously, too, thefortune was not of his making. The making of a for-tune cannot be achieved without some roughness.It is a matter of temperament. His nature was tookindly for strife. In the course of conversation hementioned his estate quite by the way, in reference tothat painful and alarming rheumatic affection. Oneyear, staying incautiously beyond the Alps as late as themiddle of September, he had been laid up for threemonths in that lonely country house with no one but hisvalet and the caretaking couple to attend to him.Because, as he expressed it, he "kept no establishmentthere." He had only gone for a couple of days to con-fer with his land agent. He promised himself never to beso imprudent in the future. The first weeks of Sep-tember would find him on the shores of his belovedgulf.Sometimes in travelling one comes upon such lonelymen, whose only business is to wait for the unavoidable.Deaths and marriages have made a solitude round them,and one really cannot blame their endeavours to makethe waiting as easy as possible. As he remarked to me,"At my time of life freedom from physical pain is avery important matter."It must not be imagined that he was a wearisomehypochondriac. He was really much too well-bred tobe a nuisance. He had an eye for the small weaknessesof humanity. But it was a good-natured eye. Hemade a restful, easy, pleasant companion for the hoursbetween dinner and bedtime. We spent three eveningstogether, and then I had to leave Naples in a hurry tolook after a friend who had fallen seriously ill in Taor-mina. Having nothing to do, Il Conde came to see meoff at the station. I was somewhat upset, and his idle-ness was always ready to take a kindly form. He wasby no means an indolent man.He went along the train peering into the carriagesfor a good seat for me, and then remained talkingcheerily from below. He declared he would miss methat evening very much and announced his intention ofgoing after dinner to listen to the band in the publicgarden, the Villa Nazionale. He would amuse himselfby hearing excellent music and looking at the bestsociety. There would be a lot of people, as usual.I seem to see him yet -- his raised face with a friendlysmile under the thick moustaches, and his kind, fatiguedeyes. As the train began to move, he addressed me intwo languages: first in French, saying, "Bon voyage";then, in his very good, somewhat emphatic English,encouragingly, because he could see my concern: "Allwill -- be -- well -- yet!"My friend's illness having taken a decidedly favour-able turn, I returned to Naples on the tenth day. Icannot say I had given much thought to Il Conde duringmy absence, but entering the dining-room I looked forhim in his habitual place. I had an idea he might havegone back to Sorrento to his piano and his books andhis fishing. He was great friends with all the boatmen,and fished a good deal with lines from a boat. But Imade out his white head in the crowd of heads, and evenfrom a distance noticed something unusual in his atti-tude. Instead of sitting erect, gazing all round withalert urbanity, he drooped over his plate. I stoodopposite him for some time before he looked up, a littlewildly, if such a strong word can be used in connectionwith his correct appearance."Ah, my dear sir! Is it you?" he greeted me. "Ihope all is well."He was very nice about my friend. Indeed, he wasalways nice, with the niceness of people whose hearts aregenuinely humane. But this time it cost him an effort.His attempts at general conversation broke down intodullness. It occurred to me he might have been indis-posed. But before I could frame the inquiry hemuttered:"You find me here very sad.""I am sorry for that," I said. "You haven't had badnews, I hope?"It was very kind of me to take an interest. No. Itwas not that. No bad news, thank God. And hebecame very still as if holding his breath. Then, lean-ing forward a little, and in an odd tone of awed embar-rassment, he took me into his confidence."The truth is that I have had a very -- a very -- howshall I say? -- abominable adventure happen to me."The energy of the epithet was sufficiently startling inthat man of moderate feelings and toned-down vocabu-lary. The word unpleasant I should have thoughtwould have fitted amply the worst experience likely tobefall a man of his stamp. And an adventure, too. In-credible! But it is in human nature to believe the worst;and I confess I eyed him stealthily, wondering what hehad been up to. In a moment, however, my unworthysuspicions vanished. There was a fundamental refine-ment of nature about the man which made me dismissall idea of some more or less disreputable scrape."It is very serious. Very serious." He went on,nervously. "I will tell you after dinner, if you willallow me."I expressed my perfect acquiescence