THE FURY

(L'ARRABIATA)

The day had scarcely dawned. Over Vesuvius hung one broad gray
stripe of mist, stretching across as far as Naples, and darkening
all the small towns along the coast. The sea lay calm. Along the
shore of the narrow creek that lies beneath the Sorrento cliffs,
fishermen and their wives were at work already, some with giant
cables drawing their boats to land, with the nets that had been cast
the night before, while others were rigging their craft, trimming
the sails, or fetching out oars and masts from the great grated
vaults that have been built deep into the rocks for shelter to the
tackle overnight. Nowhere an idle hand; even the very aged, who had
long given up going to sea, fell into the long chain of those who
were hauling in the nets. Here and there, on some flat housetop, an
old woman stood and spun, or busied herself about her grandchildren,
whom their mother had left to help her husband.

"Do you see, Rachela? yonder is our padre curato," said one to a
little thing of ten, who brandished a small spindle by her side;
"Antonio is to row him over to Capri. Madre Santissima! but the
reverend signore's eyes are dull with sleep!" and she waved her hand
to a benevolent-looking little priest, who was settling himself in
the boat, and spreading out upon the bench his carefully tucked-up
skirts.