Nisida
A >> Alexandre Dumas, Pere >> Nisida
CELEBRATED CRIMES, COMPLETE
BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS, PERE
IN EIGHT VOLUMES
NISIDA--1825
If our readers, tempted by the Italian proverb about seeing Naples and
then dying, were to ask us what is the most favourable moment for
visiting the enchanted city, we should advise them to land at the mole,
or at Mergellina, on a fine summer day and at the hour when some solemn
procession 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 their gun-stocks.
"By the blood of my patron saint," cried a stentorian voice, "if I catch
you between my finger and thumb, I will straighten your back for the rest
of your days."
"Who are you falling out with, Gennaro?"
"With this accursed hunchback, who has been worrying my back for the last
hour, as though he could see through it."
"It is a shame," returned the hunchback in a tone of lamentation; "I have
been here since last night, I slept out of doors to keep my place, and
here is this abominable giant comes to stick himself in front of me like
an obelisk."
The hunchback was lying like a Jew, but the crowd rose unanimously
against the obelisk. He was, in one way, their superior, and majorities
are always made up of pigmies.
"Hi! Come down from your stand!"
"Hi! get off your pedestal!"
"Off with your hat!"
"Down with your head!"
"Sit down!"
"Lie down!"
This revival of curiosity expressing itself in invectives evidently
betokened the crisis of the show. And indeed the chapters of canons, the
clergy and bishops, the pages and chamberlains, the representatives of
the city, and the gentlemen of the king's chamber now appeared, and
finally the king himself, who, bare-headed and carrying a taper, followed
the magnificent statue of the Virgin. The contrast was striking: after
the grey-headed monks and pale novices came brilliant young captains,
affronting heaven with the points of their moustaches, riddling the
latticed windows with killing glances, following the procession in an
absent-minded way, and interrupting the holy hymns with scraps of most
unorthodox conversation.
"Did you notice, my dear Doria, how like a monkey the old Marchesa
d'Acquasparta takes her raspberry ice?"
"Her nose takes the colour of the ice. What fine bird is showing off to
her?"
"It is the Cyrenian."
"I beg your pardon! I have not seen that name in the Golden Book."
"He helps the poor marquis to bear his cross."
The officer's profane allusion was lost in the prolonged murmur of
admiration that suddenly rose from the crowd, and every gaze was turned
upon one of the young girls who was strewing flowers before the holy
Madonna. She was an exquisite creature. Her head glowing in the sun
shine, her feet hidden amid roses and broom-blossom, she rose, tall and
fair, from a pale cloud of incense, like some seraphic apparition. Her
hair, of velvet blackness, fell in curls half-way down her shoulders; her
brow, white as alabaster and polished as a mirror, reflected the rays of
the sun; her beautiful and finely arched black eye-brows melted into the
opal of her temples; her eyelids were fast down, and the curled black
fringe of lashes veiled a glowing and liquid glance of divine emotion;
the nose, straight, slender, and cut by two easy nostrils, gave to her
profile that character of antique beauty which is vanishing day by day
from the earth. A calm and serene smile, one of those smiles that have
already left the soul and not yet reached the lips, lifted the corners of
her mouth with a pure expression of infinite beatitude and gentleness.
Nothing could be more perfect than the chin that completed the faultless
oval of this radiant countenance; her neck of a dead white, joined her
bosom in a delicious curve, and supported her head gracefully like the
stalk of a flower moved by a gentle breeze. A bodice of crimson velvet
spotted with gold outlined her delicate and finely curved figure, and
held in by means of a handsome gold lace the countless folds of a full
and flowing skirt, that fell to her feet like those severe robes in which
the Byzantine painters preferred to drape their angels. She was indeed a
marvel, and so rare and modest of beauty had not been seen within the
memory of man.
Among those who had gazed most persistently at her was observed the young
Prince of Brancaleone, one of the foremost nobles of the kingdom.
Handsome, rich, and brave, he had, at five-and-twenty, outdone the lists
of all known Don Juans. Fashionable young women spoke very ill of him
and adored him in secret; the most virtuous made it their rule to fly
from him, so impossible did resistance appear. All the young madcaps had
chosen him for their model; for his triumphs robbed many a Miltiades of
sleep, and with better cause. In short, to get an idea of this lucky
individual, it will be enough to know that as a seducer he was the most
perfect thing that the devil had succeeded in inventing in this
progressive century. The prince was dressed out for the occasion in a
sufficiently grotesque costume, which he wore with ironic gravity and
cavalier ease. A black satin doublet, knee breeches, embroidered
stockings, and shoes with gold buckles, formed the main portions of his
dress, over which trailed a long brocaded open-sleeved robe lined with
ermine, and a magnificent diamond-hilted sword. On account of his rank
he enjoyed the rare distinction of carrying one of the six gilded staves
that supported the plumed and embroidered canopy.
