amid the public were diametrically opposite. Some maintained that all would go to the young count, but although the dead woman had loathed her eldest son, could she really disinherit him? ‘No, sir; it’ll all go to the eldest son. It’s true she could not endure him, but he’s the head of the family, the heir to the princedom!…’
A new pushing and shoving suddenly cut off talk, and thickened the crowd at the end of the church. In came the orphan girls of the Sacred Heart with green dresses and white shawls. Baldassarre, all dressed in black, directed them towards the High Altar, calling out:
‘Make way, make way, ladies and gentlemen …’
A child, half suffocated by the press, began to scream. A beggar who had managed to enter, stumbled against an altar step and fell to the ground.
GRANTING
TO THE DESTITUTE
THE MITE OF CHARITY
THOU HAST FOUND
IT
RETURNED AN HUNDREDFOLD
IN EXPIATORY PRAYERS
In a low voice Don Cono was proclaiming the other inscription to Canon Sortini, whom he had bumped into amid the crowd:
‘To conciliate imagery and beauty of form that is the great problem of the epigraphic style … “the mite … a hundredfold” … if I’m not mistaken …’
Now the High Altar was all aflame with candles, the movement of friars and sacristans was growing, instruments were being tuned in the musicians’ gallery, a clarinet sighed, violins squeaked, a double-bass boomed, and Baldassarre, helped by lackeys of all the relations, also dressed in black, was arranging rows of chairs for the old folk and the orphans. The chairs they held high above the crowd seemed to navigate on a sea of heads, and as new people kept on pushing in, the press was awful. People’s breath, the smell of candle grease, the midday heat, made the little church into an inferno. Some women had already fainted, in two or three places quarrels had broken out between those who wanted to push on and those who refused to pull back. But no one decided to leave, and in corners, along walls, before altars, gossips and idlers milled over the story of the dead woman and her family, and commented on all the extravagance.
‘A coffin with three keys!… All the more difficult to return to this world!… A habit and a rosary … Enough penance for a queen’s funeral!…’
In a low voice evil tongues added:
‘After her gay life …’
Beside the holy water stoup, amid a little group of envious and penniless petty nobles, Don Casimiro Scaglisi was announcing:
‘D’you know about the prince? About what the prince did?As soon as he got the news of his mother’s death, off he rushed to the Belvedere without even having his gates shut, to gain time and be in the villa alone, and never warning Ferdinando at the Pietra dell’Ovo …’
Some protested; Don Casimiro confirmed:
‘But it’s true, I tell you!… So he could have time to arrange things, and lay hands on papers and money.’
All around shook their heads. Don Casimiro was talking thus from pique, for he had been a hanger-on of the Francalanza till three days before, but since the princess had gone to the country the prince had refused to see him, thinking he had the Evil Eye.
‘Anyway, excuse me,’ they observed. ‘Why ever did the prince need to keep Ferdinando away?’
‘Yes, sir, he lives a Robinson Crusoe’s life at the Pietra dell’Ovo, doesn’t bother about business and in the family they call him the Booby, the nickname given him by his mother. But that doesn’t matter! Booby or not, the prince didn’t want any of his family interfering!… I tell you I know it for sure!’
Another observed:
‘Don’t talk ill of Ferdinando. With all his manias he never does any harm; he’s the best of the whole family.’
‘So much so he mightn’t be of the same stock …’ replied Don Casimiro.
‘Sssh, sssh! we’re in church,’ they adjured him.
‘Don Cono’s passing.’
Don Cono was now crossing the church to read the inscription set
A new pushing and shoving suddenly cut off talk, and thickened the crowd at the end of the church. In came the orphan girls of the Sacred Heart with green dresses and white shawls. Baldassarre, all dressed in black, directed them towards the High Altar, calling out:
‘Make way, make way, ladies and gentlemen …’
A child, half suffocated by the press, began to scream. A beggar who had managed to enter, stumbled against an altar step and fell to the ground.
GRANTING
TO THE DESTITUTE
THE MITE OF CHARITY
THOU HAST FOUND
IT
RETURNED AN HUNDREDFOLD
IN EXPIATORY PRAYERS
In a low voice Don Cono was proclaiming the other inscription to Canon Sortini, whom he had bumped into amid the crowd:
‘To conciliate imagery and beauty of form that is the great problem of the epigraphic style … “the mite … a hundredfold” … if I’m not mistaken …’
Now the High Altar was all aflame with candles, the movement of friars and sacristans was growing, instruments were being tuned in the musicians’ gallery, a clarinet sighed, violins squeaked, a double-bass boomed, and Baldassarre, helped by lackeys of all the relations, also dressed in black, was arranging rows of chairs for the old folk and the orphans. The chairs they held high above the crowd seemed to navigate on a sea of heads, and as new people kept on pushing in, the press was awful. People’s breath, the smell of candle grease, the midday heat, made the little church into an inferno. Some women had already fainted, in two or three places quarrels had broken out between those who wanted to push on and those who refused to pull back. But no one decided to leave, and in corners, along walls, before altars, gossips and idlers milled over the story of the dead woman and her family, and commented on all the extravagance.
‘A coffin with three keys!… All the more difficult to return to this world!… A habit and a rosary … Enough penance for a queen’s funeral!…’
In a low voice evil tongues added:
‘After her gay life …’
Beside the holy water stoup, amid a little group of envious and penniless petty nobles, Don Casimiro Scaglisi was announcing:
‘D’you know about the prince? About what the prince did?As soon as he got the news of his mother’s death, off he rushed to the Belvedere without even having his gates shut, to gain time and be in the villa alone, and never warning Ferdinando at the Pietra dell’Ovo …’
Some protested; Don Casimiro confirmed:
‘But it’s true, I tell you!… So he could have time to arrange things, and lay hands on papers and money.’
All around shook their heads. Don Casimiro was talking thus from pique, for he had been a hanger-on of the Francalanza till three days before, but since the princess had gone to the country the prince had refused to see him, thinking he had the Evil Eye.
‘Anyway, excuse me,’ they observed. ‘Why ever did the prince need to keep Ferdinando away?’
‘Yes, sir, he lives a Robinson Crusoe’s life at the Pietra dell’Ovo, doesn’t bother about business and in the family they call him the Booby, the nickname given him by his mother. But that doesn’t matter! Booby or not, the prince didn’t want any of his family interfering!… I tell you I know it for sure!’
Another observed:
‘Don’t talk ill of Ferdinando. With all his manias he never does any harm; he’s the best of the whole family.’
‘So much so he mightn’t be of the same stock …’ replied Don Casimiro.
‘Sssh, sssh! we’re in church,’ they adjured him.
‘Don Cono’s passing.’
Don Cono was now crossing the church to read the inscription set
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