by a little bow,nothing more. I wished him to understand that I wasnot likely to hold him to that offer, if he thought betterof it later on. We talked of indifferent things, but witha sense of difficulty quite unlike our former easy, gos-sipy intercourse. The hand raising a piece of bread tohis lips, I noticed, trembled slightly. This symptom,in regard to my reading of the man, was no less thanstartling.In the smoking-room he did not hang back at all.Directly we had taken our usual seats he leaned side-ways over the arm of his chair and looked straight intomy eyes earnestly."You remember," he began, "that day you wentaway? I told you then I would go to the Villa Nazion-ale to hear some music in the evening."I remembered. His handsome old face, so fresh forhis age, unmarked by any trying experience, appearedhaggard for an instant. It was like the passing of ashadow. Returning his steadfast gaze, I took a sip ofmy black coffee. He was systematically minute in hisnarrative, simply in order, I think, not to let his ex-citement get the better of him.After leaving the railway station, he had an ice, andread the paper in a cafe. Then he went back to thehotel, dressed for dinner, and dined with a good appetite.After dinner he lingered in the hall (there were chairsand tables there) smoking his cigar; talked to thelittle girl of the Primo Tenore of the San Carlo the-atre, and exchanged a few words with that "ami-able lady," the wife of the Primo Tenore. There wasno performance that evening, and these people weregoing to the Villa also. They went out of the hotel.Very well.At the moment of following their example -- it washalf-past nine already -- he remembered he had a ratherlarge sum of money in his pocket-book. He entered,therefore, the office and deposited the greater part of itwith the book-keeper of the hotel. This done, he tooka carozella and drove to the seashore. He got out of thecab and entered the Villa on foot from the Largo diVittoria end.He stared at me very hard. And I understood thenhow really impressionable he was. Every small fact andevent of that evening stood out in his memory as ifendowed with mystic significance. If he did not mentionto me the colour of the pony which drew the carozella,and the aspect of the man who drove, it was a mereoversight arising from his agitation, which he repressedmanfully.He had then entered the Villa Nazionale from theLargo di Vittoria end. The Villa Nazionale is a publicpleasure-ground laid out in grass plots, bushes, andflower-beds between the houses of the Riviera di Chiajaand the waters of the bay. Alleys of trees, more or lessparallel, stretch its whole length -- which is considerable.On the Riviera di Chiaja side the electric tramcars runclose to the railings. Between the garden and the sea isthe fashionable drive, a broad road bordered by a lowwall, beyond which the Mediterranean splashes withgentle murmurs when the weather is fine.As life goes on late at night in Naples, the broaddrive was all astir with a brilliant swarm of carriagelamps moving in pairs, some creeping slowly, othersrunning rapidly under the thin, motionless line of electriclamps defining the shore. And a brilliant swarmof stars hung above the land humming with voices,piled up with houses, glittering with lights -- and overthe silent flat shadows of the sea.The gardens themselves are not very well lit. Ourfriend went forward in the warm gloom, his eyesfixed upon a distant luminous region extending nearlyacross the whole width of the Villa, as if the air hadglowed there with its own cold, bluish, and dazzlinglight. This magic spot, behind the black trunks of treesand masses of inky foliage, breathed out sweet soundsmingled with bursts of brassy roar, sudden clashes ofmetal, and grave, vibrating thuds.As he walked on, all these noises combined togetherinto a piece of elaborate music whose harmonious phrasescame persuasively through a great disorderly murmur ofvoices and shuffling of feet on the gravel of that openspace. An enormous crowd immersed in the electriclight, as if in a bath of some radiant and tenuous fluidshed upon their heads by luminous globes, drifted in itshundreds round the band. Hundreds more sat on chairsin more or less concentric circles, receiving unflinchinglythe great waves of sonority that ebbed out into the dark-ness. The Count penetrated the throng, drifted with itin tranquil enjoyment, listening and looking at thefaces. All people of good society: mothers with theirdaughters, parents and children, young men and youngwomen all talking, smiling, nodding to each other. Verymany pretty faces, and very many pretty toilettes.There was, of course, a quantity of diverse types: showyold fellows with white moustaches, fat men, thinmen, officers in uniform; but what