As soon as the procession moved on again, Eligi of Brancaleone gave a
side glance to a little man as red as a lobster, who was walking almost
at his side, and carrying in his right hand, with all the solemnity that
he could muster, his excellency's hat. He was a footman in gold-laced
livery, and we beg leave to give a brief sketch of his history. Trespolo
was the child of poor but thieving parents, and on that account was early
left an orphan. Being at leisure, he studied life from an eminently
social aspect. If we are to believe a certain ancient sage, we are all
in the world to solve a problem: as to Trespolo, he desired to live
without doing anything; that was his problem. He was, in turn, a
sacristan, a juggler, an apothecary's assistant, and a cicerone, and he
got tired of all these callings. Begging was, to his mind, too hard work,
and it was more trouble to be a thief than to be an honest man. Finally
he decided in favour of contemplative philosophy. He had a passionate
preference for the horizontal position, and found the greatest pleasure
in the world in watching the shooting of stars. Unfortunately, in the
course of his meditations this deserving man came near to dying of
hunger; which would have been a great pity, for he was beginning to
accustom himself not to eat anything. But as he was predestined by
nature to play a small part in our story, God showed him grace for that
time, and sent to his assistance--not one of His angels, the rogue was
not worthy of that, but--one of Brancaleone's hunting dogs. The noble
animal sniffed round the philosopher, and uttered a little charitable
growl that would have done credit to one of the brethren of Mount St.
Bernard. The prince, who was returning in triumph from hunting, and who,
by good luck, had that day killed a bear and ruined a countess, had an
odd inclination to do a good deed. He approached the plebeian who was
about to pass into the condition of a corpse, stirred the thing with his
foot, and seeing that there was still a little hope, bade his people
bring him along.
From that day onward, Trespolo saw the dream of his life nearly realised.
Something rather above a footman and rather below a house steward, he
became the confidant of his master, who found his talents most useful;
for this Trespolo was as sharp as a demon and almost as artful as a
woman. The prince, who, like an intelligent man as he was, had divined
that genius is naturally indolent, asked nothing of him but advice; when
tiresome people wanted thrashing, he saw to that matter himself, and,
indeed, he was the equal of any two at such work. As nothing in this
lower world, however, is complete, Trespolo had strange moments amid this
life of delights; from time to time his happiness was disturbed by panics
that greatly diverted his master; he would mutter incoherent words,
stifle violent sighs, and lose his appetite. The root of the matter was
that the poor fellow was afraid of going to hell. The matter was very
simple: he was afraid of everything; and, besides, it had often been
preached to him that the Devil never allowed a moment's rest to those who
were ill-advised enough to fall into his clutches. Trespolo was in one
of his good moods of repentance, when the prince, after gazing on the
young girl with the fierce eagerness of a vulture about to swoop upon its
prey, turned to speak to his intimate adviser. The poor servant
understood his master's abominable design, and not wishing to share the
guilt of a sacrilegious conversation, opened his eyes very wide and
turned them up to heaven in ecstatic contemplation. The prince coughed,
stamped his foot, moved his sword so as to hit Trespolo's legs, but could
not get from him any sign of attention, so absorbed did he appear in
celestial thoughts. Brancaleone would have liked to wring his neck, but
both his hands were occupied by the staff of the canopy; and besides, the
king was present.
At last they were drawing nearer to the church of St. Clara, where the
Neapolitan kings were buried, and where several princesses of the blood,
exchanging the crown for the veil, have gone to bury themselves alive.
The nuns, novices, and abbess, hidden behind shutters, were throwing
flowers upon the procession. A bunch fell at the feet of the Prince of
Brancaleone.
"Trespolo, pick up that nosegay," said the prince, so audibly that his
servant had no further excuse. "It is from Sister Theresa," he added, in
a low voice; "constancy is only to be found, nowadays, in a convent."
Trespolo picked up the nosegay and came towards his master, looking like
a man who was being strangled.
