Читать книгу: «Blackwoods Edinburgh Magazine – Volume 55, No. 341, March, 1844», страница 12

DUMAS IN HIS CURRICLE

We left M. Dumas at Marseilles: we find him again at Naples. Three volumes are the result of his visit to the last named city—volumes in which he manages to put a little of every thing, and a good deal of some things. Antiquarian, historian, virtuoso, novelist, he touches upon all subjects, flying from one to the other with a lightness and a facility of transition peculiarly his own, and peculiarly agreeable. English travellers and Italian composers, St Januarius and the opera, Masaniello and the gettatura, Pompeii, princes, police spies, Vesuvius, all have their turn—M. Dumas, with his usual tact, merely glancing at those subjects which are known and written about by every tourist, but giving himself full scope when he gets off the beaten track. His book is literally crammed with tales and anecdotes, to such a degree indeed, and most of them so good, that our principal difficulty in commencing a notice of it, is to know where to pick and choose our extracts; l'embarras des richesses, in short. The best way will probably be to begin at the beginning, and go as far as our limits allow us, referring our readers to the original for the many good things that want of space will compel us to exclude.

M. Dumas calls his book the Corricolo, and devotes a short and characteristic preface to an explanation of the title. This explanation we must give in his own words. It is so highly graphic, that, after reading it, we fancied we had seen a picture of what it describes.

"A corricolo is a sort of tilbury or gig, originally intended to hold one person, and be drawn by one horse. At Naples they harness two horses to it; and it conveys twelve or fifteen individuals, not at a walk nor at a trot, but at full gallop, and this, notwithstanding that only one of the horses does any work. The shaft horse draws, but the other, which is harnessed abreast of him, and called the bilancino, prances and curvets about, animates his companion, but does nothing else.

"Having said that the gig built to carry one is made to carry fifteen, I am, of course, expected to explain how this is accomplished. There is an old French proverb, according to which, when there is enough for one there is enough for two; but I am not aware of any proverb in any language which says, that when there is enough for one, there is enough for fifteen. Nevertheless, it is the case with the corricolo. In the present advanced state of civilization, every thing is diverted from its primitive destination. As it is impossible to say at what period, or in how long a time, the capacity of the vehicle in question was extended in the ratio of one to fifteen, I must content myself with describing the way of packing the passengers.

"In the first place, there is almost invariably a fat greasy monk seated in the middle, forming the centre of a sort of coil of human creatures. On one of his knees is some robust rosy-cheeked nurse from Aversa or Nettuno; on the other, a handsome peasant woman from Bauci or Procida. On either side of him, between the wheels and the body of the vehicle, stand the husbands of these two ladies. Standing on tiptoe behind the monk is the driver, holding in his left hand the reins, and in his right the long whip with which he keeps his horses at an equal rate of speed. Behind him are two or three lazzaroni, who get up and down, go away, and are succeeded by others, without any body taking notice of them, or expecting them to pay for their ride. On the shafts are seated two boys, picked up on the road from Torre del Greco or Pouzzoles, probably supernumerary ciceroni of the antiquities of Herculaneum and Pompeii. Finally, suspended under the carriage, in a sort of coarse rope network with large meshes, which swings backwards and forwards at every movement of the vehicle, is a shapeless and incomprehensible mass, which cries, laughs, sings, screams, shouts, and bellows, all by turns and none for long together, and the nature of which it is impossible to distinguish, dimly seen as it is through the clouds of dust raised by the horses' feet. This mass consists of three or four children, who belong to Heaven knows who, are going Heaven knows where, live Heaven knows how, and are there Heaven knows wherefore.

"Now then, put down, one above the other, monk, women, husbands, driver, lazzaroni, boys and children; add them up, include the infant in arms, which has been forgotten, and the total will be fifteen.

"It sometimes happens that the coricolo passes over a big stone, and upsets, pitching out its occupants to a greater or less distance, according to their respective gravity. But, on such occasions, nobody thinks of himself; the attention of every one is immediately turned to the monk. If he is hurt, the journey is over for the day; they carry him to the nearest house; the horses are put into the stable, and he is put to bed; the women nurse him, make much of him, cry and pray over him. If, on the other hand, the monk is safe and sound, nobody has a right to complain; he resumes his seat, the nurse and the peasant woman resume theirs, the others climb up into their respective places—a crack of the long whip, and a shout from the driver, and the corricolo is off again full speed."