predominated, hetold me, was the South Italian type of young man,with a colourless, clear complexion, red lips, jet-blacklittle moustache and liquid black eyes so wonderfullyeffective in leering or scowling.Withdrawing from the throng, the Count shared alittle table in front of the caf with a young man of justsuch a type. Our friend had some lemonade. Theyoung man was sitting moodily before an empty glass.He looked up once, and then looked down again. Healso tilted his hat forward. Like this --The Count made the gesture of a man pulling hishat down over his brow, and went on:"I think to myself: he is sad; something is wrongwith him; young men have their troubles. I take nonotice of him, of course. I pay for my lemonade, andgo away."Strolling about in the neighbourhood of the band,the Count thinks he saw twice that young man wander-ing alone in the crowd. Once their eyes met. It musthave been the same young man, but there were so manythere of that type that he could not be certain. More-over, he was not very much concerned except in so farthat he had been struck by the marked, peevish discon-tent of that face.Presently, tired of the feeling of confinement one ex-periences in a crowd, the Count edged away from theband. An alley, very sombre by contrast, presenteditself invitingly with its promise of solitude and coolness.He entered it, walking slowly on till the sound of theorchestra became distinctly deadened. Then he walkedback and turned about once more. He did this severaltimes before he noticed that there was somebody oc-cupying one of the benches.The spot being midway between two lamp-posts thelight was faint.The man lolled back in the corner of the seat, hislegs stretched out, his arms folded and his head droopingon his breast. He never stirred, as though he had fallenasleep there, but when the Count passed by next time hehad changed his attitude. He sat leaning forward. Hiselbows were propped on his knees, and his hands wererolling a cigarette. He never looked up from thatoccupation.The Count continued his stroll away from the band.He returned slowly, he said. I can imagine himenjoying to the full, but with his usual tranquillity, thebalminess of this southern night and the sounds of musicsoftened delightfully by the distance.Presently, he approached for the third time the manon the garden seat, still leaning forward with his elbowson his knees. It was a dejected pose. In the semi-obscurity of the alley his high shirt collar and his cuffsmade small patches of vivid whiteness. The Countsaid that he had noticed him getting up brusquely asif to walk away, but almost before he was aware ofit the man stood before him asking in a low, gentle tonewhether the signore would have the kindness to obligehim with a light.The Count answered this request by a polite "Cer-tainly," and dropped his hands with the intention ofexploring both pockets of his trousers for the matches."I dropped my hands," he said, "but I never putthem in my pockets. I felt a pressure there --"He put the tip of his finger on a spot close under hisbreastbone, the very spot of the human body where aJapanese gentleman begins the operations of the Hara-kiri, which is a form of suicide following upon dishonour,upon an intolerable outrage to the delicacy of one'sfeelings."I glance down," the Count continued in an awe-struck voice, "and what do I see? A knife! A longknife --""You don't mean to say," I exclaimed, amazed,"that you have been held up like this in the Villa athalf-past ten o'clock, within a stone's throw of a thou-sand people!"He nodded several times, staring at me with all hismight."The clarionet," he declared, solemnly, "was finishinghis solo, and I assure you I could hear every note. Thenthe band crashed fortissimo, and that creature rolledits eyes and gnashed its teeth hissing at me with thegreatest ferocity, 'Be silent! No noise or --'"I could not get over my astonishment."What sort of knife was it?" I asked, stupidly."A long blade. A stiletto -- perhaps a kitchen knife.A long narrow blade. It gleamed. And his eyesgleamed. His white teeth, too. I could see them.He was very ferocious. I thought to myself: 'If I hithim he will kill me.' How could I fight with him?He had the knife and I had nothing. I am nearlyseventy, you know, and that was a young man. Iseemed even to recognize him. The moody young manof the cafe. The young man I met in the crowd. ButI could not tell. There are so many like him in thiscountry."The distress of that moment was reflected in his face.I should think that physically he must have beenparalyzed by surprise. His thoughts, however, re-mained extremely active. They ranged over every alarm-ing possibility. The idea of setting up a vigorous shout-ing for help occurred to him, too. But he did nothing ofthe kind, and the