"Who is that girl?" the latter asked him shortly.
"Which one?" stammered the servant.
"Forsooth! The one walking in front of us."
"I don't know her, my lord."
"You must find out something about her before this evening."
"I shall have to go rather far afield."
"Then you do know her, you intolerable rascal! I have half a mind to
have you hanged like a dog."
"For pity's sake, my lord, think of the salvation of your soul, of your
eternal life."
"I advise you to think of your temporal life. What is her name?"
"She is called Nisida, and is the prettiest girl in the island that she
is named after. She is innocence itself. Her father is only a poor
fisherman, but I can assure your excellency that in his island he is
respected like a king."
"Indeed!" replied the prince, with an ironical smile. "I must own, to my
great shame, that I have never visited the little island of Nisida. You
will have a boat ready for me to-morrow, and then we will see."
He interrupted himself suddenly, for the king was looking at him; and
calling up the most sonorous bass notes that he could find in the depths
of his throat, he continued with an inspired air, "Genitori genitoque
laus et jubilatio."
"Amen," replied the serving-man in a ringing voice.
Nisida, the beloved daughter of Solomon, the fisherman, was, as we have
said, the loveliest flower of the island from which she derived her name.
That island is the most charming spot, the most delicious nook with which
we are acquainted; it is a basket of greenery set delicately amid the
pure and transparent waters of the gulf, a hill wooded with orange trees
and oleanders, and crowned at the summit by a marble castle. All around
extends the fairy-like prospect of that immense amphitheatre, one of the
mightiest wonders of creation. There lies Naples, the voluptuous syren,
reclining carelessly on the seashore; there, Portici, Castellamare, and
Sorrento, the very names of which awaken in the imagination a thousand
thoughts of poetry and love; there are Pausilippo, Baiae, Puozzoli, and
those vast plains, where the ancients fancied their Elysium, sacred
solitudes which one might suppose peopled by the men of former days,
where the earth echoes under foot like an empty grave, and the air has
unknown sounds and strange melodies.
Solomon's hut stood in that part of the island which, turning its back to
the capital, beholds afar the blue crests of Capri. Nothing could be
simpler or brighter. The brick walls were hung with ivy greener than
emeralds, and enamelled with white bell-flowers; on the ground floor was
a fairly spacious apartment, in which the men slept and the family took
their meals; on the floor above was Nisida's little maidenly room, full
of coolness, shadows, and mystery, and lighted by a single casement that
looked over the gulf; above this room was a terrace of the Italian kind,
the four pillars of which were wreathed with vine branches, while its
vine-clad arbour and wide parapet were overgrown with moss and wild
flowers. A little hedge of hawthorn, which had been respected for ages,
made a kind of rampart around the fisherman's premises, and defended his
house better than deep moats and castellated walls could have done. The
boldest roisterers of the place would have preferred to fight before the
parsonage and in the precincts of the church rather than in front of
Solomon's little enclosure. Otherwise, this was the meeting place of the
whole island. Every evening, precisely at the same hour, the good women
of the neighbourhood came to knit their woollen caps and tell the news.
Groups of little children, naked, brown, and as mischievous as little
imps, sported about, rolling on the grass and throwing handfuls of sand
into the other's eyes, heedless of the risk of blinding, while their
mothers were engrossed in that grave gossip which marks the dwellers in
villages. These gatherings occurred daily before the fisherman's house;
they formed a tacit and almost involuntary homage, consecrated by custom,
and of which no one had ever taken special account; the envy that rules
in small communities would soon have suppressed them. The influence
which old Solomon had over his equals had grown so simply and naturally,
that no one found any fault with it, and it had only attracted notice
when everyone was benefiting by it, like those fine trees whose growth is
only observed when we profit by their shade. If any dispute arose in the
island, the two opponents preferred to abide by the judgment of the
fisherman instead of going before the court; he was fortunate enough or
clever enough to send away both parties satisfied. He knew what remedies
to prescribe better than any physician, for it seldom happened that he or
his had not felt the same ailments, and his knowledge, founded on
personal experience, produced the most excellent results. Moreover, he
had no interest, as ordinary doctors have, in prolonging illnesses. For
many years past the only formality recognised as a guarantee for the
inviolability of a contract had been the intervention of the fisherman.
