Читать книгу Patriotic Lady - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 28

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On the surface the life of Naples was not only smooth but sparkling, at once elegant and informal; society had become both gay and cultured under the influence of the Austrian Queen, who, ignorant herself, liked to be a patroness of the arts, of learning and philosophy.

The fashions of Paris and Vienna enlivened the vast city; the melodies of Mozart and Haydn mingled with those of Gluck and Piccini, the nobles swung along the streets in coaches as brilliant as those which filled the court of honour at Versailles. Velvets from Genoa, laces from Venice, silks from Lyons crushed gowns from the Palais Royal, and hats designed by Marie Antoinette's milliners crowned fantastic, powdered locks that framed vivacious southern faces. Young patricians black-eyed, with dark curls heavily pomaded and coats sewn with tinsel and sequins rode their blood horses along the winding, dusty roads above the city, while their lackeys struck out of their way with canes the cringing, grinning peasants. Before smooth palaces of dusty stone hung ornate coats of arms, heavy amid the masks and wreaths cut between balconies and latticed windows. Through the gilt trellis of high gates could be glimpsed court-yards where fountains flashed in marble basins and marble Tritons blew conchs of glittering metal. In the shade of arcades pots of camellias, red white and striped, stood beside statues of ancient gods, lately raised from the rich soil, or smooth blocks of lava of the surrounding campagna. In cool, tiled salons philosophy was discussed, and songs sung to harp, guitar or spinet; in the evening the fireflies danced over the moonbeam walls that shaded strolling lovers, and the lanterns of pleasure-boats glittered beyond the shipping in the bay.

Nature, too, kept up this show, this holiday, with glitter of steady sunshine for weeks together, with lavish flowers and fruit, from the first clusters of large, scentless violets to the last golden orange, the last basket of dusky grapes, with the changing waters of the bay, jade green, azure, purple, and lilac, melting to an horizon where sea and sky were one radiance blurring the island. Nature provided a luxurious background, the sloping hills where the convents and forts blazed white beneath their belfries and flags, where the pines were black in the luminous air, and beyond the vineyards and cornfields the sombre splendour of Vesuvius rising from fields of lava and ashes to cones that cast up fire and vapours.

Along the crowded quays the fisher-folk lounged, gossiped, and chaffered over their wares; their striped trousers and short jackets, their red caps and earrings were declared to be by all foreigners—"picturesque"; it was quite fashionable to leave a wax-lit Salon where an Italian melody had been sung by a trained singer, to loiter down to the fisher-folk's quarters to hear their nasal voices raised in "Santa Lucia" or "Stella Maris." Fireworks were a popular diversion; from the gardens, from the royal palace at Caserta, from the terraces of the noble villas at Posilippo, at Castellamare often rose the mock fires of human artifice that fell in fountains of fiery blooms before the brilliant stars, then disappeared into the purple darkness of the bay where the sea-foam curled along the indented rocks.

Naples indeed provided every device that could render life exciting and agreeable; here was for sale every possible pleasure, from the grossest to the most refined, and here, for ten months of the year, were a climate and a scene that might be likened to those of a fabled paradise. Moreover, to a casual eye the city seemed as happy as it was splendid, as gay as it was luxurious. Priests, monks, nuns, beggars alike, appeared light-hearted and indulgent towards their fellow-men and towards the saints whose worship was so easy and whose benefits were so lavish; the nobles seemed carefree with nothing to do but to spend their handsome fortunes on amusements, and the middle classes disclosed to none what was in their minds.