From this we learn what a corricolo is, but we have not yet been told why M. Dumas should christen his book after the degenerate descendant of the Roman curriculum. Patience—we shall get to it in time. Materials crowd upon our traveller, and it is only in the second chapter that the desired explanation is given. In the first we are informed of M. Dumas's installation at the Hotel Vittoria, kept by M. Martin Zill, who, besides being an innkeeper, is a man of much taste in art, a distinguished antiquary, an amateur of pictures, a collector of autographs and curiosities. Apropos of the hotel we have an anecdote of the ex-dey of Algiers, who, on being dispossessed of his dominions by the French, took refuge at Naples, and established himself under M. Zill's hospitable roof. The third floor was entirely occupied by his suite and attendants, the fourth was for himself and his treasures, the fifth, or the garrets, he converted into his harem. The curious arms, costumes, and jewels which Hussein Pacha had brought with him, were a godsend to the virtuoso weary of examining and admiring them; and, before the African had been a week in the house, he and his host were sworn friends. Unfortunately this harmony was not destined to last very long.

"One morning Hussein Pacha's cook (a Nubian as black as ink, and as shining as if he had been polished with a shoe-brush) entered the kitchen of the hotel, and asked for the largest knife they had. The head-cook gave him a sort of carving-knife, some eighteen inches long, sharp as a razor, and pliant as a foil. The negro looked at it, shook his head as if in doubt whether it would do, but nevertheless took it up stairs with him. Presently he brought it down again, and asked for a larger one. The cook opened all his drawers, and at last found a sort of cutlass, which he hardly ever used on account of its enormous size. With this the Nubian appeared more satisfied, and again went up stairs. Five minutes afterwards he came down for the third time, and returned the knife, asking for a bigger one still. The cook's curiosity was excited, and he enquired who wanted the knife, and for what purpose.

"The African told him very coolly that the dey, having left his dominions rather in a hurry, had forgotten to bring an executioner with him, and had consequently ordered his cook to get a large knife and cut off the head of Osmin, chief of the eunuchs, who was convicted of having kept such negligent watch and ward over his highness's seraglio, that some presumptuous Giaour had made a hole in the wall, and established a communication with Zaida, the dey's favourite odalisque. Accordingly Osmin was to be decapitated; and as to the offending lady, the next time the dey took an airing in the bay of Naples, she would be put into the boat in a sack, and consigned to the keeping of the kelpies. Thunderstruck at such summary proceedings, the cook desired his Nubian brother to wait while he went for a larger knife; then hastening to M. Martin Zill, he told him what he had just heard.

"M. Martin Zill ran to the minister of police, and laid the matter before him. His excellency got into his carriage and went to call upon the dey.

He found his highness reclining upon a divan, his back supported by cushions, smoking latakia in a chibouque, while an icoglan scratched the soles of his feet, and two slaves fanned him. The minister made his three salaams; the dey nodded his head.

"'Your highness,' said his excellency, 'I am the minister of police.'

"'I know you are,' answered the dey.

"'Then your highness probably conjectures the motive of my visit.'

"'No. But you are welcome all the same.'

"'I come to prevent your highness from committing a crime.'

"'A crime! And what crime?' said the dey, taking the pipe from his mouth, and gazing at his interlocutor in the most profound astonishment.

"'I wonder your highness should ask the question,' replied the minister. 'Is it not your intention to cut off Osmin's head?'

"'That is no crime,' answered the dey.

"'Does not your highness purpose throwing Zaida into the sea?'

"'That is no crime,' repeated the dey. 'I bought Osmin for five hundred piasters, and Zaida for a thousand sequins, just as I bought this pipe for a hundred ducats.'

"'Well,' said the minister, 'what does your highness deduce from that?'

"'That as this pipe belongs to me, as I have bought it and paid for it, I may break it to atoms if I choose, and nobody has a right to object.' So saying, the pacha broke his pipe, and threw the fragments into the middle of the room.

"'All very well, as far as a pipe goes,' said the minister; 'but Osmin, but Zaida?'

"'Less than a pipe,' said the dey gravely.

"'How! less than a pipe! A man less than a pipe! A woman less than a pipe!'

"'Osmin is not a man, and Zaida is not a woman: they are slaves. I will cut off Osmin's head, and throw Zaida into the sea.'

