Nisida | Page 7

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,