Nisida | Page 4

is moving out of the cathedral. Nothing can give an
idea of the profound and simple-hearted emotion of this populace,

which has enough poetry in its soul to believe in its own happiness. The
whole town adorns herself and attires herself like a bride for her
wedding; the dark facades of marble and granite disappear beneath
hangings of silk and festoons of flowers; the wealthy display their
dazzling luxury, the poor drape themselves proudly in their rags.
Everything is light, harmony, and perfume; the sound is like the hum of
an immense hive, interrupted by a thousandfold outcry of joy
impossible to describe. The bells repeat their sonorous sequences in
every key; the arcades echo afar with the triumphal marches of military
bands; the sellers of sherbet and water-melons sing out their deafening
flourish from throats of copper. People form into groups; they meet,
question, gesticulate; there are gleaming looks, eloquent gestures,
picturesque attitudes; there is a general animation, an unknown charm,
an indefinable intoxication. Earth is very near to heaven, and it is easy
to understand that, if God were to banish death from this delightful spot,
the Neapolitans would desire no other paradise.
The story that we are about to tell opens with one of these magical
pictures. It was the Day of the Assumption in the year 1825; the sun
had been up some four or five hours, and the long Via da Forcella,
lighted from end to end by its slanting rays, cut the town in two, like a
ribbon of watered silk. The lava pavement, carefully cleaned, shone
like any mosaic, and the royal troops, with their proudly waving
plumes, made a double living hedge on each side of the street. The
balconies, windows, and terraces, the stands with their unsubstantial
balustrades, and the wooden galleries set up during the night, were
loaded with spectators, and looked not unlike the boxes of a theatre. An
immense crowd, forming a medley of the brightest colours, invaded the
reserved space and broke through the military barriers, here and there,
like an overflowing torrent. These intrepid sightseers, nailed to their
places, would have waited half their lives without giving the least sign
of impatience.
At last, about noon, a cannon-shot was heard, and a cry of general
satisfaction followed it. It was the signal that the procession had
crossed the threshold of the church. In the same moment a charge of
carabineers swept off the people who were obstructing the middle of
the street, the regiments of the line opened floodgates for the
overflowing crowd, and soon nothing remained on the causeway but

some scared dog, shouted at by the people, hunted off by the soldiers,
and fleeing at full speed. The procession came out through the Via di
Vescovato. First came the guilds of merchants and craftsmen, the
hatters, weavers, bakers, butchers, cutlers, and goldsmiths. They wore
the prescribed dress: black coats, knee breeches, low shoes and silver
buckles. As the countenances of these gentlemen offered nothing very
interesting to the multitude, whisperings arose, little by little, among
the spectators, then some bold spirits ventured a jest or two upon the
fattest or the baldest of the townsmen, and at last the boldest of the
lazzaroni slipped between the soldiers' legs to collect the wax that was
running down from the lighted tapers.
After the craftsmen, the religious orders marched past, from the
Dominicans to the Carthusians, from the Carmelites to the Capuchins.
They advanced slowly, their eyes cast down, their step austere, their
hands on their hearts; some faces were rubicund and shining, with large
cheek-hones and rounded chins, herculean heads upon bullnecks; some,
thin and livid, with cheeks hollowed by suffering and penitence, and
with the look of living ghosts; in short, here were the two sides of
monastic life.
At this moment, Nunziata and Gelsomina, two charming damsels,
taking advantage of an old corporal's politeness, pushed forward their
pretty heads into the first rank. The break in the line was conspicuous;
but the sly warrior seemed just a little lax in the matter of discipline.
"Oh, there is Father Bruno!" said Gelsomina suddenly. "Good-day,
Father Bruno."
"Hush, cousin! People do not talk to the procession."
"How absurd! He is my confessor. May I not say good-morning to my
confessor?"
"Silence, chatterboxes!"
"Who was that spoke?"
"Oh, my dear, it was Brother Cucuzza, the begging friar."
"Where is he? Where is he?"
"There he is, along there, laughing into his beard. How bold he is!"
"Ah, God in heaven! If we were to dream of him---"
While the two cousins were pouring out endless comments upon the
Capuchins and their beards, the capes of the canons and the surplices of
the seminarists, the 'feroci' came running across from the other side to

re-establish order with the help of