"'No!' said the magistrate. 'Not at Naples at least.'

"'Dog of a Christian!' shouted the dey, 'do you know who I am?'

"'You are the ex-dey of Algiers, and I am the Neapolitan minister of police; and, if your deyship is impertinent, I shall send him to prison,' added the minister very coolly.

"'To prison!' repeated the dey, falling back upon his divan.

"'To prison,' replied the minister.

"'Very well,' said Hussein. 'I leave Naples to-night.'

"'Your highness is as free as air to go and to come. Nevertheless, I must make one condition. Before your departure, you will swear by the Prophet, that no harm shall be done to Osmin or Zaida.'

"'Osmin and Zaida belong to me, and I shall do what I please with them.'

"'Then your highness will be pleased to deliver them over to me, to be punished according to the laws of the country; and, until you do so, you will not be allowed to leave Naples.'

"'Who will prevent me?'

"'I will.'

"The pacha laid his hand on his dagger. The minister stepped to the window and made a sign. The next moment the tramp of heavy boots and jingle of spurs were heard upon the stairs; the door opened, and a gigantic corporal of gendarmes made his appearance, his right hand raised to his cocked hat, his left upon the seam of his trouser.

"'Gennaro,' said the minister of police, 'if I gave you an order to arrest this gentleman, would you see any difficulty in executing it?'

"'None, your excellency.'

"'You are aware that this gentleman's name is Hussein Pacha.'

"'I was not, your excellency.'

"'And that he is dey of Algiers.'

"'May it please your excellency, I don't know what that is.'

"'You see?' said the minister, turning to the dey.

"'The devil! exclaimed Hussein.

"'Shall I?' said Gennaro, taking a pair of handcuffs from his pocket, and advancing a pace towards the dey, who, on his part, took a step backwards.

"'No,' replied the minister, 'it will not be necessary. His highness will do as he is bid. Go and search the hotel for a man named Osmin, and a woman named Zaida, and take them both to the prefecture.'

"'What!' cried the dey; 'this man is to enter my harem?'

"'He is not a man,' replied the minister; 'he is a corporal of gendarmes. But if you do not wish him to go, send for Osmin and Zaida yourself.'

"'Will you promise to have them punished?' enquired the dey.

"'Certainly; according to the utmost rigour of the law.'

"Hussein Pacha clapped his hands. A door concealed behind a tapestry was opened, and a slave entered the room.

"'Bring down Osmin and Zaida,' said the dey.

"The slave crossed his hands on his breast, bowed his head, and disappeared without uttering a word. The next instant he came back with the two culprits.

"The eunuch was a little round fat fellow, with beardless face, and small hands and feet. Zaida was a beautiful Circassian, her eyelids painted with kool, her teeth blackened with betel, her nails reddened with henna. On perceiving Hussein Pacha, the eunuch fell upon his knees; Zaida raised her head. The dey's eyes flashed, and he clutched the hilt of his kangiar. Osmin grew pale; Zaida smiled. The minister of police made a sign to the gendarme, who stepped up to the two captives, handcuffed them, and led them out of the room. As the door closed behind them, the dey uttered a sound between a sigh and a roar.

"The magistrate looked out of the window, till he saw the prisoners and their escort disappear at the corner of the Strada Chiatamone. Then turning to the dey—

"'Your highness is now at liberty to leave Naples, if he wishes so to do,' said the imperturbable functionary with a low bow.

"'This very instant!' cried Hussein. 'I will not remain another moment in such a barbarous country as yours.'

"'A pleasant journey to your highness,' said the minister.

"'Go to the devil!' retorted Hussein.

"Before an hour had elapsed, the dey had chartered a small vessel, on board of which he embarked the same evening with his suite, his wives, and his treasures; and at midnight he set sail; cursing the tyranny that prevented a man from drowning his wife and cutting off the heads of his slaves. The next day the minister of police had the culprits brought before him and examined. Osmin was found guilty of having slept when he ought to have watched, and Zaida of having watched when she ought to have slept. But, by some strange omission, the Neapolitan code allots no punishment to such offences; and, consequently, Osmin and Zaida, to their infinite astonishment, were immediately set at liberty. Osmin took to selling pastilles for a livelihood, and the lady got employment as dame de comptoir in a coffeehouse. As to the dey, he had left Naples with the intention of going to England, in which country, as he had been informed, a man is at liberty to sell his wife, if he may not drown her. He was taken ill, however, on the road, and obliged to stop at Leghorn, where he died."