reason why he refrained gave me agood opinion of his mental self-possession. He saw in aflash that nothing prevented the other from shouting,too."That young man might in an instant have thrownaway his knife and pretended I was the aggressor. Whynot? He might have said I attacked him. Why not?It was one incredible story against another! He mighthave said anything -- bring some dishonouring chargeagainst me -- what do I know? By his dress he was nocommon robber. He seemed to belong to the betterclasses. What could I say? He was an Italian -- I ama foreigner. Of course, I have my passport, and thereis our consul -- but to be arrested, dragged at night tothe police office like a criminal!"He shuddered. It was in his character to shrinkfrom scandal, much more than from mere death. Andcertainly for many people this would have always re-mained -- considering certain peculiarities of Neapolitanmanners -- a deucedly queer story. The Count was nofool. His belief in the respectable placidity of lifehaving received this rude shock, he thought that nowanything might happen. But also a notion came intohis head that this young man was perhaps merely aninfuriated lunatic.This was for me the first hint of his attitude towardsthis adventure. In his exaggerated delicacy of senti-ment he felt that nobody's self-esteem need be affectedby what a madman may choose to do to one. It be-came apparent, however, that the Count was to bedenied that consolation. He enlarged upon the abom-inably savage way in which that young man rolled hisglistening eyes and gnashed his white teeth. The bandwas going now through a slow movement of solemnbraying by all the trombones, with deliberately re-peated bangs of the big drum."But what did you do?" I asked, greatly excited."Nothing," answered the Count. "I let my handshang down very still. I told him quietly I did notintend making a noise. He snarled like a dog, then saidin an ordinary voice:"'Vostro portofolio.'""So I naturally," continued the Count -- and fromthis point acted the whole thing in pantomime. Hold-ing me with his eyes, he went through all the motionsof reaching into his inside breast pocket, taking out apocket-book, and handing it over. But that young man,still bearing steadily on the knife, refused to touch it.He directed the Count to take the money out him-self, received it into his left hand, motioned the pocket-book to be returned to the pocket, all this being done tothe sweet thrilling of flutes and clarionets sustained bythe emotional drone of the hautboys. And the "youngman," as the Count called him, said: "This seems verylittle.""It was, indeed, only 340 or 360 lire," the Countpursued. "I had left my money in the hotel, as youknow. I told him this was all I had on me. He shookhis head impatiently and said:"'Vostro orologio.'"The Count gave me the dumb show of pulling outhis watch, detaching it. But, as it happened, the valu-able gold half-chronometer he possessed had been leftat a watch-maker's for cleaning. He wore that evening(on a leather guard) the Waterbury fifty-franc thing heused to take with him on his fishing expeditions. Per-ceiving the nature of this booty, the well-dressed robbermade a contemptuous clicking sound with his tonguelike this, "Tse-Ah!" and waved it away hastily. Then,as the Count was returning the disdained object to hispocket, he demanded with a threateningly increasedpressure of the knife on the epigastrium, by way of re-minder:"'Vostri anelli.'""One of the rings," went on the Count, "was givenme many years ago by my wife; the other is the signetring of my father. I said, 'No. That you shall nothave!'"Here the Count reproduced the gesture correspondingto that declaration by clapping one hand upon theother, and pressing both thus against his chest. Itwas touching in its resignation. "That you shall nothave," he repeated, firmly, and closed his eyes, fullyexpecting -- I don't know whether I am right in record-ing that such an unpleasant word had passed his lips --fully expecting to feel himself being -- I really hesitateto say -- being disembowelled by the push of the long,sharp blade resting murderously against the pit ofhis stomach -- the very seat, in all human beings, ofanguishing sensations.Great waves of harmony went on flowing from theband.Suddenly the Count felt the nightmarish pressureremoved from the sensitive spot. He opened his eyes.He was alone. He had heard nothing. It is probablethat "the young man" had departed, with light steps,some time before, but the sense of the horrid pressurehad lingered even after the knife had gone. A feelingof weakness came over him. He had just time tostagger to the garden seat. He felt as though he hadheld his breath for a long time. He sat all in a heap,panting with the shock of the reaction.The band was