Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - XXX. The Festa di Sant’Antonio
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in black dresses and black veils, dried-up old
spinsters who had remained faithful to their
first love, Jesus Christ. Then came the
“Congrega di Carità” preceded by their banner, old,
grave-looking men in their quaint black and
white cassocks of the time of Savonarola.
La musica! La musica!
Then came the band in their gold-laced
uniforms from the time of the Bourbon kings of
Naples, preceded by their magnificent bandmaster
blowing for all they were worth a wild polka,
a special favourite piece of the saint, I
understood. Then, surrounded by all the priests in
their gala robes and saluted by hundreds of
crackers, appeared Sant’Antonio erect on his
throne, his hand stretched out in the act of
blessing. His robe was covered with precious
lace and strewn with jewels and ex-votos, his
mantle of magnificent old brocatello was
fastened on his breast with a fibula of sapphires and
rubies. From a string of multi-coloured glass
beads round his neck hung a huge coral in the
shape of a horn to protect him against the evil
eye.
Close on the heels of Sant’Antonio came I,
bare-headed, wax taper in hand, walking by the
side of the sindaco—an honour bestowed upon
me by special permission from the Archbishop of
Sorrento. Then came the municipal councillors
relieved for the day from their grave
responsibility. Then came the notables of Anacapri:
the doctor, the notary, the apothecary, the
barber, the tobacconist, the tailor. Then came
il popolo: sailors, fishermen, contadini, followed
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