M. Dumas, not being in good odour with the Neapolitan authorities, on account of some supposed republican tendencies of his, is at Naples under an assumed name; and, as it is uncertain how long he may be able to preserve his incognito, he is desirous of seeing all that is to be seen in as short a time as possible. He finds that Naples, independently of its suburbs, consists of three streets where every body goes, and five hundred streets where nobody goes. The three streets are, the Chiaja, the Toledo, and the Forcella; the five hundred others are nameless—a labyrinth of houses, which might be compared to that of Crete, deducting the Minotaur, and adding the Lazzaroni. There are three ways of seeing Naples—on foot, in a corricolo or in a carriage. On foot, one goes every where, but one sees too much; in a carriage, one only goes through the three principal streets, and one sees too little—the corricolo is the happy medium, the juste milieu, to which M. Dumas for once determines to adhere. Having made up his mind, he sends for his host, and enquires where he can hire a corricolo by the week or month. His host tells him he had better buy one, horse and all. To this plan M. Dumas objects the expense.

"'It will cost you,' said M. Martin, after a momentary calculation in his head, 'it will cost you—the corricolo ten ducats, each horse thirty carlini, the harness a pistole; in all, eighty French francs.'

"'What! for ten ducats I shall have a corricolo?'

"'A magnificent one.'

"'New?'

"'Oh! you are asking too much. There are no such things as new corricoli. There is a standing order of the police forbidding coachmakers to build them.'

"'Indeed! How long has that order been in force?'

"'Fifty years, perhaps.'

"'How comes it, then, that there is such a thing as a corricolo in existence?'

"'Nothing easier. You know the story of Jeannot's knife?'

"'To be sure I do; it is one of our national chronicles. The blade had been changed fifteen times, and the handle fifteen times, but it was still the same knife.'

"'The case of the corricolo is exactly similar. It is forbidden to build new ones, but it is not forbidden to put new wheels to old bodies, and new bodies on old wheels. By these means the corricolo becomes immortal.'

"'I understand. An old body and new wheels for me, if you please. But the horses? Do you mean to say that for thirty francs I shall have a pair of horses?'

"'A superb pair, that will go like the wind.'

"'What sort of horses?'

"'Oh, dead ones, of course!'

"'Dead ones!'

"'Certainly. At that price you could hardly expect any thing better.'

"'My dear M. Martin, be kind enough to explain. I am travelling for my improvement, and information of all kinds is highly acceptable.'

"'You are acquainted with the history of the horse, I suppose?'

"'The natural history? Buffon's? Certainly. The horse is, after the lion, the noblest of all the beasts.'

"'No, no; the philosophical history. The different stages and vicissitudes in the existence of those noble quadrupeds.'

"'Oh yes! first the saddle, then a carriage or gig, thence to a stage-coach or omnibus, hackney-coach or cab, and finally—to the knacker's.'

"'And from the knacker's?'

"'To the Elysian fields, I suppose.'

"'No. Not here, at least. From the knacker's they go to the corricoli.'

"'How so?'

"'I will tell you. At the Ponte della Maddalena, where horses are taken to be killed, there are always persons waiting, who, when a horse is brought, buy the hide and hoofs for thirty carlini, which is the price regulated by law. Instead of killing the horse and skinning him, these persons take him with the skin on, and make the most of the time he yet has to live. They are sure of getting the skin sooner or later. And these are what I mean by dead horses.'

"'But what can they possibly do with the unfortunate brutes?'

"'They harness them to the corricoli.'

"'What! those with which I came from Salerno to Naples'—

"'Were the ghosts of horses; spectre steeds, in short.'

"'But they galloped the whole way.'

"'Why not? Les morts vont vite.'"

