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Authors: Curzio Malaparte
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ground.
"Why not? If America had lost the war I should immediately go over there to see Washington's descendants behaving like that in front of the conquerors."
"Shut up!" cried Jimmy, forcibly gripping my arm.
"Why wouldn't you come and see me, Jimmy? All the soldiers of the Fifth Army would come and see me. Even you would come, Jimmy. You would pay not one dollar, but two or even three. All conquerors need to see these things, to convince themselves that they have won the war."
"You're all a lot of mad swine, in Europe," said Jimmy, "that's what you are."
"Be frank with me, Jimmy—when you go back to America, to your home in Cleveland, Ohio, it will give you pleasure to talk of the triumphal arch of the poor Italian girls' legs."
"Don't say that," said Jimmy in a low voice.
"Forgive me, Jimmy—I hate it for your sake and for mine. It isn't your fault or ours. I know. But it makes me sick to think of some things. You shouldn't have taken me to see that girl. I shouldn't have come with you to see that horrible thing. I hate it for your sake and for mine, Jimmy. I feel miserable and cowardly. You Americans are fine fellows, and there are some things that you understand better than many other people. Isn't it a fact, Jimmy, that there are some things you understand too?"
"Yes, I understand," said Jimmy in a low voice, gripping my arm tightly.
* * * *
I felt miserable and cowardly, as I had done on the day when I climbed the Gradoni di Chiaia, in Naples. The Gradoni are that long flight of steps leading up from Via Chiaia to Santa Teresella degli Spagnoli, the miserable quarter where once were the barracks and places of amusement of the Spanish soldiers. The sirocco was blowing, and the clothes hanging out to dry on the lines which stretched from house to house flapped noisily in the wind like flags: Naples had not thrown its flags at the feet of the conquerors and the conquered. During the night a fire had destroyed a large part of the magnificent palace of the Dukes of Cellamare, situated in Via Chiaia, not far from the Gradoni; and the warm, humid air was still pervaded by a dry odour of burnt wood and cold smoke. The sky was grey; it seemed to consist of dirty paper, covered with specks of mould.
On days when the sirocco prevails Naples, huddled beneath that scabious, mouldy sky, assumes an appearance that is at once both miserable and arrogant. The houses, the streets and the people exhibited a self-conscious air of abject, baleful insolence. In the distance, above the sea, the sky was like the skin of a lizard, mottled green and white, dripping with the cold, dull moistness peculiar to the skin of reptiles. Grey clouds with greenish edges flecked the dirty blue of the horizon, on which the warm squalls of the sirocco left a trail of oily yellow streaks. The sea was green and brown in colour, like the skin of a toad, and the smell of the sea was pungent and sweet, like the smell of a toad's skin. From the mouth of Vesuvius belched forth a dense yellow smoke, which, repelled by the low vault of the cloudy sky, opened out like the foliage of an immense pine-tree, interspersed with black shadows and large green cracks. And the vineyards dotted about the purple fields of cold lava, the pines and cypresses rooted in the deserts of ashes, amid which the greys and pinks and blues of the houses that clung to the sides of the volcano stood out with sombre prominence, took on gloomy, deathly tints in that panorama, which was bathed in a greenish half-light broken by vivid yellows and purples.
When the sirocco blows the human skin perspires, the cheekbones sparkle in faces dripping with grimy sweat and overlaid with a black down which leaves a dirty moist shadow about eyes, lips and ears. Even voices sound thick and lazy, and words have an unwonted meaning, a mysterious significance, as though they belonged to a forbidden jargon. The people walk in silence, as though oppressed by a
"Why not? If America had lost the war I should immediately go over there to see Washington's descendants behaving like that in front of the conquerors."
"Shut up!" cried Jimmy, forcibly gripping my arm.
"Why wouldn't you come and see me, Jimmy? All the soldiers of the Fifth Army would come and see me. Even you would come, Jimmy. You would pay not one dollar, but two or even three. All conquerors need to see these things, to convince themselves that they have won the war."
"You're all a lot of mad swine, in Europe," said Jimmy, "that's what you are."
"Be frank with me, Jimmy—when you go back to America, to your home in Cleveland, Ohio, it will give you pleasure to talk of the triumphal arch of the poor Italian girls' legs."
"Don't say that," said Jimmy in a low voice.
"Forgive me, Jimmy—I hate it for your sake and for mine. It isn't your fault or ours. I know. But it makes me sick to think of some things. You shouldn't have taken me to see that girl. I shouldn't have come with you to see that horrible thing. I hate it for your sake and for mine, Jimmy. I feel miserable and cowardly. You Americans are fine fellows, and there are some things that you understand better than many other people. Isn't it a fact, Jimmy, that there are some things you understand too?"
"Yes, I understand," said Jimmy in a low voice, gripping my arm tightly.
* * * *
I felt miserable and cowardly, as I had done on the day when I climbed the Gradoni di Chiaia, in Naples. The Gradoni are that long flight of steps leading up from Via Chiaia to Santa Teresella degli Spagnoli, the miserable quarter where once were the barracks and places of amusement of the Spanish soldiers. The sirocco was blowing, and the clothes hanging out to dry on the lines which stretched from house to house flapped noisily in the wind like flags: Naples had not thrown its flags at the feet of the conquerors and the conquered. During the night a fire had destroyed a large part of the magnificent palace of the Dukes of Cellamare, situated in Via Chiaia, not far from the Gradoni; and the warm, humid air was still pervaded by a dry odour of burnt wood and cold smoke. The sky was grey; it seemed to consist of dirty paper, covered with specks of mould.
On days when the sirocco prevails Naples, huddled beneath that scabious, mouldy sky, assumes an appearance that is at once both miserable and arrogant. The houses, the streets and the people exhibited a self-conscious air of abject, baleful insolence. In the distance, above the sea, the sky was like the skin of a lizard, mottled green and white, dripping with the cold, dull moistness peculiar to the skin of reptiles. Grey clouds with greenish edges flecked the dirty blue of the horizon, on which the warm squalls of the sirocco left a trail of oily yellow streaks. The sea was green and brown in colour, like the skin of a toad, and the smell of the sea was pungent and sweet, like the smell of a toad's skin. From the mouth of Vesuvius belched forth a dense yellow smoke, which, repelled by the low vault of the cloudy sky, opened out like the foliage of an immense pine-tree, interspersed with black shadows and large green cracks. And the vineyards dotted about the purple fields of cold lava, the pines and cypresses rooted in the deserts of ashes, amid which the greys and pinks and blues of the houses that clung to the sides of the volcano stood out with sombre prominence, took on gloomy, deathly tints in that panorama, which was bathed in a greenish half-light broken by vivid yellows and purples.
When the sirocco blows the human skin perspires, the cheekbones sparkle in faces dripping with grimy sweat and overlaid with a black down which leaves a dirty moist shadow about eyes, lips and ears. Even voices sound thick and lazy, and words have an unwonted meaning, a mysterious significance, as though they belonged to a forbidden jargon. The people walk in silence, as though oppressed by a
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