In response to his invitation, I made my way, on a sunny day in November,
past the little shops of the coral-vendors that surround, like a
necklace, the Rione de la Bellezza, and wound zigzag along the
over-crowded Toledo. I knew that Signor Croce lived in the old part of
the town, but had hardly anticipated so remarkable a change as I
experienced on passing beneath the great archway and finding myself in
old Naples. This has already been described elsewhere, and I will not
here dilate upon this world within a world, having so much of greater
interest to tell in a brief space. I will merely say that the costumes
here seemed more picturesque, the dark eyes flashed more dangerously
than elsewhere, there was a quaint life, an animation about the streets,
different from anything I had known before. As I climbed the lofty stone
steps of the Palazzo to the floor where dwells the philosopher of
Aesthetic I felt as though I had stumbled into the eighteenth century
and were calling on Giambattista Vico. After a brief inspection by a
young man with the appearance of a secretary, I was told that I was
expected, and admitted into a small room opening out of the hall.
Thence, after a few moments' waiting, I was led into a much larger room.
The walls were lined all round with bookcases, barred and numbered,
filled with volumes forming part of the philosopher's great library. I
had not long to wait. A door opened behind me on my left, and a rather
short, thick-set man advanced to greet me, and pronouncing my name at
the same time with a slight foreign accent, asked me to be seated beside
him. After the interchange of a few brief formulae of politeness in
French, our conversation was carried on in Italian, and I had a better
opportunity of studying my host's air and manner. His hands he held
clasped before him, but frequently released them, to make those vivid
gestures with which Neapolitans frequently clinch their phrase. His most
remarkable feature was his eyes, of a greenish grey: extraordinary eyes,