Et cetera, et cetera. For the price stated by his host, M. Dumas finds himself possessor of a magnificent corricolo of a bright red colour, with green trees and animals painted thereon. Two most fiery and impatient steeds, half concealed by harness, bells, and ribands, are included in his purchase. After a vain attempt to drive himself, the phantom coursers having apparently a supreme contempt for whipcord, he gives up the reins to a professional charioteer, and commences his perambulations. His first visit is to the Chiaja, the favourite promenade of the aristocracy and of foreigners; his second to the Toledo, the street of shops and loungers; his third to the Forcella, frequented by lawyers and their clients. He makes a chapter, and a long one too, out of each street; but not in the way usually adopted by those pitiless tour-writers who overwhelm their readers with dry architectural details, filling a page with a portico, and a chapter with a chapel—not letting one off a pane of a painted window or line of worm-eaten inscription however often those things may have been described already by previous travellers. M. Dumas prefers men to things as subjects for his pen; and the three chapters above named are filled with curious illustrations of Neapolitan manners, customs, and character. Apropos of the Toledo, we are introduced to the well-known impresario, Domenico Barbaja, who had his palazzo in that street, and who, from being waiter in a coffeehouse at Milan, became the manager of three theatres at one time, namely, San Carlo, La Scala, and the Vienna opera. He appears to have been a man of great energy and originality of character, concealing an excellent heart under the roughest manners and most choleric of tempers.

"It would be impossible," says M. Dumas, "to translate into any language the abuse with which Barbaja used to overwhelm the singers and musicians at his theatres when they displeased him. Yet not one of them bore him malice for it, knowing that, if they had the least triumph, Barbaja would be the first to embrace and congratulate them: if they were unsuccessful, he would console them with the utmost delicacy: if they were ill, he would watch over them with the tenderness of a father or brother. The fortune which he had amassed, little by little, and by strenuous exertions, he spent in the most generous and princely manner. His palace, his villa, and his table, were open to all.

"His genius was of a peculiar and extraordinary kind. Education he had none: he was unable to write the commonest letter, and did not know a note of music; yet he would give his composers the most valuable hints, and dictate with admirable skill the plan of a libretto. His own voice was of the harshest and most inharmonious texture; but by his advice and instructions he formed some of the first singers in Italy. His language was a Milanese patois; but he found means to make himself excellently understood by the kings and emperors, with whom he carried on negotiations upon a footing of perfect equality. It was a great treat to see him seated in his box at San Carlo, opposite that of the King of Naples, on the evening of a new opera; with grave and impartial aspect, now turning his face to the actors, then to the audience. If a singer went wrong, Barbaja was the first to crush him with a severity worthy of Brutus. His 'Can de Dio!' was shouted out in a voice that made the theatre shake and the poor actor tremble. If, on the other hand, the public disapproved without reason, Barbaja would start up in his box and address the audience. 'Figli d'una racca!' 'Will you hold your tongues? You don't deserve good singers.' If by chance the King himself omitted to applaud at the right time, Barbaja would shrug his shoulders and go grumbling out of his box.

"With all his peculiarities, he it was who formed and brought forward Lablache, Tamburini, Rubini, Donzelli, Colbran, Pasta, Fodor, Donizetti, Bellini, and the great Rossini himself, whose masterpieces were composed for Barbaja. It is impossible to form an idea of the amount of entreaties, stratagems, and even violence, expended by the impresario to make Rossini work. I will give an example of it, which is highly characteristic both of the manager and of the greatest and happiest, but most insouciant and idle, musical genius that ever drew breath under the bright sky of Italy."

We are sorry to tantalize our readers, but we have not space for the story that follows. It relates to the opera of Othello, which was composed by Rossini in an incredibly short time, whilst a prisoner in an apartment of Barbaja's house. For nearly six months had the composer been living vith the manager, entertaining his friends at his well-spread table, drinking his choicest wines, and occupying his best rooms—all this under promise of producing a new opera within the half-year, a promise which he showed little disposition to fulfil. Barbaja was in a fever of anxiety, and finding remonstrance unavailing, had recourse to stratagem. One morning, when Rossini was about to start on a party of pleasure, he found his doors secured outside; and, on putting his head out of the window, was informed by Barbaja that he must remain captive until his ransom was paid. The ransom, of course, was the opera.

Rossini subsequently revenges himself on his tyrant in a very piquant manner; and, finally, the morning after Othello has been performed with triumphant success, he starts for Bologna, taking with him, as travelling companion, the prima donna of the San Carlo theatre, Signora Colbran, whom he had privately married. All this is related very amusingly by M. Dumas, but at too great length for our limits.

