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Updated: June 21, 2025
He pointed to a boat at some distance, moving slowly in the direction of Posilipo. "I have been talking with them. One says he is of my country, a Sicilian." "The boy?" "Si, Signore, the giovinotto. But he cannot speak Sicilian, and he has never been in Sicily, poveretto!" Gaspare spoke with an accent of pity in which there was almost a hint of contempt.
"A white boat with a green line." "And they were coming from the direction of Posilipo?" "Ma si! Emilio, do you know them? Do you know the perfect little nose?" The Marchesino laid one hand eagerly on the arm of his friend. "I believe you do! I am sure of it! The mother she is flat as a Carabiniere, and quite old, but with nice eyes, sympathetic, intelligent.
At the entrance, near the head of Posilipo, is the volcanic island of "shining Nisida," to which Brutus retired after the assassination of Caesar, and where he bade Portia good-by before he departed for Greece and Philippi: the favorite villa of Cicero, where he wrote many of his letters to Atticus, looked on it.
She must take the tram here, one of those on which was written in big letters, "Capo di Posilipo." No, not that! That did not go far enough. The other one what was written upon it? Something "Sette Settembre." She looked for the words "Sette Settembre." Tram after tram came up, paused, passed on. But she did not see those words on any of them.
There was a remoteness about these dead bodies, a loneliness, an isolation about their bared feet. A tangled web of memories arose, a throng of fleeting faces glimmered in the captain's soul gondoliers of Venice, voluble cabbies, a toothless inn-keeper's wife at Posilipo. Two trips on a vacation in Italy drove an army of sorrowing figures through his mind.
We soon reach the sea-shore at Bagnoli, a little watering-place much frequented by Neapolitans of the middle classes, and on looking back we obtain a charming view of the headland of Posilipo and of stately Nisida, the Nesis of the ancients, with its memories of Brutus, “the noblest Roman of them all,” who on this little island bade farewell for ever to his devoted Portia.
Yonder sleeps in the azure distance the enchanted isle of Capri, haunted for ever by dreadful memories of the unnameable atrocities with which the Emperor Tiberius had stained its peaceful bowers. On the neighbouring heights of Posilipo are traces of the villa of Vedius, and of the celebrated fish-ponds where he fed his murenæ with the flesh of his disobedient slaves.
The day came when we had checked off the Posilipo, and the Grotto, Pozzuoli, Baiae, Cape Misenum, the Museum, Vesuvius, Pompeii, Herculaneum, the moderns buried at the Campo Santo; and we said, Let us go and lie in the sun at Sorrento. But first let us settle our geography.
After these three, Matthew Hollis was called, and the man whom I had watched upon the quay presented himself. He told, in fair though foreign-sounding Italian, a plain story. He had been an engine-fitter, and had worked in France and Italy. He was settled down in business on his own account in Naples, and on the day to which his story related had work to do at Posilipo.
A dim haze was abroad, the mists were slowly stealing up the mountains, as their vessel glided on; a light breeze anon filling its canvas, then dying away, and leaving the sails to flap against the loosened cordage. On their left, extended the charming heights of Posilipo -the classic site of Baia Pozzuoli Nisida and Ischia, to be reverenced for its wine.
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