I.
As the trains arrived from Rome and Naples, a sea of human beings poured out of the dirty, wretched, little Caserta station, flooding the wide, dusty road that is bordered by two fields, where the garrison horses graze. The scorching sun shone down on black evening coats, framing expensive white shirt-fronts, as well as on dittos of light summer cloth, and blue-and-white striped linen costumes, by which the gilded youth of Naples—with metropolitan irreverence for matters provincial—implied their intention of ignoring the Hall of the Inauguration. It shone, too, on overcoats that represented tentative provincial elegance. Under the domes of their large white sunshades came ladies of every degree, in every shade of light, fresh, aërial dresses. They came from Naples, from Santa Maria, from Capua, from Maddaloni; chattering together, and gesticulating with their fans, and sniffing at their huge posies: the provincials quieter than the others, whom they watched and strove to imitate. The sun shone with all its might on that bright September day, and the ladies stepped out bravely, in their polished leather shoes with bright buckles.
In front of them towered the Palace, the poetic dream to which Vanvitelli has given architectural reality. It maintained its imposing air of majesty, due to purity of line, exquisite sobriety of ornament, and the severe harmony of its pale, unfaded colouring, with which time had dealt so gently. The windows of the first story were wide open, and so were the three huge doorways which traversed the whole body of the edifice. And all along the road waved the standard of the province, the Campania Felice, with the Horn of Plenty pouring out the riches of the Earth: and the national banners waved in unison.
Onward went the crowd, as if agriculture were the end and aim of its existence. This September function was in truth a rural feast, a pretext for journeys by road or rail, and for enjoying the coolness of the vast regal saloons.... Besides, the Prime Minister was coming to prove the love of a northern statesman for a southern province. To many he was unknown, and they were glad of a chance of seeing him in the pride and pomp of his ministerial uniform. The more sentimental among them, those who knew him to be eloquent, came to hear him speak. The ladies were there for the mysterious, unfathomable reason for which they go everywhere, especially where they are most likely to be bored. At the middle entrance, the chief porter, in the royal livery, with a plume waving in his carabineer’s hat, and a gold-headed wand in his hand, impassively faced the crowd. People passing out of the dazzling light and dry heat into the grey twilight and moist freshness of the Hall, felt a sense of relief on entering it. The majesty of the Palazzo Reale lent composure to their countenances and subdued their voices; constraining admiration for its solidity of construction, the elegance of its arched ceiling, the strength of the quadruple pillars, and the eurythmy of the four triangular courts that grew out of its centre.
“It resembles a construction of the Romans,” remarked the Mayor of Arpino—a fat personage with his badge of office slung across his portly figure, and gold spectacles, behind which he perpetually blinked—to the Mayor of Aversa, a lawyer of fox-like cunning and squat, sturdy appearance.
There was a murmur of argument and protestation at the foot of the grand staircase; the ushers were politely inflexible. Unless you wore evening dress, you might not enter the Hall of Inauguration. Many of the uninitiated appeared in their overcoats. A tall, fair, burly exhibitor, brick-red in the face, with a diamond flashing on his little finger, had come in a cutaway jacket.
“I exhibit a bull, two cows, two sheep, and twelve fowls: I shall pass in,” he repeated; “besides, I’ve got my wife with me, I must escort her.”
“No one can enter here without evening dress,” replied the ushers.
“I don’t mind being alone, Mimi,” murmured his wife, a buxom provincial, dressed in mourning, with an enormous train, a hat and feathers, and superb brilliants in her ears.
“Well, go up then, Rosalia. I’ll go and have a look at the fowls. You’ll find me in the park after the speechifying in evening dress is over.”