executing, with immense bravura, thecomplicated finale. It ended with a tremendous crash.He heard it unreal and remote, as if his ears had beenstopped, and then the hard clapping of a thousand,more or less, pairs of hands, like a sudden hail-showerpassing away. The profound silence which succeededrecalled him to himself.A tramcar resembling a long glass box wherein peoplesat with their heads strongly lighted, ran along swiftlywithin sixty yards of the spot where he had been robbed.Then another rustled by, and yet another going theother way. The audience about the band had brokenup, and were entering the alley in small conversinggroups. The Count sat up straight and tried to thinkcalmly of what had happened to him. The vileness ofit took his breath away again. As far as I can makeit out he was disgusted with himself. I do not meanto say with his behaviour. Indeed, if his pantomimicrendering of it for my information was to be trusted, itwas simply perfect. No, it was not that. He was notashamed. He was shocked at being the selected victim,not of robbery so much as of contempt. His tranquillityhad been wantonly desecrated. His lifelong, kindlynicety of outlook had been defaced.Nevertheless, at that stage, before the iron had timeto sink deep, he was able to argue himself into com-parative equanimity. As his agitation calmed downsomewhat, he became aware that he was frightfullyhungry. Yes, hungry. The sheer emotion had madehim simply ravenous. He left the seat and, after walk-ing for some time, found himself outside the gardensand before an arrested tramcar, without knowing verywell how he came there. He got in as if in a dream, bya sort of instinct. Fortunately he found in his trouserpocket a copper to satisfy the conductor. Then the carstopped, and as everybody was getting out he got out,too. He recognized the Piazza San Ferdinando, butapparently it did not occur to him to take a cab anddrive to the hotel. He remained in distress on thePiazza like a lost dog, thinking vaguely of the best wayof getting something to eat at once.Suddenly he remembered his twenty-franc piece.He explained to me that he had that piece of Frenchgold for something like three years. He used to carryit about with him as a sort of reserve in case of ac-cident. Anybody is liable to have his pocket picked-- a quite different thing from a brazen and insultingrobbery.The monumental arch of the Galleria Umberto facedhim at the top of a noble flight of stairs. He climbedthese without loss of time, and directed his steps towardsthe Cafe Umberto. All the tables outside were occupiedby a lot of people who were drinking. But as he wantedsomething to eat, he went inside into the cafe, which isdivided into aisles by square pillars set all round withlong looking-glasses. The Count sat down on a redplush bench against one of these pillars, waiting forhis risotto. And his mind reverted to his abominableadventure.He thought of the moody, well-dressed young man,with whom he had exchanged glances in the crowdaround the bandstand, and who, he felt confident, wasthe robber. Would he recognize him again? Doubt-less. But he did not want ever to see him again. Thebest thing was to forget this humiliating episode.The Count looked round anxiously for the coming ofhis risotto, and, behold! to the left against the wall --there sat the young man. He was alone at a table, witha bottle of some sort of wine or syrup and a carafe oficed water before him. The smooth olive cheeks, thered lips, the little jet-black moustache turned up gal-lantly, the fine black eyes a little heavy and shadedby long eyelashes, that peculiar expression of cruel dis-content to be seen only in the busts of some Romanemperors -- it was he, no doubt at all. But that was atype. The Count looked away hastily. The youngofficer over there reading a paper was like that, too.Same type. Two young men farther away playingdraughts also resembled --The Count lowered his head with the fear in his heartof being everlastingly haunted by the vision of thatyoung man. He began to eat his risotto. Presentlyhe heard the young man on his left call the waiter in abad-tempered tone.At the call, not only his own waiter, but two otheridle waiters belonging to a quite different row of tables,rushed towards him with obsequious alacrity, which isnot the general characteristic of the waiters in the CafeUmberto. The young man muttered something andone of the waiters walking rapidly to the nearest doorcalled out into the Galleria: "Pasquale! O! Pas-quale!"Everybody knows Pasquale, the shabby old fellowwho, shuffling between the tables, offers for sale cigars,cigarettes, picture postcards, and matches to the clientsof the cafe;. He is in many respects an engagingscoundrel. The Count saw the grey-haired, unshavenruffian enter the