Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - VIII. Naples
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more from the conversation. On Friday night
the Farmacia was full of people gesticulating
wildly in animated discussion about their chances
for the Banco di Lotto of to-morrow.
Trentaquattro, sessantanove, quarantatre,
diciasette!
Don Antonio had dreamt his aunt had died
suddenly and left him five thousand lire, sudden
death—49, money—70! Don Onorato had
consulted the hunchback in Via Forcella, he was sure
of his terno—9, 39, 20! Don Bartolo’s cat had
had seven kittens in the night—numbers 7, 16,
64! Don Dionisio had just read in the ‘Pungolo’
that a camorrista had stabbed a barber at
Immacolatella. Barber—21, knife—41! Don
Pasquale had got his numbers from the custodian of
the cemetery who had heard them distinctly
from a grave—il morto che parla—48!
It was at the Farmacia di San Gennaro I first
made the acquaintance of Doctor Villari. I had
been told by Don Bartolo that he had come to
Naples two years ago as an assistant to old
Doctor Rispù, the well-known doctor of all the
convents and congregations in the quarter, who
at his death had handed over his large practice to
his young assistant. I was always glad to meet
my colleague, I took a great liking to him from
the very first. He was a singularly handsome
man with nice, quiet manners, very unlike the
ordinary type of Neapolitan. He came from the
Abruzzi. It was through him I first heard of the
Convent of the Sepolte Vive, the grim old building
in the corner of the street with its small Gothic
windows and huge massive iron gates, sombre and
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