We have a naval combat in the second volume, in which a French frigate is attacked by two English line-of-battle ships, one of which she sinks, and receives in return the entire point-blank broadside of the other, a three-decker; which broadside, we in our ignorance of nautical matters, should have thought sufficient to blow her either out of the water or under it. It has not that effect, however, and the frigate is captured; the captain of her, when he has hauled down his flag in order to save the lives of his men, stepping into his cabin and blowing his brains out. All this is very pretty, whatever may be said of its probability. But there are two subjects on which the majority of Frenchmen indulge in most singular delusions. These are, their invincibility upon the sea, and the battle of Waterloo. M. Dumas has not escaped the national monomania.

Our author is very hard upon the poor English in this book. He attacks them on all sides and with all weapons. Nelson and Lady Hamilton occupy a prominent position in his pages. The execution of Admiral Carraciolo, an undoubted blot on the character of our naval hero, is given in all its details, and with some little decorations and embellishments, for which we suspect that we have to thank our imaginative historian. Nelson's weakness, the ascendency exercised over him by Lady Hamilton, or Emma Lyonna, as M. Dumas prefers styling her, her intimacy with the Queen of Naples, and subservient to the wishes and interests of the Neapolitan court, are all set forth in the most glowing colours. This is the heavy artillery, the round-shot and shell; but M. Dumas is too skilful a general to leave any part of his forces unemployed, and does not omit to bring up his sharpshooters, and open a pretty little fire of ridicule upon English travellers in Italy, who, as it is well known, go thither to make the fortunes of innkeepers and purchase antiquities manufactured in the nineteenth century. Strange as it may appear, we should be heartily sorry if M. Dumas were to exchange his evident dislike of us for a more kindly feeling. We should then lose some of his best stories; for he is never more rich and amusing than when he shows up the sons and daughters of le perfide Albion. In support of our assertion, take the following sketch:—

"During my stay at Naples an Englishman arrived there, and took up his quarters at the hotel at which I was stopping. He was one of those phlegmatic, overbearing, obstinate Britons, who consider money the engine with which every thing is to be moved and all things accomplished, the argument in short which nothing can resist. Money was every thing in his estimation of mankind; talent, fame, titles, mere feathers that kicked the beam the moment a long rent-roll or inscription of three per cents were placed in the opposite scale. In proportion as men were rich or poor, did he esteem them much or little. Being very rich himself, he esteemed himself much.

"He had come direct to Naples by steam, and during the voyage had made this calculation: With money I shall say every thing, do every thing, and have every thing I please. He had not long to wait to find out his mistake. The steamer cast anchor in the port of Naples just half an hour too late for the passengers to land. The Englishman, who had been very sea-sick, and was particularly anxious to get on shore, sent to offer the captain of the port a hundred guineas if he would let him land directly. The quarantine laws of Naples are very strict; the captain of the port thought the Englishman was mad, and only laughed at his offer. He was therefore obliged to sleep on board in an excessively bad humour, cursing alike those who made the regulations and those who enforced them.

"The first thing he did when he got on shore, was to set off to visit the ruins of Pompeii. There happened to be no regular guide at hand, so he took a lazzarone instead. He had not forgotten his disappointment of the night before, and all the way to Pompeii he relieved his mind by abusing King Ferdinand in the best Italian he could muster. The lazzarone, whom he had taken into his carriage, took no notice of all this so long as they were on the high-road. Lazzaroni, in general, meddle very little in politics, and do not care how much you abuse king or kaiser so long as nothing disrespectful is said of the Virgin Mary, St Januarius, or Mount Vesuvius. On arriving, however, at the Via dei Sepolchri, the ragged guide put his finger on his lips as a signal to be silent. But his employer either did not understand the gesture, or considered it beneath his dignity to take notice of it, for he continued his invectives against Ferdinand the Well-beloved.

"'Pardon me, Eccellenza,' said the lazzarone at last, placing his hand upon the side of the barouche, and jumping out as lightly as a harlequin. 'Pardon me, Eccellenza, but I must return to Naples.'

"'And why so?' inquired the other in his broken Italian.

"'Because I do not wish to be hung.'

"'And who would dare to hang you?'

"'The king.'

"'Why?'

"'Because you are speaking ill of him.'

"'An Englishman has a right to say whatever he likes.'

"'It may be so, but a lazzarone has not.'

"'But you have said nothing.'

"'But I hear everything.'

"'Who will tell what you hear?'