Each party shook hands with Solomon, and the thing was done. They would
rather have thrown themselves into Vesuvius at the moment of its most
violent eruption than have broken so solemn an agreement. At the period
when our story opens, it was impossible to find any person in the island
who had not felt the effects of the fisherman's generosity, and that
without needing to confess to him any necessities. As it was the custom
for the little populace of Nisida to spend its leisure hours before
Solomon's cottage, the old man, while he walked slowly among the
different groups, humming his favourite song, discovered moral and
physical weaknesses as he passed; and the same evening he or his daughter
would certainly be seen coming mysteriously to bestow a benefit upon
every sufferer, to lay a balm upon every wound. In short, he united in
his person all those occupations whose business is to help mankind.
Lawyers, doctors, and the notary, all the vultures of civilisation, had
beaten a retreat before the patriarchal benevolence of the fisherman.
Even the priest had capitulated.
On the morrow of the Feast of the Assumption, Solomon was sitting, as his
habit was, on a stone bench in front of his house, his legs crossed and
his arms carelessly stretched out. At the first glance you would have
taken him for sixty at the outside, though he was really over eighty. He
had all his teeth, which were as white as pearls, and showed them
proudly. His brow, calm and restful beneath its crown of abundant white
hair, was as firm and polished as marble; not a wrinkle ruffled the
corner of his eye, and the gem-like lustre of his blue orbs revealed a
freshness of soul and an eternal youth such as fable grants to the
sea-gods. He displayed his bare arms and muscular neck with an old man's
vanity. Never had a gloomy idea, an evil prepossession, or a keen
remorse, arisen to disturb his long and peaceful life. He had never seen
a tear flow near him without hurrying to wipe it; poor though he was, he
had succeeded in pouring out benefits that all the kings of the earth
could not have bought with their gold; ignorant though he was, he had
spoken to his fellows the only language that they could understand, the
language of the heart. One single drop of bitterness had mingled with
his inexhaustible stream of happiness; one grief only had clouded his
sunny life--the death of his wife--and moreover he had forgotten that.
All the affections of his soul were turned upon Nisida, whose birth had
caused her mother's death; he loved her with that immoderate love that
old people have for the youngest of their children. At the present
moment he was gazing upon her with an air of profound rapture, and
watching her come and go, as she now joined the groups of children and
scolded them for games too dangerous or too noisy; now seated herself on
the grass beside their mothers and took part with grave and thoughtful
interest in their talk. Nisida was more beautiful thus than she had been
the day before; with the vaporous cloud of perfume that had folded her
round from head to foot had disappeared all that mystic poetry which put
a sort of constraint upon her admirers and obliged them to lower their
glances. She had become a daughter of Eve again without losing anything
of her charm. Simply dressed, as she usually was on work-days, she was
distinguishable among her companions only by her amazing beauty and by
the dazzling whiteness of her skin. Her beautiful black hair was twisted
in plaits around the little dagger of chased silver, that has lately been
imported into Paris by that right of conquest which the pretty women of
Paris have over the fashions of all countries, like the English over the
sea.
Nisida was adored by her young friends, all the mothers had adopted her
with pride; she was the glory of the island. The opinion of her
superiority was shared by everyone to such a degree, that if some bold
young man, forgetting the distance which divided him from the maiden,
dared speak a little too loudly of his pretensions, he became the
laughing-stock of his companions. Even the past masters of tarentella
dancing were out of countenance before the daughter of Solomon, and did
not dare to seek her as a partner. Only a few singers from Amalfi or
Sorrento, attracted by the rare beauty of this angelic creature, ventured
to sigh out their passion, carefully veiled beneath the most delicate
allusions. But they seldom reached the last verse of their song; at
every sound they stopped short, threw down their triangles and their
mandolines, and took flight like scared nightingales.
One only had courage enough or passion enough to brave the mockery; this
was Bastiano, the most formidable diver of that coast. He also sang, but
with a deep and hollow voice; his chant was mournful and his melodies
full of sadness. He never accompanied himself upon any instrument, and
never retired without concluding his song. That day he was gloomier than
usual; he was standing upright, as though by enchantment, upon a bare and
slippery rock, and he cast scornful glances upon the women who were
looking at him and laughing. The sun, which was plunging into the sea
like a globe of fire, shed its light full upon his stern features, and
the evening breeze, as it lightly rippled the billows, set the fluttering
reeds waving at his feet. Absorbed by dark thoughts, he sang, in the
musical language of his country, these sad words:--