cafe, the glass case hanging from hisneck by a leather strap, and, at a word from the waiter,make his shuffling way with a sudden spurt to the youngman's table. The young man was in need of a cigarwith which Pasquale served him fawningly. The oldpedlar was going out, when the Count, on a suddenimpulse, beckoned to him.Pasquale approached, the smile of deferential recog-nition combining oddly with the cynical searching ex-pression of his eyes. Leaning his case on the table, helifted the glass lid without a word. The Count took abox of cigarettes and urged by a fearful curiosity, askedas casually as he could --"Tell me, Pasquale, who is that young signore sittingover there?"The other bent over his box confidentially."That, Signor Conde,"he said, beginning to rearrangehis wares busily and without looking up, "that is ayoung Cavaliere of a very good family from Bari. Hestudies in the University here, and is the chief, capo, ofan association of young men -- of very nice young men."He paused, and then, with mingled discretion andpride of knowledge, murmured the explanatory word"Camorra" and shut down the lid. "A very powerfulCamorra," he breathed out. "The professors them-selves respect it greatly . . . una lira e cinquanticentesimi, Signor Conde."Our friend paid with the gold piece. While Pasqualewas making up the change, he observed that the youngman, of whom he had heard so much in a few words,was watching the transaction covertly. After theold vagabond had withdrawn with a bow, the Countsettled with the waiter and sat still. A numbness, hetold me, had come over him.The young man paid, too, got up, and crossed over,apparently for the purpose of looking at himself in themirror set in the pillar nearest to the Count's seat. Hewas dressed all in black with a dark green bow tie.The Count looked round, and was startled by meetinga vicious glance out of the corners of the other's eyes.The young Cavaliere from Bari (according to Pasquale;but Pasquale is, of course, an accomplished liar) wenton arranging his tie, settling his hat before the glass,and meantime he spoke just loud enough to be heardby the Count. He spoke through his teeth with themost insulting venom of contempt and gazing straightinto the mirror."Ah! So you had some gold on you -- you old liar --you old birba -- you furfante! But you are not donewith me yet."The fiendishness of his expression vanished like light-ning, and he lounged out of the cafe with a moody,impassive face.The poor Count, after telling me this last episode,fell back trembling in his chair. His forehead brokeinto perspiration. There was a wanton insolence inthe spirit of this outrage which appalled even me.What it was to the Count's delicacy I won't attempt toguess. I am sure that if he had been not too refinedto do such a blatantly vulgar thing as dying fromapoplexy in a cafe;, he would have had a fatal strokethere and then. All irony apart, my difficulty was tokeep him from seeing the full extent of my commisera-tion. He shrank from every excessive sentiment, andmy commiseration was practically unbounded. It didnot surprise me to hear that he had been in bed a week.He had got up to make his arrangements for leavingSouthern Italy for good and all.And the man was convinced that he could not livethrough a whole year in any other climate!No argument of mine had any effect. It was nottimidity, though he did say to me once: "You do notknow what a Camorra is, my dear sir. I am a markedman." He was not afraid of what could be done tohim. His delicate conception of his dignity was defiledby a degrading experience. He couldn't stand that.No Japanese gentleman, outraged in his exaggeratedsense of honour, could have gone about his preparationsfor Hara-kiri with greater resolution. To go homereally amounted to suicide for the poor Count.There is a saying of Neapolitan patriotism, intendedfor the information of foreigners, I presume: "SeeNaples and then die." Vedi Napoli e poi mori. It is asaying of excessive vanity, and everything excessivewas abhorrent to the nice moderation of the poor Count.Yet, as I was seeing him off at the railway station, Ithought he was behaving with singular fidelity to itsconceited spirit. Vedi Napoli! . . . He had seenit! He had seen it with startling thoroughness -- andnow he was going to his grave. He was going to it bythe train de luxe of the International Sleeping Car Com-pany, via Trieste and Vienna. As the four long, sombrecoaches pulled out of the station I raised my hat withthe solemn feeling of paying the last tribute of respectto a funeral cortege. Il Conde's profile, much aged al-ready, glided away from me in stony immobility, behindthe lighted pane of glass -- Vedi Napoli e poi mori![from A Set of Six]

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