'The Island of the Sirens'

		A long procession files in slow array.
		Aloft a silver image gleams like fire,
		Borne shoulder-high amid a white-robed choir
		The patron Saint moves on his festal way.
		E. B.						            

CAPRI – what a magic word! How can I describe that almost idyllic time, when on landing from the old barca di Scoppa, "whose hold was laden like the Argosies of old, with fruit, grain, and wine," I was handed by one of a bevy of dark-eyed beauties a bunch of Narcissi, emblem of welcome to the "Island of the Sirens."

It was the Festa di Coralina. The coral boats with their quaintly carved prows, gaudily painted and gilded, were drawn up on the Marina; each boat garlanded with roses, and a bunch of ginestra tied to the mast. The old marinari with their wives and pretty daughters awaited the procession of priests, who were to give their benediction to the little flotilla of coral boats, about to face the dangers of a long journey to the African Coast.

What a scene! - the old-time costumes, the slowly moving procession of richly robed priests winding through the kneeling figures of the sailors; the glorious sun shining on the flower-decked prows ; the clouds of incense; the solemn chanting of that white-robed choir.

Leighton, Waterhouse, Poynter, John Sargent, and a legion of painters have found the charm of Capri irresistible; brilliant Prix de Rome men came here as a matter of tradition to paint their pictures; Chartran, Doucet, Sain, Détaille, painted some of their finest works in Capri.

It was at one of the charmingly picturesque houses of the contadini that Sargent and I once stayed, Pagano's being then full. We break-fasted every morning under a vine-covered pergola, where we could pick the grapes as we wanted them. The table, covered with a clean white cloth of coarse homespun, and laden with Capri delicacies, was flecked with patches of sunlight that filtered in through the leaves above; the sweet scent of orange-blossom filled the air, and now and again a tantalising aroma would reach us of the delicious coffee being roasted by the pretty waiting-girl in the garden below. Then, again, an evening scene comes back to me - the Tarantellas on the flat roof of the house, and I well remember with what delight we watched the effect of the graceful figures, silhouetted against the fading twilight, and, for a background, Vesuvius with his dark purple mantle and crown of fire.

In those days we found no difficulty whatever in procuring splendid types as models. Especially was this so at Ana Capri, where the girls still retained the Oriental colouring and Saracenic features, legacies handed down from the time when that old Moorish pirate, Barbarossa, made his raids upon the island and carried off the women. Here on Monte Solaro this old brigand built his castle, and its ruins still remain. At my studio in the monastery of Santa Teresa, Sargent painted one of these magnificent types, a girl named Rosina, and subsequently made me a present of it.

There were no shops in those days, nor roads. Ana Capri was only reached by means of those famous steps that have so often been painted. There were only two or three hotels in the island; Pagano's, where the artists congregated, still bears evidence on its walls in the form of sketches of the many eminent men who have at one time and another made a sojourn there. I must not omit Scoppa's Café, the resort of the English artists; also the tobacco shop, hidden away under the Moorish arches round the corner of the Piazza. As to the fruit, vegetables, and fish, it was spread out in large flat baskets, spazone, on the broad ascending steps of the ancient church. These steps were our meeting-place, where we discussed affairs of State, heard the latest scandal and arranged those impromptu picnics and dinners which were among the island's greatest charms.

And how delightful it used to be in the early morning before the heat of the day made itself felt to wander over the mountain, climbing over boulders under whose shady recesses grow bunches of mauve cyclamen, maiden-hair fern, and bee-orchid. Flowers abound everywhere, masses of yellow ginestra making a conspicuous feature in the landscape. Try and imagine the scene as you rest awhile after your climb - the glorious sun rising from an opal sea, the whir of the cicada amongst the olive trees, the drowsy hum of the large blue-black bees, the flashing emerald of the little lizards lying basking on the large cactus leaves, their throbbing sides and mischievous dark, beady eyes. From the summit of Solaro, facing the Gulf of Salerno, you look down a sheer precipice of nearly two thousand feet into a turquoise and emerald sea, and if you are an artist you grow crazy with the longing to paint it, and when you try it is only to realise what a hopeless task it is to attempt to reproduce those tender peacock blues and greens, and the liquid gold of those reflections from the sunburnt rocks.

One of the most picturesque and at the same time impressive sights of Capri is the Feast of the Patron Saint of the town, San Costanzo, with its long winding procession of Fratelli and Figlie di Maria, the men wearing their white robes and silver medals, the young girls their white dresses and light blue veils, all carrying lighted candles. Picture to yourself the rich colour¬ing of the priests' robes, the clouds of sweet-smelling incense, the banners, the exploding fireworks. The procession advances; high on the shoulders of the white-robed Fratelli is borne the silver image of their Saint, whose breast is aflame with precious stones; the canopy of crimson and gold is almost buried beneath the shower of golden ginestra and rose leaves thrown from the roofs as the chanting procession threads its way between the domed houses of the old town. One's gaze is attracted to the peasant girls in their old-time costumes ; their wonderful classical faces, their rich nut-brown colouring and blue-black hair, done up in braids adorned with sprigs of flowering myrtle, or enveloped in sun-faded, yellow handkerchiefs. How we revelled in this blaze of colour!

In those days the artists married these Capri girls, and no wonder! They made excellent wives, for bear in mind it was a homely, simple life the artists led, and these dark- eyed beauties were irresistibly fascinating in their native simplicity. They loved to pose for us, never forgetting to ask us to their marriage feasts and christenings; in return we gave Tarantellas in our studios, inviting the girls and their young men, the old folk lending their aid with tambourine and corogoro, a very primitive musical instrument. There was plenty of Capri wine too - huge piretti - with sweets and cakes for the little nut-brown, bare-legged kiddies.

On your way to the Piccola Marina you pass old Spadaro's but; he is out there busy drying his nets. This old fellow was both fisherman and model. Then on to the Piccola Fortina, an old disused fort. Here an artist friend of mine lived; there was only one large habitable room, which he had fitted up in the quaintest fashion as a studio. A wild, roving sort of fellow this artist, he wore sailor's dress and walked about like the natives, barefooted. The vaulted ceiling of this cave-like dwelling was utilised by him for hanging up his nets, and in a dark recess burnt a tiny lamp in front of a figure of the Virgin. Our friend married old Spadaro's daughter, and here in this Crusoe-like dwelling, surrounded by his monkeys and parrots, he lived and painted his pictures.

So great are the changes that have taken place on the island since the days of which I write, one could almost exclaim with the poet:

		Great Pan is dead?  Ah no! he lives.  'Tis we
		Blind with the scales of centuries on our eyes, 
		Have lost belief and thus the power to see.
		E. B.

No! Great Pan is not dead. He lives, lives for those who still can hear his whispered music amongst the reeds from which he fashions his pipes, for the sweet song of the Siren never ceases to lure the artist and poet to the beautiful Island of Capri.

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