ELEONORA AND JOSEPH. Julieta Almeida Rodrigues
his gaze, Joseph rested his view on my family to his right. Mesmerized among the mourners, I felt unable to keep my feelings at bay. Tears rolled down my face, I couldn’t control my sorrow. It was my first funeral, I was almost fourteen years old. How was it possible that a mother of five, so beautiful, had died so young?
Joseph’s gaze fell on me, on and off, for the rest of the ceremony. It was as if my tears expressed the emotions he was unable to show himself. The mass was long, it lasted well over an hour. And, throughout, Joseph’s stare wandered the church, it seemed, just to come back and rest on me. A few pews away, my crying seemed to comfort him, to create a soothing bond. Joseph was a year older than I—and we barely knew each other—though we had met on several occasions. I thought our silent communication was a way to uplift our spirits above and beyond ourselves.
Our two families had known each other for many years; we had left Rome for Naples at the same time. Our move had been forced. The prime minister of Portugal, the famed Marquis de Pombal, had expelled the Jesuits from Portuguese territories, and the Papal State had retaliated by ordering its Portuguese colony to leave. We all felt insecure, fearful of the uncertain future. The order to depart came in 1760, and set off three months of chaotic transitions.
I was of noble descent, my parents being the Marquis and Marquise Pimentel, but this didn’t prevent Joseph and me from moving in the same social circles. Joseph’s father was a well-known gentleman: a small landowner, a merchant, and a medical doctor who had graduated from the University of Coimbra. His mother had been a lady of good birth, with a warm smile. She had admirably fulfilled her roles of wife and mother.
I adored Naples, where Vesuvius’s mysterious presence reflected on the Mediterranean Sea. There was something unique, and exciting, about living in a city whose volcano seemed ready to erupt at any moment. Neapolitans called their city città-spettacolo, spectacular city, and I agreed. Its coastal geography was wholly seductive. It was a place full of sunshine, with perpetual blue skies and a blessed climate. The port was captivating with royal sailboats running leisurely with the breeze, small fishing boats dealing with their daily catch, and cargo ships unloading goods from all over the world. The city itself exported fine wines, liqueurs, cotton, dried and fresh fruits, fish, and timber.
I lived with my parents, brothers, and Uncle António Lopes, my mother’s brother, in the Quartieri Spagnoli, the Spanish Quarter. My mother’s domain was our home and, as my father was always busy with my brothers, I shared a special bond with Uncle António. He was a respected Catholic man of the cloth. In Naples, this designation applied to abbés, priests, and presbyters. Since my uncle enjoyed my company, I often accompanied him on errands throughout the city. Our excursions filled me with joy.
We loved to stop and admire the Palazzo Reale, the Royal Palace, situated close to the bay. The building was reddish, of monumental proportions, with a private quay. Here lived King Ferdinando IV, a member of the royal Bourbon family, and Queen Carolina, who were recently wed. The queen was the daughter of Empress Maria Theresa of Austria and sister to Marie Antoinette of France.
Ferdinando was called the king lazzaroni, king of the dispossessed, a term of endearment. He was uneducated, weak, and lazy, but devoted to his subjects. Carolina became the more powerful ruler of the two as the years passed. While the king believed he ruled by divine right, the queen was strategic and shrewd. As her mother had stipulated in the marriage contract, she made sure she was granted a seat in the Council of State as soon as she delivered a male heir.
Uncle António shared details of the monarchs’ flamboyant lifestyle that delighted me. I dreamed about court life, for Carolina and I were the same age. The royal couple entertained luxuriously and supported a wide range of literati.
Joseph and I moved in the aristocratic, educated circles of the Naples nobilissima. I still remember how timid I felt when first introduced to the literary salons. Months after the funeral, Joseph and I met by coincidence at the home of the Duchess of Popoli. The atmosphere emanated refinement and elegance, her library was one of the best in our city. My uncle António had been invited, and I was allowed to go with him. As Naples encouraged female inclusion, I had the same access as Joseph to literature, the sciences, philosophy, and the arts. I was a quick learner under my uncle’s tutelage and, soon, everybody knew I wrote poetry. Much in vogue, I cultivated the French fashion of letter writing; this became, for me, as necessary as breathing.
The Popoli had several parlors where guests congregated, and Joseph and I happened to be in the same one that day. We were dressed in our best attire: I wore a light, dark red, taffeta and silk dress, and Joseph wore an impeccably ironed white shirt under his nicely cut jacket. The light from the candelabras was low to give the room an enigmatic glow, as if we inhabited a world of fantasy.
For everyone’s delight, when the Duke of Belforte finished reciting a poem that linked Mount Vesuvius’s unpredictability to the character of our local people, he turned to me and said, “Eleonora, dear child, your turn now.”
I blushed, all eyes were on me. Joseph’s too.
“I didn’t prepare,” I stuttered. “I would prefer to be excused.”
“It doesn’t matter if you are prepared or not,” the duke said with glee. “Recite for us the latest poem you wrote!”
My uncle, always protective, whispered quietly in my ear, “It will be good for you to practice recitation among friends.”
I felt I couldn’t refuse. I looked at Joseph standing nearby, and it was as if I saw his heart pounding inside his white shirt. I got up from my chair and brought myself to center stage. I enjoyed sonnets, so I started one I had recently composed in the Neapolitan dialect. It was about the goddess Aphrodite, born from the ocean’s foam, and the passion of love.
I spoke quickly, I wanted everybody’s attention to shift away from me as fast as possible. When I finished, I bowed to the applauding audience and returned to my uncle’s shielding figure. While everybody shouted “Brava! Brava!” I sat down and pressed my head against my uncle’s shoulder, seeking comfort.
Joseph was looking intently at me. His body seemed to have frozen, as if he needed to escape the weight of his own feelings. Soon afterward, he left the room. He probably wanted to turn to discussions on agriculture, commerce, and economy. I had heard my uncle say that Joseph was studying with the great Antonio Genovese and relished those subjects best of all.
The Naples Joseph and I enjoyed was very different from the rest of the city. My poetry might have been lofty, but I didn’t shy away from what I saw outside my world. The city was populated by so-called lazzaroni, people who lived in the poorest, dirtiest conditions. Under different names, they existed in many other European nations: they were the arraia-miúda in Portuguese and the canaille in French. I looked at them with pity and indignation. They were idle and illiterate, superstitious and religious, brutish and savage all at once. But they needed compassion, help, and education not pity, hate, or contempt. They were human beings who struggled constantly to find meager food for themselves and their children.
Naples still had no sewers and the population performed their physical functions wherever. Children ran the streets at all hours of day or night collecting excrement in wooden carts. Dogs followed them, they wanted a meal. Deadly infectious diseases like cholera, smallpox, syphilis, typhoid, and pneumonia spread easily, killing rich and poor alike.
Soon after my poetry recital, Joseph and I began seeing each other on a regular basis. We attended the Latin lessons of Professore Grassi, a literati friend of our families. My education in the ancient language turned into an opportunity for the two of us to get to know each other. We were five pupils in the class, and I was the only girl. Unlike some of the young men, I never missed a lesson.
Like me, Joseph was always in attendance. Our group sat at Professore Grassi’s small, round living-room table. We read, learned grammar, and recited the language’s declensions for a couple of hours. Our purpose was not only to introdurre le luci, enlighten the mind, but also to expand our knowledge by becoming familiar with ancient texts. Since my family and Joseph’s spoke Portuguese at home, and Neapolitan outside, these lessons gave us a third language. Joseph and I always sat next to each other, as if our seating